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

by Polizzi, Nicole

  When we found out about the pregnancy, though, Jionni brought up the subject of my adoption. He wanted to know more details about my bio parents’ health history. Mom said, “They were healthy.” She didn’t offer more. I asked Jionni not to bring it up again. He’d have to be satisfied to know they were healthy, and obviously very sexy. What more did he need? And what would he do with more information, if he had it? What if Mom told him my birth parents had a family history of heart disease or leprosy? He wasn’t going to reject the baby or me. Lorenzo would be strong and healthy because Jionni and I took care of ourselves, and we would take care of him. He’d have the best medical care in the world, plus loving parents and grandparents. No worries! I definitely hoped Lorenzo looked a bit like me. But I really hoped he’d look like my hottie hubbie. Chances were, he would. Jionni has some seriously strong genes. He and his relatives all look alike. And there are so many of them!

  During that final month, I got a crash course in diaper changing on my newborn nephew-to-be. It was kind of a disaster. I couldn’t stand the smell of shit. The fact that I had to wipe it and smear it around made me gag. My hope was that, when it was my own kid’s shit, it would be different.

  That was the kind of getting my house in order that would prepare me the most. The crib delivery really wasn’t as important as the idea—really, the hope and faith—that I’d be okay with my baby’s shit. That I could change the diapers I’d set up in such neat stacks. Becoming a mother was bigger than furniture arrangement and decorating. More than the right set up, I needed the right mindset. I psyched myself up, saying out loud, “I’m going to be a good mom.” I kept saying it over and over. Not that I convinced myself. I was nervous and borderline freaked out. But I think I convinced Lorenzo. When a pregnant lady talked to herself, someone else was also listening.

  Chapter 14

  The Oldest 24-Year-Old in History

  I woke up one morning and moaned, “Oh, my aching back!” Then I limped on my sore legs and feet over to the bathroom. Constipation, of course. My strength was sapped. I could barely crawl back to bed before I fell over from exhaustion.

  Was I 24, or 84? I was creaking around like an oldie. That glowing pregnant lady whose skin is dewy and fresh and looks transcendently radiant as she glides through the day, bursting with energy and joy? She. Does. Not. Exist. Making a baby sucks out your beauty, energy, and youth. Don’t worry. You get it all back. But in the meantime, embrace being temporarily elderly. During my last trimester, I aged 100 years in three months, and turned into a crotchety, perpetually pissed off crone who cornered you to tell you about her horrible, agonizing aches and pains. SUCH AS:

  Hot flashes. Not just for menopause! They strike pregnant ladies, too. I was overheated anyway; the summer of 2012 was on fire with a month straight of 100 degree days. On top of that suffocating heat, I got hormonal hot flashes. It felt like a wildfire rampaging across my face and chest. I turned into the Human (Whale) Torch. Sweat poured down my face and between my cantaloupe boobs. And all of this yumminess was caught on camera. Whenever I felt a hot flash coming on, I wanted to strip and get straight into a cold shower.

  Lower back pain. I walked hunched over from soreness like I’d gone crazy with the kettlebell at the gym. I decided that meant pregnancy was like a workout, and that my back and arm muscles were getting in great shape despite not lifting a feather for months. Look, when you’re pregnant, you grasp at any straw.

  General weakness. I was never like Ronnie with bulging muscles, but I did tone up before the pregnancy. Then I stopped working out, and started sleeping twelve hours a day. All my muscles disappeared. I felt feeble. I struggled to lift the TV remote. I could barely push the buttons. I swear. I had to grunt like a tennis player to change the channel. I dragged myself around the house. Jionni had to push me up and down those freakin’ stairs. The only thing that gave me a little energy boost was dancing. I put on some tunes and let it all go, the stress, the weariness, the pain. The baby loved it. He’d dance inside while I frolicked around the room. I ran out of breath quickly, though. I lasted about five minutes before I had to take a seat. Then I’d snap my fingers and dance like a senior citizen on the couch. Cricket city.

  Swollen feet. My feet were puffed up like pickled pig trotters. Horrible. Every step made my skin stretch almost to splitting. At around eight months, I had to give up my heels and switch to flip flops and slippers.

