Baby Bumps: From Party Girl to Proud Mama, and all the Messy Milestones Along the Way

by Polizzi, Nicole

  ♦ Don’t knock on the bathroom door and ask if she’s all right. Even if she’s crying, leave her alone.

  ♦ Tell her she’s beautiful, but don’t go over the top or she’ll get mad.

  ♦ You take the blame and apologize even if you’ve done nothing wrong, be sincere (or at least act sincere) so she’ll get over whatever she’s mad about quickly.

  ♦ Laughter is key. It’ll change her bad mood and make her happy. Tell her jokes. But beware . . .

  ♦ Pregnancy makes you unfunny. Jokes that used to crack her up won’t anymore. You need new material.

  ♦ Don’t act sad or it will bring her down. She needs you to keep her happy.

  ♦ If you try to cuddle and got kicked off the couch, just get up, dust off, and move to the other couch.

  Chapter 8

  The High Price of Gas

  A friend told me once, years ago, that gas pains were like contractions. So whenever I had gas, I’d play house and pretend I was going into labor. Well, my girlhood gas pains were nothing—gas pings—compared to what I experienced when I was actually pregnant. They were worse than contractions! My gas was super premium extra leaded.

  I only made it worse by trying to hold in my farts. When I was in bed cuddling my sweetie, the last thing I wanted to do was let out my toxic air. My crying jags and crazy talk were scary enough. I thought my trumpet farts would blast him right out of the relationship. I’d lay there, butt cheeks clamped tight, squeezing that sucker back in, dying in pain, praying he’d fall asleep already so I could let loose—and not shatter the windows when I did.

  I know now that I shouldn’t have held back. In my next pregnancy, I won’t think twice. But with Lorenzo, I did the polite thing of going into the bathroom, turning the water on, and letting those suckers rip in privacy. The pain I had from holding back wasn’t worth Jionni’s romantic illusions. Better to save all the pain for labor. You want to be as comfortable as possible during these nine months. You’re creating human life. For some reason, that process produces enough gas to power the Mars Rover. If you have to fart, THEN FREAKIN’ FART! If you have to scream at someone, THEN FREAKIN’ SCREAM. If you have to have a mental break down, GO INSANE. You’ll feel so much better! Just let it all out, get your relief, have some ice cream, and take a beauty nap.

  Around twenty-six weeks, I was out to dinner with Jionni, and I started having intense pains. I was sure they were contractions. It was too early for Braxton Hicks. Having real contractions at this point would be bad. I freaked out. “I’m in premature labor!” I screamed. “Call the doctor!”

  We got him on the phone. Sitting there at the table with my food in front of me, I cried, “It’s this spasm in my gut.” I described the pain in detail.

  He said, “Okay, Nicole. You’re not in labor. You’re not having contractions.”

  I was in serious agony. “What is it?”

  “Gas,” he said.

  Holy fucking hell! I’d been pinching it back all night. We were in the car together in that closed space. Then we were at a crowded restaurant with people around. I’d been polite and self-conscious, and this was the price. My date was ruined from blocked gas release.

  “Listen, Nicole,” said the doctor. “It’s not good for you to hold it in.”

  “But the stench . . .”

  “As your doctor, I advise you to go to the bathroom, or go outside to the parking lot, and do what you have to do.”

  If he said so. My prescription: FART. I took his advice. It was a medical necessity. From that point on, instead of worrying about it or even running to the bathroom to unleash, I crop dusted on the spot.

  Not to say that giving myself permission to gust at will was the solution to my problem. The plague of my pregnancy took on a new dimension: I was perfectly willing to fart my way to the moon, but it wouldn’t come out! I was afraid of bearing down and forcing it, though, because I was deathly afraid of hemorrhoids.

  Since growing a fetus takes up so much of the body’s energy, all the other systems slow way down, including digestion. So your food moves through you like cement. Gas builds up, and a lot of women suffer with terrible constipation. They really struggle hard to move that shit along. All the strain and pressure on the blood vessels and muscles in the butt causes hemorrhoids. I’d heard it was like having an egg embedded in your ass. Friends of mine have had two or even three of them at a time. The last thing I needed was an Easter egg hunt in my rectum.

