Okay, like there isn’t enough shit going on down there, we have to go through this, too. Ever since the day I got my period I thought, “God, I can’t wait ’til I’m pregnant. I’ll go through nine months of no period. Yeah!” Bullshit. Vaginal discharge—as the doctor calls it—was just as bad if not worse because it didn’t come for a week and then disappear like dear old Aunt Flow. Instead, it just flowed. And flowed and flowed. At least it did for me. I called it the “snail trail” because it’s gooey and slippery and nasty. And it made me feel like I had wet my pants all the time. You could be reading this right now saying, “Damn, Jenny had a real problem in this department.” Good for you if you didn’t discharge all day and night but, well, I did. And I’m sharing.
It drove me crazy. I went through a few pairs of underwear a day until one of my friends said, “Why don’t you wear a little panty liner?” God, sometimes I am a true blond! It didn’t take the annoyance away, though. I swear that shit can burn holes in your underwear, if you let it.
Of course, as with all things nasty and inconvenient, there is a “medical” reason for discharge: I’m told it softens the membranes so your vagina can stretch and let the baby through later on. Same reason your nose might be stuffy all the time. Not the baby delivery part, of course. But your nose is a membrane, so it’s creating its own discharge for no purpose at all. Mind you, this could be totally wrong. I’m not a doctor. It’s just what I picked up here and there.
Take it from me: The “Niagara” flows at its best in the first trimester and last, at least that’s how it went for me. That is, you only get a very short break in the middle. So, make sure you pick up some panty liners to pick up the snail trail. You’ll save those undies (Granny though they may be . . . see page 23).
Psycho Chick
(Hormonal Rage)
If I had been offered a movie role when I was pregnant, I could’ve played an amazing Psycho Chick. The first trimester is when Jenny “cuckoo in the head” first showed up for work. And she honestly scared the crap out of my husband. He thought he had lost me forever. And I thought I’d lost myself. The thing is, you know what you’re saying is crazy. You are very aware that you’re screaming and the veins in your face are pulsating, and it’s all over something as stupid as running out of mayonnaise. But knowing that you’re being crazy and doing anything to stop yourself are two very different things.
Case in point: One particular evening I was sitting on the couch enjoying a warm cup of tea. My husband decided to join me in my tea drinking. (We almost sound like an English yuppie couple having a cup of tea. We are so not. We had probably just run out of cherry Kool-Aid.) Anyway, he walked into the kitchen and began to read the tea box. He proceeded to tell me, in an alarming manner, that the tea I was drinking was LOADED with caffeine. Well, I’m sure you’ve all read how caffeine is bad for pregnant women, and I had, too, so I started freaking out. He continued to tell me how much caffeine the tea had. I told him to shut up because I didn’t want to hear it. To wind me up, he started shouting that the tea had more caffeine than any other tea in the world. I closed my ears and started screaming for him to shut up. He saw that I had steam coming out of my nose and he was clearly getting a kick out of it. He continued to taunt me, and “Psycho Chick” simply emerged. My face turned beet red, veins popped out, my teeth started grinding, and my eyes crossed: “STOP TELLING ME HOW MUCH FUCKING CAFFEINE I JUST DRANK, I’M ALREADY AFRAID I JUST KILLED THE BABY.”
So, guess what my darling, understanding husband did? He kept on going. So, guess what Psycho Chick did? She went positively postal and started whipping remote controls at him. First, the TV control; that one breaks. Then the VCR remote; that one breaks. Then the stereo remote. Now, please listen to me when I tell you this is not me. Not all celebrities are temperamental wack jobs. I am not that kind of a person. I’ve never thrown anything. But all of a sudden I’m Joan Crawford with a really bad bleach job!
Psycho Chick turned into Crying Psycho Chick, and I burst into tears. My husband realized that he’d played with me long enough and put his arm around me. Psycho Chick went back into her hole that day, but she would be heard from many a time again. Sometimes I’d see her coming, I’d feel her emerging. Other times she would just pop out of the woodwork without warning. But she was always with me, just waiting to make a scene.