  Sciatica. Classic old lady move, putting a hand on her hip and whining, “My sciatica!” Yeah, that was me. I started to get shooting pain in my left upper butt cheek. It was nerve compression due to my shifting uterus and pelvis. I couldn’t stand up for longer than an hour. Sometimes, to take some of the pressure off my hips, I got on my hands and knees and crawled. Holy all fours! I felt like a cow with full udders hanging down. Sexy.

  Saggy boobs. They went from hurting to aching to porn star enormous to drooping down to my navel from sheer heft. My areolas spread across my boob like pancake batter in a pan. They darkened, too. Picture it: My huge saddle bag tits with the giant brown nipples pointing at my swollen feet. Can you believe Jionni still wanted to have anything to do with me? Even like this, I had to fight him off.

  Stretch marks. I tried to prevent them by exfoliating after the shower. Every morning, I rubbed my belly and boobs with moisturizer, like polishing honeydews. I hoped my skin wouldn’t stretch but it did, around the eighth month. I got ugly lines around my belly and boobs. When the skin snapped back after the birth, they stayed red. Oh, well. I wouldn’t cry about it. Stretch marks were like badges of honor. I’d been through a lot to get them. I earned my tiger strips. Rawr!

  Bulge. I had a baby belly, not a beer belly. But they had the same feel. You know that hard, round, fat gut guys get after a lifetime of Budweiser and Doritos? The “I haven’t seen my dick since disco” look? Yeah, my belly was like that. It took on frightening dimensions. It entered the room five minutes before I did. Only a few months earlier, I was so excited when I stopped looking like a bagel addict and started looking like like a real preggers lady. How could I have ever wanted my belly to grow (and grow, and grow)? Every pregnant women makes an Alien joke at some point, like she’s about to split open and a hungry creature would emerge, teeth first, from her belly. I felt like it could happen any second, and that it’d be a relief.

  Splotchy skin. My skin got progressively worse, and was really bad toward the end. Along with zits all over my chest, I finally got the dreaded facial mask. My skin got dark splotches on the cheeks and chin. It’s caused by increased production of melanin, the same pigment stuff that gives color to freckles and hair. It even makes you tan. I was feeling pretty pleased with myself about not getting the mask—until I did. Guess I deserved it for being smug. Apparently, the darker your skin is naturally, the more likely you are to get splotches. If only I could have evened it out with bronzer. I didn’t dare try. I might’ve only made it worse. I used foundation for damage control.

  The shits. After nine months of constipation, my bowels finally loosened up at the end. That was actually a good thing, except I still had to spend hours in the bathroom. My poops got friggin’ enormous. I never knew something so big could come out of me. As shocked as I was, I was proud, too. If I could push out a dinosaur poop, surely I could give birth.

  Sleep trouble. You know how old people say they need only four hours of sleep a night? I needed a lot more, but four hours was pretty much what I got. At eight months, I couldn’t get comfortable, even in the fetal position. I’d lie down and imagine Lorenzo also in the fetal position. I hoped he wasn’t as frustrated as I was. I felt sore no matter what I did. I drove Jionni crazy tossing and turning. On top of that, I had to pee every hour on the hour. It felt like a leprechaun was dancing on my bladder.

  Leaks. Break out the Depends! If I laughed, I leaked. If I sneezed, I wet myself. Coughed? Like I sat in a puddle. For three months, I was changing my granny panties every few hours. A girlfriend of mine with two kids told me she peed her
self constantly. Even now, three years after giving birth, every time she jumps, she dribbles a bit. Another friend told me to do Kegels to help with pushing during labor. Good idea. I had to get toned. Whenever I peed, I squeezed to stop the flow. I really bulked up my vag muscles. I have no idea if it helped during labor, but now I can run, jump, laugh, sneeze, and cough without self-wetting. Before bed, I still do twenty minutes of squeezing, and now I’m practically a juicehead down there.

  Weird discharge. At around week 35, I woke up one morning with a big stain on my shirt at boob level. Milk?! It was too early for that. Later in the day, I decided to play around and squeezed my boob. A thick, yellowish drop oozed out of my nipple. I’d read about this gunk. It was called colostrum, aka starter milk. It was happening! My mammary glands were kicking into production for Lorenzo, and now I had my own milk service, my personal dairy farm. I hoped the early sign of colostrum meant I’d go into labor earlier than my due date.

