I shall hold the new babies belonging to friends and family, so they may shower and nap, which is all any new mother really wants.
I shall strive to pass down a healthy body image to my daughter. She deserves a mother who loves and respects herself; stretch marks, dimples, cellulite, and all.
I shall not preach the benefits of breast-feeding or circumcision or homeschooling or organic food or co-sleeping or crying it out to a fellow mother who has not asked my opinion. It’s none of my damn business.
I shall try my hardest to never say never, for I just may end up with a loud mouthed, bikini-clad, water gun–shooting toddler of my very own.
I shall remember that no mother is perfect and that my children will thrive because of, and sometimes even in spite of, me.
Chapter 2
THIS IS SUPPOSED TO BE BEAUTIFUL?
Mommy Confessions
• I look at my pregnant stomach and cringe. I’m supposed to feel all glowing and wonderful, but I just feel fat and ugly.
• Is it normal to be this horny during pregnancy? I swear, I’m about to jump my obese fifty-seven-year-old plumber. What the hell?
• That three-second orgasm was SO not worth this nine-month hell.
• I pee when I cough, I fart when I sneeze, and I’m sure I’ll crap on the delivery table.
• My husband is convinced he’s going to bang the baby’s head during sex. Honey, I’ve seen your thing and NO WAY can it reach that far. Not even close.
• My pregnancy has been blissfully easy, but I pretend to be crippled with exhaustion just so I can be alone. Otherwise, I might kill my husband.
• I’ve taken a three-hour nap every day of my pregnancy. I could stay pregnant forever and be happy.
• I ate a jar of Nutella a month while pregnant. Okay, a jar a week. Okay, okay, a day. A jar of Nutella a day. I’ve never admitted that before.
• My pregnant boobs are like crazy, porn-star boobs. I think I might need to become a surrogate just to keep tits like this.
• I spent every day pissed off at this unborn baby for making me so ill. He’s not even born and I’m a terrible mother.
• I’m afraid I won’t be able to love this new baby as much as my daughter. The fear consumes me.
• If pregnancy is any reflection on what kind of mother I’ll be, I may as well give this kid up for adoption.
• I’m eating for three. Problem is, I’m only expecting one and she’s the size of a pea right now.
• Up at 3:00 a.m. waxing my legs and bikini area, manicure/pedicure, exfoliating, the works. Not for a hot date—I’ve got an OB appointment tomorrow. It’s the most action I’ll see all month.
My firstborn child was—how do I say this eloquently?—a very pleasant surprise! No, that’s not true. She was a complete and utter shock. A hysteria-inducing, this-cannot-be-happening-to-me, why-did-I-not-triple-up-on-the-birth-control shock that rocked my selfish, skinny life to the very core. Just so we’re clear.
Back in 2003, I was working in store design for my favorite company. My simple life consisted of shopping, eating out with my husband, drinking with friends, and shopping some more. Did I mention shopping? Because it was the biggest part of my life. My job, which involved decorating a beautiful store with things I could buy myself at a steep discount, was the perfect fit for a self-absorbed girl like me.
My job required me to arrive early so I could unpack and arrange the merchandise that had arrived the previous day on the sales floor. One particular morning in May at about five o’clock, I sat on an overpriced shag carpet with my coworkers, tearing into the big cardboard boxes that had arrived from far overseas. Shiny amethyst earrings! Embellished scarves! Miniature teacups! Everything was so totally cute and absolutely worth spending my entire paycheck on. What else was money for, anyway? Certainly not for saving or investing in anything. Who needed that?!
After a while, I got to a box containing nothing but cookbooks. Beautiful cookbooks that normally made my mouth water and dream of dining on sea bass and grilled vegetables and whatever other beautiful dishes were spread across the colorful pages. But, as I pulled the first one out and glanced at the cover, a funny thing happened. Actually, it wasn’t so funny at all. The mere sight of a plate of roasted scallops sent me running into the bathroom for dear life. Scallops, normally one of my favorite foods, were suddenly unbelievably repulsive. So repulsive that I could barely control myself, and before I knew it, the entire contents of my stomach covered the stockroom bathroom. That was odd, I thought. Maybe I had some bad Honey Nut Cheerios for breakfast? Yes, that must have been it. Of course.