Now you might be thinking, “Why did you tell us a story as simple as arguing about the caffeine in tea?” Well, that’s exactly why. During this time you will find yourself getting enraged about the dumbest things. They might not seem dumb to you at the time, but they really are, and you’ll see the stupidity in retrospect. If you haven’t gotten to this point yet in pregnancy, warn your husband that “Psycho Chick” could be coming. At least then when you throw a remote at him, you can say, “I warned you darling . . . now RUN!”
Holy Shit, I Think I Hard-Boiled My Baby!
(Taking Hot Baths)
When you first become pregnant there are so many things you just don’t know. Then, there are a billion things people tell you that are either completely wrong or old wives’ tales. Then, there’s the shit your doctor tells you, and then, there’s the shit you read about, and finally, there’s the brilliant wisdom your mother feels the need to share.
The day I found out I was pregnant I was so excited that I vowed to change my way of life. Don’t get me wrong—I wasn’t into anything illegal: I just had some bad eating habits and I was pretty tightly wound. So, I just wanted to eat healthy and really relax. As a start, I thought I would take a hot tub . . . perhaps a Jacuzzi.
I was staying in a hotel at the time, so I figured I would take them up on their advertised facilities. I climbed on into the Jacuzzi and sat there soothing myself in scalding 110-degree water. Oohh, it felt good. As I relaxed, I daydreamed about what my baby would look like. I wondered if he or she would be blond like my husband and me or maybe get my nose and his chin. I was starting to really relax and enjoy myself when Mrs. “I’m Gonna Scare the Shit out of You” decided to join me in the hot tub. She was about fifty years old and, as I came to find out, had three kids of her own. I myself had just found out I was pregnant and I needed to tell somebody, and since she had absolutely no idea who I was, I figured it would be a safe bet to tell her. Of course, I should never have opened my big fat mouth.
“YOU’RE PREGNANT?!! GET THE HELL OUT OF THIS HOT TUB. YOU’RE HURTING YOUR BABY!!!!” she shrieked.
With that, I flip-flopped out of the hot tub like I was in a Jackie Chan movie. I stood there in horror as the once soothing but now terrifyingly lethal water dripped off me. She went on to tell me that extreme heat could really harm the baby, that if your body temperature gets too warm it heats up the embryo.
Now cold and in a cold sweat, I couldn’t help but see my new little embryo sitting inside me as a hard-boiled egg. I honestly believed I had hard-boiled my baby. I started freaking out.
Mrs. I’m Gonna Scare the Shit out of You continued her lecture. She told me to avoid taking a bath, and when I showered, it should always be in cool water. Then she went on to tell me that I should avoid eating fish, not to have sex, not to dye my hair, to avoid caffeine, yadadada. I was doing my best to tune her out: She was starting to sound more and more like the teacher in a Charlie Brown cartoon, “Wawawawaawawa.”
All I could think about was that I MIGHT HAVE HARD-BOILED MY BABY! Leaving the still-ranting hottubber far behind to call my gyno two time zones away, I ran up to my hotel room and dialed like a mad woman. He assured me that I had NOT, in fact, hard-boiled my baby. However, he did say I should indeed avoid taking hot baths. He also told me that most of the time my body would let me know when it was too hot because when you’re pregnant your body will become overheated quickly. And that turned out to be true in a lot of cases. Your body definitely lets you know when something is just not right. If you’re in a crowded room that might be too stuffy, your little pregnant body will set off an alarm inside that will make you get the hell out of there.
; Now, maybe he had told me all of this before. Maybe the pregnancy books I had read when we were “trying” made all this clear. But in all my happiness and hormonal wackiness, I didn’t take any of it in. I guess the lesson here is that you should listen to your body more than you listen to the crazy strangers whose advice will scare your pants off. That is, don’t listen to them, but do listen to me. Psycho Chick notwithstanding, I’m not crazy even if I am a stranger (about whose privates you already know too much).
Granny Panties
(Letting Go of the G-String)
The moment I got pregnant I swore I would not do typical pregnant things like wear granny panties or a big ugly maternity bra. I was determined that I was going to be different and cool and be a sexy pregnant lady. I suffered and stood my ground for the first few months. I was not giving up my G-string. I loved the no-panty-line look, but as my ass started to widen, my thongs were getting tighter and tighter. Of course I still had no panty line, but instead I had the “your ass is too fat to be wearing those” look going. I had rolls hanging off each side of my hips. Clearly, I had to do something.