  Shortness of breath. My uterus pressed on all my other organs, including my stomach. Throwing up in my mouth was a daily occurrence. My lungs were reduced to the size of a bunch of grapes. I’d lose my breath just watching TV. Walking up the stairs was like running a 5K. Thank God I had Jionni’s muscular arms pushing my pregnant ass up the stairs or I would have been stuck in the basement for weeks.

  Grouchies. Besides the bloat, zits, tonnage, exhaustion, and soreness, I felt FREAKIN’ AWESOME! Until I didn’t. One gas pain, and I’d hate everything. I felt helpless and depressed at the end. I couldn’t move, relax, or sit still. Heartburn ruined eating, and the pain made me unpleasant company. I just didn’t want to be near people, but I was surrounded all the time. I had a camera following me—except to the bathroom, where I went every ten minutes. I just wanted to be alone to cry by myself. I couldn’t wait for this to be over. If I really wanted to freak myself out, I’d imagine going past my due date by weeks. The thought made me burst into tears. Jionni cheered me up, though. He just kept assuring me we’d get through it and that we’d be great parents.

  Baby movements. If I had to come up with one positive physical experience during my last trimester, it would be how Lorenzo treated my uterus like a punching bag. I know, that doesn’t sound good. It could hurt, but I loved it. It meant Enzo was alive and kicking. When he squirmed into a head-down position, his skull right against my pelvic bones, I could actually see his other body parts. A foot. A hand. His cute butt. Even though his movements made me nauseated, I loved watching my alien squirm around in my belly. Every punch was like a private conversation, just the two of us.

  I told myself, “Embrace this now. You’ll definitely miss this feeling until the next pregnancy.”

  Chapter 15

  Labor Day

  In August, people started saying, “You’re going to go any minute.” I wish! I’d been ready for months to meet Lorenzo and end the hell that was pregnancy. But I was still two weeks away from my due date. The one time it wasn’t rude to arrive early was childbirth. As soon as I crossed the 36-week hurdle—when the baby was considered full term—I begged Lorenzo to make his move. I’d yell at my belly, “Get out of there already!”

  Two weeks and a day before my due date, I was sick as a dog. Jionni’s family came over to have a barbecue. Everyone was hanging out, having a ball in the kitchen (where else?). I could barely talk to anyone. I left the room and sat by myself on the deck. It was a perfect summer day, but a black cloud hung over my head. People left me alone. They knew to let me sit by myself and wallow in my misery. Yet being apart from the group but still in sight wasn’t enough. I had to get away. Hearing their happy voices made me feel worse. Nothing feels lonelier than listening to other people laugh when you feel like crying.

  I went to the basement to be by myself. Jionni came down and gave me the encouragement I needed. I know he wished he could take my pain and sadness on himself to give me a break. But as much as he wanted to, he couldn’t be pregnant for me. Technology hasn’t come that far. Maybe by the time we’re planning our fourth.

  The bad day turned into a horrendous night. I couldn’t sleep at all. I got out of bed around 4:00 AM, beyond uncomfortable. It felt like I had peed myself, or like I got my period, which wasn’t possible. I Kegeled like a champ, but the trickle didn’t let up. It occurred to me that my water might have broken, but it was just a trickle. I hauled my whale body to the bathroom (where else?). When I wiped, this gross thing was on the toilet paper. It looked like a condom had fallen out of my vagina.

  Of course, I freaked and made Jionni get up and look at the booger creature.

  “Is it the mucus plug?” I asked, holding it up for him to see.

  “Mucus, yes,” he shouted. “Now get that out of my face.”

  We shouted “mucus” a few more times, just because. How many opportunities in life do you get to scream “mucus”?

  The cervical cork had definitely unplugged. There it was in a wad of toilet paper. But I still wasn’t sure my water had broken. For months, I’d pictured a huge waterfall gushing out. Remember the scene in Titanic when the ship hit the iceberg and water exploded into the hull? Like that, but from the vagina. Welp, that didn’t happen to me. It just dribbled down my leg.

  We called the doctor and described what was going on. He said, “Sounds like your water broke. It’s not always a gush. Just sit tight until your contractions are five minutes apart.”