The rest of the day went similarly. Suddenly, I couldn’t look at food without needing to upchuck. A coworker heated up her lunch in the communal microwave and the grotesque smell infuriated me. Wasn’t the stench of homemade ravioli revolting to anyone else? The tomato sauce? The cheese? The faint scent of garlic and onion? So rude of her to heat up her food like that and torture the rest of us! It was gag-worthy, wasn’t it? Except, it wasn’t. Not to anyone else but me.
“You’re totally pregnant,” my assistant observed confidently when I returned from my seventh trip to the ladies’ room. “Pregnant? Me? No way. I’m just . . . off today,” I responded in a huff. Certainly, that was it . . . I couldn’t be pregnant. We lived in a third-floor walk-up downtown, I’d had three vodka tonics last weekend, I was rocking the supershort denim skirts, I didn’t even like kids, for crying out loud. It was simply not a possibility. Maybe there was a stomach bug going around—maybe I’d even drop a few pounds in the process! Now, that I could deal with. But pregnant? Nope. Not me.
On the way home, I stopped at the drugstore to pick up some Pepto-Bismol and a trashy magazine. I happened to pass the family-planning aisle, where the pregnancy tests stared back at me from their orderly little shelves. Of course it would be negative, and I would relish in saying “I told you so” tomorrow at work, but what the hell? The ten bucks seemed worth the investment if for no other reason than to prove my coworkers wrong. I’d certainly spent money on more frivolous things in my lifetime. Into my cart the little test flew.
At my apartment, I ripped open the package and followed the directions diligently. Prepared to wait awhile in the bathroom, I thumbed through my hot-off-the-press People magazine to catch up on the latest Jen and Brad gossip: Were they expecting? Was he cheating? Was she cheating? When was the last time he shaved that beard? Her hair was a little too blond, but not altogether bad. Would mine look good like that? It might look good on me . . .
These were my priorities until I saw two blue lines appear on the test. Suddenly, I had much bigger things to worry about. Brad who?
I frantically dialed my husband at work. “Jeff,” I stammered. “Um. I just took a pregnancy test . . . and it was positive.” Dead silence followed on the other end. Hellooo? “I’m coming home,” he whispered, and hung up the phone. In record time, armed with overflowing drugstore bags, he arrived at the door. Five minutes later, we had a buffet of pregnancy tests decorating the bathroom sink. They varied in color, size, and brand, but all had one thing in common and there was no doubt about it. Life as we knew it was over.
I suppose it shouldn’t have been all that much of a shock as I had gone off the pill a few months ago. But that wasn’t to get pregnant! Hell, no. It was just to get my skin cleared up and give my body a break before going on a different pill. My gynecologist’s reminder to make sure to practice backup birth control floated around my head in an imaginary cartoon bubble.
Once the immediate shock and denial wore off, I tried to look on the bright side: We were a happily married couple. It was totally acceptable for happily married couples to reproduce. I had, after all, handpicked this man to spend the rest of my life with. If I were going to have a child with anyone, he was the one I wanted to do it with. Maybe it really was meant to be, in some bizarre, cosmic way that I couldn’t yet grasp. Perhaps this pregnancy thing wasn’t all that bad.
A
nd then I threw up.
The “morning” sickness was just the beginning. It amazed me that a creature, barely the size of a peanut, could be wreaking such havoc on my body. I was exhausted, like I had never known exhaustion before. But, as fatigued as I was, I couldn’t actually sleep. Such an unfair predicament. My skin was breaking out like I was an oily teenager again. My back ached. My hair curled funny. My nails split. I was a mess. This bullshit was beautiful? Please tell me exactly what is beautiful about any of it, because I seemed to have missed that part.
