For years I’ve been getting my bikini area totally waxed. That includes any hair that might be lurking in the darkest regions. All things being equal, I have to say I’ve taken pretty good care of myself down there. Then one day I couldn’t see anything in that region anymore due to my growing belly. So I decided to take a break from waxing, a well-deserved break. I figured since I really wasn’t having sex with my husband, why worry about how pretty my hoo-hoo looks? So days turned into weeks, and weeks turned into months, and my crotch turned into the South American Jungle. It still didn’t bother me. After all, I couldn’t see it.
What DID bother me was when I went to wipe one day and noticed that things felt a bit puffy down there. Feeling curious I decided to take a peek. Considering I couldn’t see a damn thing without help, I pulled a mirror out from under the bathroom sink and took a look-see. Holy shit! If I had been standing, I would have staggered. What the hell was going on? My labia (those flappy things) looked like two blue Twinkies cuddling under really bad carpeting.
How could no one have warned me about this? I’ve come to find out that I wasn’t abnormal. Your hoo-hoo becomes engorged with blood when you’re pregnant, and that can sometimes cause swelling and a bluish or purplish coloration. Not everyone is lucky enough to go through this. But check yours out for yourself, and if you dare, ask around. I’ll bet a stack of cash that lots of women have looked and that “Blue Twinkies” best describes the sight. Whether anyone is willing to talk about it is another matter entirely.
Die, Model Bitch, Die!
(Hating Skinny People)
During your pregnancy you will begin to despise skinny people, especially hot skinny people or, more accurately, hot skinny celebrities showing off their hot bods on TV. Yes, even I was incredibly jealous of them as I sat—weighing in at a good 182—watching TV with my husband. When they would come on the screen, I would sneak a peek at him to monitor his reaction. Just as I thought: Drool leaked out from the corner of his mouth. Someone needs to tell those damn Victoria’s Secret models to try a little something called food. Meow! I’ll say it again, if men only knew how hard this was on us, they would bow to us for the entire nine months.
Here’s an incident (well, at least I made it an “incident”) of note. My husband and I were watching some quality TV: a show that had Playmates competing for some type of cash prize. Having absolutely no stomach for those tight, smooth bodies, I tried to switch the channel. Of course, I was stopped the moment my hand touched the remote. My husband was determined to watch. So I did what any red-blooded American girl would do: I made serious fun of all the girls. My husband behaved liked every red-blooded American man and stared at them like they were the first women he’d ever seen in his life.
Right before a commercial break, they previewed what was coming up next: While getting wet, the playmates removed their clothes, revealing skimpy swimsuits. I went mad. I told my husband I couldn’t take it. He said I was being silly, considering I had been a Playmate once myself. Well, if I had known what the sight of a Playmate did to women during pregnancy, I would have done us all a favor and been the fattest and hairiest Playmate of all time.
The show came back on, and there they were, all stripping down into skimpy bikinis. I begged my husband to switch the damn channel! He refused. I begged some more. I told him I couldn’t sit there and watch beautiful skinny women while I looked down at my knee-sized ankles. He clearly couldn’t understand what the hell I was going through, and I didn’t have the energy for Psycho Chick, so I resorted to the only thing I knew that would work. I began crying. It worked. We switched to the Disney channel.
Another effective strategy and one that feels devilishly good is this: While your husband is getting undressed at night, look in a magazine and shout out, “Damn! That George Clooney has a fine ass!” See how he likes it.
OOOOH! I Think I Felt the Baby Move . . . or Maybe It’s Just Gas
(Baby Kicks)
This was a moment I couldn’t wait for. After going through the hardships of my first trimester, I couldn’t wait to be rewarded with a little kick. Of course, at first it’s more like a butterfly fluttering, and if you’re not paying attention, you might think it’s just gas. The difference: Gas is nasty, kicking is wonderful.
I felt the first movement at about sixteen weeks. I was sitting on the sofa watching TV (again!) when I felt this little flutter. I knew it was the baby and I lit up with happiness. Yeah, we all see the ultrasounds, but nothing can prepare you for the first flutter in your belly. At this point you feel even more connected to your baby, and it makes you want to start eating more vegetables. Your precious cargo just became more precious.