  Despite my trapped gas and constipation—and the pain that went with them—I would not bear down for fear of hemorrhoids. (I also thought pushing to poop would make Lorenzo fall out into the toilet. You just can’t push hard without worrying about shitting out your baby. You’re going to think it, even if you know it’s not physically possible. Pregnancy defies logic.) I devised a system for pooping. Whenever I started to strain, I did some breathing to calm down. And then I’d try to relax all my muscles. I visualized it just sliding out. I sat there and waited until it did. I logged, as it were, a lot of bathroom time. I probably sat on the toilet more than the couch during the pregnancy.

  One really bad night, I had terrible gas and tried to release the toxic cloud, but it was stuck. I pictured it like a pocket of green gas, trapped in a cranny in my intestine. I thought it’d loosen up if I were on the toilet. I sat in there for an hour. This pain was so bad, I went ahead and pushed, the whole time terrified I’d pop a hemorrhoid. My guts felt twisted and locked. I started crying. I just felt completely alone and useless. I thought, “If I can’t crap, what can I do?” My entire existence and sense of self-worth were wrapped up in not being able to fart. This is what pregnancy can do to a person. It’s not about being smart or successful or rich or talented. When a pregnant woman’s body goes haywire on hormones and cement shit, at some point, she’ll find herself on the toilet, a red ring mark around her ass from sitting there for so long, sobbing. I don’t care if she’s the president. Pregnancy is a deeply humbling, mortifying experience. And coming from me, that’s saying a lot.

  Chapter 9

  Princess Nicole

  The best part of pregnancy? Everyone—but everyone—acts like your shit doesn’t stink, despite so much evidence to the contrary (see previous chapter). Pregnancy cast a magical spell on me. Poof! I was transformed into a friggin’ princess.

  Now, you might think I already got a lot of special treatment as a well-known person. I definitely have my fans (love you all, Boo Boos!). But by and large, when I am recognized on the street or in the airport, people don’t say, “Hey, it’s Snooki. Let’s be really nice to her!” I wish! Mainly, people laugh at me, stare, or make fun of me to my face, calling me a troll and worse.

  On the boardwalk in Seaside, people would randomly shout out “whore” and “retard” at me when all I was doing was throwing a dart at the balloon game or mixing a drink at the Make Your Own Slurpee stand. Jersey Shore fame didn’t cast me in the most flattering, brightest light. More like a flashlight on the bottom of a Dumpster. Getting arrested, doing shots, and hooking up with guys I just met in clubs earned me a certain reputation. Generally speaking, strangers didn’t lift a finger for me, especially if I were falling down in the gutter. The one time I inspired gallantry on Jersey Shore, I had to get punched in the face first.

  But being pregnant was a completely different story. People were sweet. They were happy to see me. I was a symbol of love and commitment that they could respect and admire. I guess a pregnant lady’s distinctive shape touches off some ancient survival instinct in people’s lizard brain. If the Neanderthals didn’t take good care of their knocked up cavewomen, the species would die out. Dinosaurs would have replaced humans. Or whatever. Most people react lovingly and protectively—aka, the royal treatment—when they see you walking around with the Buddha belly.

  When I entered a room, people stood up. It didn’t matter where I was. Could be at home, at a restaurant, a waiting room, anywhere. I’d drag in my hugeness, and five people jumped out of their chairs
like they were sitting on hot coals. I tested it. I’d walk by a bus shelter, even if I wasn’t going to take the bus. The sight of a pregnant lady standing upright on two legs caused everyone on the bench to spring up and say, “Would you like a seat?” I was all too happy to accept the kind offers! By month nine, just standing up was like running a marathon.

  People made way for me. You know, like the trumpets blaring and the heralds shouting, “Make way for her royal highness!” I didn’t have to announce my presence, though. I was so big, you’d have to be blind not to see me coming. People did have to get out of my way on the sidewalk or get knocked over. When I approached any door, someone would open it for me. If I were in a car, someone would offer me a hand to get in and out of it. When I went into a store to buy a snack, people would insist that I cut the line to pay. I loved it.