As if I didn’t feel shitty enough, my body and business suddenly seemed to be part of the public domain. I wasn’t even a mother yet, and I was being judged for decisions I had yet to make. It was the motherhood rat race, and I was an unintentional contender. Strangers would stop me in restaurant bathrooms and ask whether I planned on breast-feeding. How on earth was that information relevant to them in the least? Old ladies questioned my choice of lunch meat, when they hadn’t been pregnant in the last fifty years. Friends gave me unsolicited advice on cloth diapers and breast pumps, when I barely knew what either was. Don’t even get me started on sleep training and circumcision. Once you’re carrying a child, suddenly the world has an opinion on each and every choice you make, despite the fact that they have less than nothing to do with your decisions or the outcome. How this is socially acceptable is beyond me, especially with all of the hormones pregnant women are high on. Hasn’t some nine-months-pregnant woman on the edge scared away the nosy busy bees yet? If I ever get pregnant again, I vow to be that person. For you.
And then there was my husband. My sweet, wonderful, and loving soul mate of a man, who, I successfully convinced myself, might actually be able to give me the only child on earth I’d ever be able to tolerate. Our very best qualities would merge and result in a baby who would change my view on all young people across the land. There must have been something primal about my attraction to him. It was all meant to be, I thought.
But, suddenly, this man I’d picked transformed into the most irritating creature I’d ever laid eyes on. What the hell had I done? The humor I’d previously found laugh-out-loud funny was now nothing but annoying. His snoring kept me up at night. The smell of his skin made me sick. He had the audacity to tell me that pregnant women looked sexy in heels—did he have to waddle around with bunions and balance issues? He simply could do no right. He and everyone else in the universe.
The whole experience made me wonder: Who are these women who blissfully glide through pregnancy? I have friends who claim to have enjoyed every moment of their trips to newbornville. They had precious little basketball tummies and glowing, dewy skin. They dressed in maternity bikinis and trotted around the swimming pool, putting us veiny, stretch mark–covered messes to shame. Had they not been with child, I’m quite sure I would have kicked them in the gut. While in heels.
And what about those freaks of nature who somehow get through all nine months never actually knowing that they’re expecting? I mean, who are they?! With my subsequent pregnancies, I swear I knew the minute we conceived. The wave of nausea, the constipation, the slight change in everything about me . . . I can’t imagine going a few weeks without knowing, never mind months on end. I will be eternally jealous of women like that. I can only pray that they end up with colicky babies. It only seems fair.
For a brief period of time, when I was around seven months pregnant or so, I got a taste of how the other half lives. For a few weeks, I wasn’t a raging bitch from hell. I’d stopped throwing up constantly and was actually enjoying eating again. So much so that I impressively managed to pack on nearly thirty pounds by that point. It really was a medical marvel considering my inability to digest anything for the first few months. I finally looked pregnant—not just pudgy—and gained some energy back as well. Things were looking up. And then I hit the ninth month.
I wish the government could bottle the discomfort that accompanies this point in pregnancy—the bloating and the aches and pains and the baby’s kicks. I think if they were able to inflict all of this on even the strongest of men, those men would cave under pressure. It would be the best torture method ever. If I thought the beginning was bad, I was sorely mistaken. The end? Pure misery.
When I was thirty-nine weeks pregnant, I woke up in the middle of the night feeling just a little bit off. I was restless and sweaty and started having stomach cramps. Not “baby is coming” stomach cramps but “I really need to take a big dump” stomach cramps. That much I was sure of. I called my mom to see what she suggested I take: Pepto? Colax? A Coke? It definitely didn’t feel like labor, I reported (of course I had absolutely no idea what the hell labor was supposed to actually feel like), but I wanted to feel better. It was highly unpleasant. “Honey,” she calmly explained, “that’s exactly what labor feels like. This is it.”
And that was my introduction to motherhood. Who knew that this totally new experience would echo something with which I was so well acquainted. It felt eerily familiar, highly uncomfortable, and not at all like I expected. In a word, it felt like shit.
And it was only just beginning.
Chapter 3
YES, YOU’LL SHIT ON THE DELIVERY TABLE
Mommy Confessions
• I’d rather have just about anyone other than my husband as my birth coach. Love him, but he’s totally going to steal my thunder.
• My newborn looks like an alien. Am I supposed to find her cute?