It was hard for my husband to relate to this because it was too soon for him to feel anything from the outside. But once he got his turn, it was fun to watch him freak out. When the baby got bigger and the kicks were much more intense, I would put his hand on my belly and watch his face light up. I’m sure it was rewarding for him after the drama I’d put him through those first few months.
Looking back, some of my fondest memories were the times I would sit alone on my couch (ah, the couch again) and feel my baby moving about. I would place my hand on my belly and sing him little songs. It was our time together and I loved every minute of it. That said, it drove me crazy when he got hiccups. I hate getting them myself, but when you feel them—your belly jerks a little every time—but aren’t the one having them, it’s too strange.
It wasn’t until a friend of mine taught me how to put a positive spin on baby hiccups that I started to actually enjoy them. She explained that one way of thinking about it was that hiccups were a way for the baby to tell us that he was okay in his little home. The hiccups were his sign for “Everything’s okay, Ma!” Needless to say, from this point on I LOVED his little hiccups.
Enjoy it while you can because the hiccups and kicks are going to turn into less endearing little cries before you know it!
Organizing Freak
(Your Nesting Instinct)
As with animals in the wild, the pregnant human female will one day have the uncontrollable urge to get her little nest in order. I kept reading about this and wondering when my time would come, when my instinct would kick in. I was in my eighth month and still calmly looking past jammed and unorganized closets. Then came the ninth month of pregnancy, and all I have to say is move over, Alice from the The Brady Bunch, cuz my organizing bitch took over. I would get these bursts of energy and pace the house like a caged animal looking for things to clean and organize. After I organized the jammed closets and drawers in a twenty-four-hour period, I searched the house for more to do.
Then I realized I needed to get my baby’s family tree in order. An essential thing to do, right? I got pictures of my husband’s family, combined them with mine, included both our baby pictures, and made album after album of our genetic history. It’d probably be years until our son cared about these, but I had to do it. There was just no stopping me.
After that task was completed, I thought it would be a great idea to move furniture around. Picture my big pregnant body, wearing my muumuu, sliding a seven-foot bookshelf across the room. My husband screamed as he saw me in his peripheral vision. But that didn’t seem to stop me. I rearranged the nursery at least seven times, and when my husband made me promise I wouldn’t touch another thing in the house, I moved to the front yard and started moving giant potted plants. There was no end to this until I left for the hospital to deliver a few weeks later.
In retrospect, of course, I highly recommend not moving giant pieces of furniture around. But take advantage of the less dangerous forms of your nesting instinct . . . you won’t be seeing an organized junk drawer again any time soon.
What the Fu*k Are These?
(Stretch Marks)
Though there are lots of things to worry about during pregnancy, I think that stretch marks are, for many women, the most dreaded. I mean, they’re permanent! They fade to your skin color, but they are stil
l there. How terrifying is that?
To women who escape getting stretch marks, I offer you lukewarm congratulations. No, scratch that. I actually hate you.
Stretch marks look like a cat crawled up on your body and stuck its claws into your skin and slowly scraped down an inch or more leaving a reddish or purplish squiggly indented line. They can develop anywhere on your body just because you gain weight (pregnant or not), but most pregnant women watch them appear on their growing bellies.
I think I first saw them when I was watching those pregnancy shows on TV called Maternity Ward and Baby Story. These pregnant women would lift up their blouses for their ultrasound, and I would shriek! They’d have these horrible marks.
Terrified, I doused my body in oil every day. An old wives’ tale, I know, but I gave it a try all the same. My theory on the virtue of oiling yourself goes like this: If your mom had stretch marks in her pregnancy, then you have a good chance of getting them yourself, with or without oil. If she didn’t, your chances of avoiding them look pretty good. In other words, oil may only serve to make you feel more in control of the process.
Proof of its value or not, there are many women who swear by their oil. If you want to join them in lathering up, go ahead. At the very least, it’s good for moisturizing your skin. And it feels good. In fact, I would make my husband oil me up at night until I got so fat that I started to feel like a side of bacon preparing to be fried up. That vision took the fun out of it for me. And read on for more about pigs in the bedroom.