  First lesson: You don’t always get the labor you dreamed about or pictured in your head. We had to deal with what was actually happening. And it was really happening. The time had finally come. The agonizing and uncomfortable nine months were all going to be worth it when I pushed out my little bundle, and it was going to happen very, very soon.

  HELLO, NERVES!

  Here’s Jionni

  The mucus plug was nasty. She didn’t have to show it to me. That was unnecessary.

  My advice to ladies is not to make your man look at it. But that was the proof Nicole was going into labor. I felt excited and nervous. We’d been waiting nine months for this. The last month or two had taken a toll on everyone. Now that it was finally happening, I did run through some worst- and best-case scenarios. A lot went through my mind. But when I found myself imagining things, I would stop and make myself focus on what was actually happening. There was no point in worrying about what could happen. It calmed me down to stay in the moment and ask myself and Nicole, “What can I do now to help?”

  In another hour, I started to get serious pain. It felt like period cramps, but much worse. That was when I thought, That has got to be a real contraction. They were ten minutes apart. It went on like that for hours. I couldn’t wait anymore, so in the morning we went to the doctor to confirm that I was leaking amniotic fluid. My cervix, though, was being a lazy bitch and not doing anything. It hadn’t opened at all. The doc sent us back home to rest until a room at the hospital was available. For some reason, everyone in Jersey was popping out guidos that day.

  Talk about torture. The worst thing about the whole labor process wasn’t the pain. It was the waiting to meet my baby. That whole morning, I kept trickling fluid like I was peeing myself. I killed time doing my makeup and hair. I got myself dolled up, like I was going out to dinner. I made sure to use extra glue on my lashes. It wouldn’t look good if they fell off and poked me in the eye while I was pushing out Lorenzo. My hospital outfit—a leopard print nightie—was clean and ready to go. You never get a second chance to make a first impression. I wanted to look good for Lorenzo. If I could have someone in the delivery room doing makeup touchups, I would! Just a little powder on my nose between pushes, thanks!

  We’d done a dry run to the hospital the week before. It was hectic and messy. Jionni got lost on the way there. We’d been there like 500 times before, but it took us an hour to go four miles. If our dry run was anything like the real deal, I might’ve given birth in the car and had a backseat baby.

  Actually, that dry run wasn’t so dry. I peed myself on the way there.

>   When it was the real deal, Jionni and I headed over in the late afternoon, a full thirteen hours after my water broke. He was a rock. He didn’t run around like a chicken with his head cut off, throw the suitcase into the car, and then speed off, forgetting his panting wife in the driveway. He was relaxed. The ride was quiet and calm. If you were watching from the outside, you might think it was too calm. Inside my head, I was quaking with fear. My teeth were chattering. I’d read about labor and delivery. I’d heard the stories. But I hadn’t experienced it. It was a huge unknown. I’m very sensitive to physical pain. If I get a shot or a bruise, it really kills. Contractions and pushing were supposed to be like no other pain in the world. The contractions so far had felt like my lower half was a rope, twisting hard. And it was just the beginning! It would only get worse as my cervix dilated.

  Yeah, I was scared! Terrified.

  Once we were admitted and in the room, a nurse asked if we wanted to do our Lamaze breathing. No, thanks! Jionni and I did go to a Lamaze class to see what it was about. We learned how to do a “cleansing breath,” and other, dirtier breaths. Whatevs. It was confusing and seemed pointless. Lamaze is for people who wanted to do natural childbirth without pain medication. Well, I planned on loading up on whatever they could give me. Pain relief was totally safe for the baby and me. Why be in agony by choice? I didn’t get that. After five minutes of Lamaze, we knew it wasn’t for us. The other couple took it so seriously. We kept cracking up, and they just stared at us. Cricket city. I tried to hold in the giggles, but that made it even funnier. We didn’t want to disrespect the teacher, but the pictures of the women giving birth in different positions looked like a fetish Kama Sutra. When she pointed out the woman giving birth on all fours like a cow on the farm, we just couldn’t stop laughing. I nearly peed myself. FYI: I wound up holding my breath during my delivery. No cleansing breath or he-he-heing. I was fine. When you’re in the moment, I doubt breathing a certain way would lessen the pain at all.