So that’s how I came to be standing in a store looking at new panty options. Not the maternity store yet. I would give in to that level of sizing a little later in my pregnancy. At this point it was just a regular department store, and I had brought my husband with me for moral support. As I searched the rack he whispered, “Honey, don’t shop for my sake; get something comfortable.” How sweet, how selfless. So what did I do? I smiled and moved right toward the table of big, wide 100 percent cotton Granny panties. I picked the cutest colors I could find in a couple of sizes (but why are these things only available in white, peach, and baby blue?) and walked in scared slow motion toward the dressing room. I was scared for two reasons. One, I was about to see what size I was going to fit in, and two, the scariest reason, I was about to see my ass in the most unforgiving lighting of all: overhead fluorescent.
I immediately started with the larges. Why not? It would so much easier to go down in size than go through the depressing motion of moving up. On they went, right over my stretched-to-the-limit thong. And surprise, surprise: The large fit. And to my amazement, I had never been so comfortable in my life. Spread the news! Granny panties totally rock! Sexy in the traditional sense, no way. But my newfound comfort seemed like the sexiest thing ever. And there may just be no going back!
To avoid my other fear, and for your information, I avoided looking at my ass altogether. Indeed, and I really believe this, there is absolutely no reason any woman, pregnant or not, should have to look at her naked ass in a department store dressing room. Save that moment for the comfort of your own home and the mirror you bought because it makes you look skinny.
I Can Either Pee on You or You Can Get the Hell Out of My Way!
(Frequent Pee Breaks)
It ought to be something they teach in kindergarten: Do NOT stop a pregnant woman on her way to the bathroom. Unfortunately, even if people understand pregnant pee pressure in theory, no one will really understand unless they’ve been pregnant. The only thing I could tell my husband in order for him to understand my urgency was for him to pretend he had to pee really bad with a refrigerator on top of his bladder. Then I’d ask him to imagine how long HE could hold it!
The weird thing about the pee thing is that it starts almost the moment you find out you’re pregnant. That seems so weird to me because there clearly isn’t a seven-pound baby pushing on your bladder at that time. Still, I woke up in those early months at 2 a.m. and then at 3 a.m. and then at 6 a.m. No rest for the weary. It was just pee, pee, pee.
Later in my pregnancy, an unusually memorable pee attack happened to me while my husband and I were going to take a drive to visit a friend. He knew it was going to be a bit of a haul, so he asked his very pregnant wife if she had to pee before we left. Well, I didn’t at that time, but as we started driving, I felt a small pee sensation. I knew if I said anything he would do the “I told you to pee before we left” routine. So I told myself to save the argument, shut up, and hold it. You know how long I held it for? About fifteen seconds. And therein lies the truth of the matter: There is no “holding it” when you’re pregnant. When you gotta go you gotta go!!!
And that’s what I told him. But we were almost there, so he “encouraged” me to “hold back the waters.” I told him that the only chance I had was for him to drive faster. Zoom! He put the pedal to the metal, but still, I wasn’t sure I could hold off and stared longingly out the window at every possible bathroom stop. Greasy gas station bathrooms never looked so good to me.
We turned down the final road to our friends’ house. Yes, we were almost there! But then, out of the blue, my husband decided to turn into a freakin’ tour guide. He slowed the car down to a snail’s pace and started pointing at some stupid well sitting on top of a hill and began to recite the history of the well. Where did Mr. Understanding go? Had he forgotten that the upholstery was in grave danger here? My mouth was to the floor of the car as I held my crotch doing a pee dance. I couldn’t believe what he was doing. He obviously did not fully grasp the urgency in my voice. Needless to say, Psycho Chick (remember her?) showed up (see page 15) and I told him where he could shove that well.
Proving that he had not learned that all-important kindergarten lesson, he got upset because I was being mean and he . . . completely stopped the car. So you know what I did? I lost my patience (my dignity having been lost years before). I got out of the car, stood on the side of the road, and pulled down my pants and peed. Now, there’s a pretty picture: a nine months’ pregnant lady squatting down trying to balance herself while she pees on the side of the road. Pretty or not, it felt DAMN good.