  I didn’t have to lift a finger. If I wanted to rest and put my feet up in the middle of the day, my friends and family would ask, “Can I get you a pillow?” They might be cooking or cleaning, but they never asked me to pitch in. I’m always willing to do my fair share around the house (not that I’m very good at it). But for the entire pregnancy, I got a hall pass on housework.

  People served me. I didn’t ask for this! But food just flowed my way. Jionni brought me meals to make sure I was eating all the right things. My mother-in-law-to-be brought me ice cream to improve my attitude. If I said, just to myself, or into the air, “I’m thirsty,” a bottle of water would appear. A pregnant woman will never go thirsty or hungry. People were primed and eager to bring me stuff to eat, or to clear away the plates when I was done.

  People bent over backwards to amuse me. My friends and family turned into court jesters, juggling and doing tricks for my entertainment. I wasn’t a happy, smiley pregnant woman. My roomies and friends would tell me dirty jokes or do funny dance moves to crack me up. I will be forever grateful to everyone who made me laugh during that time. It was so needed and appreciated.

  People flattered me nonstop. Everyone told me I was beautiful when I knew they were lying their asses off. It was like the law of the realm to tell the Pregnant Princess that she was radiant and glowing, when she really looked like doo that’d been dragged through a swamp. Jionni was a BOSS, telling me a hundred times a day that I was pretty and sexy. It’s not vanity to need to hear that the father of your baby still thinks you’re hot. When you’re giant and miserable, getting a compliment might be the only thing that can get you up out of bed.

  Insult me, and live to regret it. During the filming of Jersey Shore season six, Vinnie and I were rolling down the boardwalk on motorized scooters like a pair of oldies. We rode by the Aztec, and some jerkoff shouted, “Snooki, you fat whore” or “fat bitch.” I wasn’t sure. Anyway, Vinnie jumped off his scooter and went after the guy. “You call a pregnant women fat? What’s wrong with you?” he yelled. I’m sure Jionni would have torn the guy’s head off, like a knight defending my honor. I’m not saying people haven’t defended me before. But there was an intensity to the protectiveness when I was pregnant.

  I could say whatever I wanted, and no one could go against me. By the seventh month, I realized I could get away with murder. So I would cause a scene and make people bring me food while Jionni massaged my feet. You can literally scream at your man, punch your friend, and break plates at the china store. Pregnancy gives you a pass to be a bitch.

  As long as your belly shows, you will get sympathy. People will cater to your every whim. I definitely took advantage of the situation and I’m telling you to do the same! Don’t feel bad about taking advantage. Pregnant Princess isn’t a title you hold for long. As soon as you give birth, you abdicate the throne. So enjoy it while it lasts, ladies. Once your baby is out, being spoiled stops. I would die for Jionni to rub my feet and let me yell at him after being up for five hours in the middle of the night taking care of Lorenzo. But now I’m just a mom. Moms don’t get the royal treatment. All the attention goes to the baby. As it should be! Lorenzo is definitely my little Prince.

  Chapter 10

  Butt Paste and Boogie Wipes

  For my baby shower, I needed a registry. I was psyched to go to Babies “R” Us to set it up. Who wouldn’t be excited to pick through racks of onesies and footsie pajamas? I mean, the tiny sneakers alone . . . so freakin’ cute. I thought I’d sign up for some clothes and cribbing to make gifting hassle-free for our friends and family. I had a vague sense that babies required a lot of stuff. Obviously, we had to have a crib, car seat, and stroller. But beyond that? A few fluffy towels, some soft toys and bottles. I had no idea what I was getting myself into. As soon as I walked into the store—which was bigger than an airplane hanger—I realized bedding and bottles were the least of it.

  My mom and I went up to the desk and talked to a saleswoman about the process. They give you a scanner gun and you just walk around the place zapping the bar code of everything you want to put on your registry. Then your guests can log on to the website, see the items, check the ones they want to buy, and have them shipped right to your house already wrapped. That was all super easy. A chimp could use this system. What freaked me out were the five million different things you had to get—and the five million brands of each item to choose from.

  The salesgirl started us in the breast section. I knew I was going to breastfeed because that was healthiest for my child. I thought it was pretty basic. You put the baby on your chest, and done. Wrong! I needed fifteen contraptions to do it. The pumps looked like medieval torture devices. The salesgirl demonstrated how it worked. It was loud. The suction was hard. I’m just like, “That’s going to pull on my nipple? Is it going to get sucked off?” What the fuck was I getting myself into here?