• I resent my children for the marks they left on my body. My boobs are deflated, my stomach a mess, and I’m covered in stretch marks. Thanks, kids.
• To the new mom who left the hospital looking like a million bucks: I hate you.
• My son came out looking just like my ex-boyfriend. My first thought upon seeing him: Asshole.
• I had an elective c-section. I’ve never told a soul that it wasn’t medically necessary; I just didn’t want my body going through labor.
• I can’t wait for delivery. That stay in the hospital is going to be as much of a vacation as I’ll get this whole year.
• I am terrified of dying on the delivery table. The fear consumes me.
• Childbirth is the single most disgusting experience I’ve ever had in my life.
• Since childbirth, my husband is unable to satisfy me. Think I need to trade in his dick for a bigger model.
• Once a woman asked me whether I planned to breast-feed my baby, so I asked her whether she shaved her vagina. Oh, I’m sorry, you don’t like personal, none-of-your-business questions?
• Since having a baby, all I can imagine during sex is the image I saw in the mirror. I will never look at my vajayjay the same way again.
• Childbirth was the highlight of my motherhood career. My kids are eight, ten, and twelve.
• Even my vagina has stretch marks.
Back when I was six months pregnant or so, Jeff and I signed up for childbirth classes at the local hospital where I was scheduled to deliver. We sat in the back row of a lecture room and listened as the aging nurse-practitioner dryly told us exactly what to expect from this “miraculous” event we were about to experience. Never one to be a good student, I found myself doodling potential baby names mindlessly to pass the time so that Jeff and I could go get pizza down the street. Yum, pizza . . .
Before long, the two of us were playing hangman and tic-tac-toe while the other expectant parents studiously took notes. If class was any indication of future parenting success, we’d already failed big-time. Suffice to say, we didn’t get much out of that first lecture. We never went back for the rest of the sessions and figured we’d just wing it—childbirth couldn’t be that complicated, right? Women had been doing it forever without lessons like these; surely it must come naturally. Like conception. We’d be fine.
As my due date quickly approached, I casually remarked to a friend that we’d never finished our prenatal classes. Instead of laughing it off, she was outraged: How would we know what to do when the time came? How would
we advocate for ourselves? What was our birth plan? What were our choice labor positions? How did I feel about pain medication? What about fetal monitoring? Labor augmentation? Each word out of her mouth grated on my nerves more than the last. Holy shit, woman. My birth plan was to have a freaking baby! I’d huff and I’d puff and I’d push that baby right out . . . wasn’t that enough of a plan? It wasn’t, she convinced me. At the very least, it was my job to be educated. If not for myself, for my child. Already, the mother- guilt was commencing.
This friend, who is no longer such a friend, did succeed in making me nervous enough to actually thumb through a pregnancy book. Maybe she was right—it might not be the worst idea ever to have some idea of what to expect from this whole thing. Better to be prepared, I supposed. What did I have to lose?
The first chapters of my chosen book were a breeze, but the more I read on, the more horrified I became: First came the mucus plug. There was actually a plug keeping things staying put up there? Literally, a plug made of mucus? I could hardly blow my nose without gagging. Then I got to the chapter on episiotomies and vaginal tearing. I’d naively assumed that my body was made to open up like a floodgate and close back up, effortlessly. Not always, I found. I could actually tear my vagina open? And need stitches to sew me back together again? My lady parts ached just reading the words. But the worst part of the book to me was the small warning at the end. It was almost an afterthought, as if it didn’t deserve much attention. Beware, it read, that when pushing the baby out, it is not uncommon for “other substances” to be pushed out as well.
OMG.
Seriously? “Other substances”?! I couldn’t even pee with the door open! For the first five years of our relationship, Jeff was convinced that my body was unable to produce gas (a lot of “silent but deadlies” and blaming of the innocent dog, in case you were wondering). The thought of actually pooping in front of him along with a roomful of people was simply too much for me to process. Couldn’t I just sign up for an elective c-section? I’d rather have major surgery than be humiliated like that. Perhaps I wasn’t up for this whole thing after all.
Confessions of a Scary Mommy Page 2