Moral of the story: When you are in desperate need, don’t be afraid to take matters into your own hands. Everyone eventually forgives the pregnant lady.
Passing Stonehenge
(Constipation)
At no time is constipation pretty or comfortable, but during pregnancy it’s even worse than bad. And I had it bad. You’ll probably notice it most in your first and last trimesters (again, just a small window of relief during that respite known as the second trimester). For me, the worst of it came (or didn’t come, to be more precise) in the beginning. I honestly went thirteen days without even a rumble. And I was eating enormous amounts of food. Where could it be going? I wasn’t packing weight on just yet . . . and it certainly wasn’t coming out.
Then one day, as I was driving my car, BAM! There was no way around it, things were rumbling and they wanted to come out. From the feel of things, I could tell that it was the size of Stonehenge and it was ready to flow. Holy shit! I was thinking, where the hell am I going to go? Even though later on in my pregnancy I wouldn’t turn my nose up at a gas station, this was early on, and I refused to use that kind of can. I stepped on the gas and got my eager rectum home.
As I ran to the bathroom, I have to admit that I felt a bit excited. I was finally about to get some relief! Yippee! How could I have known how wrong I’d be? I thought I was giving birth right then and there. The pain! The pushing! You’ve got to be kidding! My sister was at my house at the time and kept making comments about some banging noise. She kept shouting, “What the hell is that?” It was me, banging my fists against the wall, which were soon followed by my head and feet banging the sink and the tub. Needless to say, things found their way out eventually, but not without great effort and lots of prayers.
And this was only the beginning. It kept happening. Two weeks of nothing and then all of a sudden I’d be on the front line of World War III. I read in books that this was very “normal.” Well, screw that. It couldn’t be normal. I needed a specialist. So, I dared to ask my gyno for some help, and he referred me to Dr. “I Love Everything about the Butt Canal.” Do you think you know where this is going? If you’ve had a similar experience, I would be very surprised.
As I sat in the waiting room, I couldn’t stop thinking, “Is he gonna look up my butt?” But
then I laughed because as I reminded myself, I wasn’t there for an exam. I didn’t have a colon problem. I was just a pregnant lady who was really constipated. I just needed a safe laxative. Why my gyno couldn’t have prescribed me something I still don’t know.
The assistant walked out shouting, “Jenny McCarthy, you’re next!” Of course everyone in the waiting room looked up in surprise, and I knew what they were thinking: “Wow, Jenny McCarthy has butt hole problems?” I was so embarrassed, until I realized that they had no right to be smirking: Those assholes were also there because of their own assholes. I felt better already.
I followed the assistant down the hall to the doctor’s office and met the pro. We talked for thirty minutes about my butt. Fascinating conversation. The history of it and of my previous ability to crap regularly and yadda yadda. Then, he casually asked if I partook in anal sex. I don’t care if he’s a doctor or not, it was just a really weird thing for me to hear. Of course I made a vulgar face and, clearly offended, I said, “NO!” He didn’t sense my outrage.
He continued on about how butt sex can be very bad for your butt. I’m like, dude, I’m just a pregnant lady; shut the hell up and help me. Finally, he started to fill me in on my safe options. “Drink more water and eat better,” he said. Well, no, shit, Sherlock! As he wrapped things up, I took my car keys out of my purse to show him I was ready to GO. He stood up and gestured to walk me out. I couldn’t help but think, “Thank God! I’m outta this loony place.”
We walked down the hallway and he had one of his hands on my shoulder. No biggie. Just being nice. Well, his hand on my shoulder turned into more of a steering wheel. And he steered me right into an examination room. Okay, at this point I looked like a deer caught in the headlights because we all know what was about to happen.
He told me to undress and put a gown on, and he shut the door to give me some privacy. Why privacy is a concern in that line of work, I don’t know! Of course I was freaking out. I kept thinking, “Should I run?” or “Should I just tough it out?” I figured that my gyno had sent me here, and I trusted his judgment. I took my clothes off and decided to take it like a man, so to speak.
Belly Laughs Page 2