  I narrowed it down to a freestanding piston pump or a portable vacuum pump built into a backpack. The price difference was only like a hundred dollars. I went for the backpack pump, thinking, It’s only a hundred bucks more. Along with the pump, I had to choose steam-cleaner bags, milk removal soap, pump wipes, replacement parts like membranes, valves, a “breast shield,” custom-fit “flanges” (the funnel part you put against the boob), milk storage bottles, freezer bags, and a special breast milk feeding nipple to screw on the special breast milk feeding bottles.

  Then we moved on to personal care breast products, like “nursing butter,” a balm to smear on your nipples to prevent cracking. My nipples were going to crack? What the fuck?

  If the butter didn’t work, I needed nipple guards, either soft shell or hard plastic, or soothing gel pads to slap on my aching faucets. I also needed “bust cream,” for skin softness, “firming butter,” to make sagging boobs snap back, and “tummy butter,” which comes in “belly brazil nut” or “cocoa butter,” to rub on my belly and boobs to fix stretch marks. All this talk about cream, nuts, and butter, and I hadn’t had lunch yet! Bwrahh, hungry! “Baby Kisses” lip balm would make Lorenzo’s lips soft before he clamped down and sucked my mammaries inside out.

  Of course, I had to get a supply of nipple pads to prevent that awkward moment when you were ordering the sushi platter and your milk gushed onto the floor. The pads came in disposable or washable, in circle or heart shaped, in five different colors, sizes, and strengths. I’d probably need the Maxi Nipple Pads. I could also choose from fifteen different nursing bras, for sleeping and/or bustier style for hands-free pumping. The bustier had holes in the middle of the cup, and not the sexy kind you see in sex shops. Nothing sexy in the entire store, by the way. I picked a nursing pillow (crescent? circle? wedge?), a nursing shawl, and a nursing poncho to cover the baby’s snack time from the eyes of perverts. The Milkscreen home test for alcohol in breast milk was a must. That did come in handy later on, actually.

  Still with me? And that was just the first aisle. I’d been there for fifteen minutes and my mind—already foggy from pregnancy—was reeling. All things boob total: $650.

  After that, we registered for baby grooming products, like a baby nail clipper. A friend of mine told me she used to tri
m her baby’s nails by biting them off. And when her baby got a cold, she put her mouth over his nose and literally sucked the snot out of it. That might be too gross even for me. I had to choose between a suction bulb or a battery operated nasal clear system that did the sucking for you, plus “Boogie Wipes” to clean up his snotty face. Other products to choose from: ear thermometers, humidifiers in the shapes of elephants and pigs, pacifiers, pacifier clips and storage pods, baby hairbrush, toothbrush, toothpaste, gum massager, baby wash and shampoo, bibs. Babies needed a lot rags for sopping up drool and puke. It’d be like Sunday morning at the shore house.

  Moving to the ass section, they sold dozens of types, colors, and sizes of diapers, diaper covers, creams, and ointments. There was a product called “Butt Paste.” Yum. Also ass wipes—large, small, organic, flushable, with aloe, scented, unscented. I could choose different caddies, aka a “Diaper Depot,” to attach to the changing table with compartments for wipes, diapers, creams, and lotions, as well as nylon or plastic wipe travel pouches. I scanned the electric wipe warmer in a heartbeat. I wanted warm wipes for my own butt. Life changer!

  Moms in the know didn’t just throw dirty diapers in the garbage. I would need a special diaper cannon thingie. You could get a mechanical one that vacuum sealed each dirty diaper in odor-free plastic wrap. With the name Diaper Genie, it should be able to make diapers disappear. A cheaper choice was manual diaper baggies with twist ties (like people use for dog shit) that you tossed into a deodorized waste basket. I thought, I’ll get the one that’s a little more expensive. What’s another $40? I passed on the “Wee Block.” It’s a little terry-cloth cup you put over the baby’s penis when changing his diaper. I didn’t mind the idea of Lorenzo peeing in my face, as long as it didn’t get in my mouth.

  Snot, drool, piss, and shit total: $600.