Now, perhaps you’re wondering if I ended up getting the dreaded marks. Yes, I did. I got them on my boobs and my ass, but not my belly. So I got half lucky. But I don’t look at my ass anymore. And I’m sure I won’t again until they come out with a magic cream or a new treatment. Plastic surgeons say they can reduce stretch marks now with a laser. Well, buddy, I want them GONE, not reduced, so work a little harder on a cure, will ya?
I Just Need to Lie Down for, Like, Five Minutes . . . Okay, Maybe Three Months
(Sleepiness)
Imagine staying up all night, then running a marathon, then doing three hundred loads of laundry and raking leaves off a football field all in one day. How tired would you be? That’s how tired I felt EVERY DAY in my first trimester. It’s like someone snuck in and stole all the juice out of my body. Our bodies give so much to the embryo I’m surprised we can even get off the couch. As you’ve read, I didn’t get off mine much. Literally, I could barely talk. My friends would call me in the afternoon and I would sound drunk because I was so tired. My goal every day was to at least try to make it through an entire hour of Oprah without falling asleep.
I worked throughout my pregnancy, but my line of work isn’t all day every day. I couldn’t imagine working a nine-to-five shift. To all those women out there who do, I worship you. And I hope someone offers you a rest on a couch or a nap every day. If you have to stand at your job, make sure you demand a chair. And this goes for early on when you aren’t showing, too. You might not look pregnant this early in the game, but your body will remind you every second you stand there.
As my husband is fond of reminding me, I got so tired while pregnant that I sometimes started snoring in mid-conversation. I would be sitting up in bed, talking to him, and then, clunk . . . I was out. There were also times when I could feel it coming on. It felt like a giant wave would be headed my way. Out of the blue I would say, “Uh oh.” My husband knew exactly what that meant and would walk me to bed. Those were the best naps in the whole world. Ever full of great advice, my mom told me to enjoy those naps because if and when I get pregnant with Baby Number Two, those naps will be nonexistent; there’s no rest for the weary when there’s a toddler to chase around the house.
The amazing thing about my sleepiness is that it completely disappeared at the end of my first trimester. I remember reading that I would wake up one day refreshed, with a surge of energy. And it actually happened. I don’t know why I was all that surprised—the books had been right about a lot of things. But even with warning, it’s an amazing feeling. This is a good time to get all your stuff done before you turn into the Goodyear blimp, like registering and decorating your nursery, because when that last trimester begins, guess what comes back? You got it . . . the sandman, and he brings a shitload of sand!
Pig in the Pasture
(Sex in the Ninth Month)
I don’t think pigs graze in pastures, but I just figured it sounded better than “pig in the mud.” Any way you phrase it, this is exactly how I felt the one and only time my husband and I had sex in the ninth month. All the books tell you about “comfortable positions,” and the one they really zero in on is the “doggy-style” position. Sure, it’s great at an ideal weight, but when you’re close to two hundred pounds, you aren’t thinking dog . . . you’re thinking pig. And I’m sure I sounded like one because my cries (of joy and desire, of course) sounded more like squeals than oohs and ahs. It was clear to me that my poor husband was concentrating hard on his Rolodex of fantasies because I sure as hell wasn’t one for him anymore. I just wanted that piggy sex to end, but I hung in there like a good wife because I wanted to take care of my man. (Full disclosure: I was really “bad” the whole pregnancy. I never really “took care of him.” I should have offered a couple of blow jobs here and there, but the way I felt every day, you couldn’t have paid me enough.)
Now, let me give you a better visual. My husband is very lean. Sexy as hell. But very lean. Most women would kill for his metabolism. As I propped myself into position and we began to get down, I could feel that his entire lean body was half the size of my ass. No joke. I couldn’t stop thinking that his skinny frame was going to get stuck between my ass cheeks. So every time I felt him pump, I would clench my cheeks to keep from swallowing him up. All the while, I couldn’t stop thinking how just plain wrong this was. This was not a high-self-esteem moment for a pregnant woman in desperate need of some. My advice: If you’re not feeling it, don’t try this one. Leave it to some lonely farmer.
The Moment of Truth
(Labor and Delivery)
After reading all that’s come before, you might think I could have caught a break in the labor and delivery arena. I mean, I’d endured enough hardships, don’t you think? No freaking way. In fact, just writing this section makes me cry as I relive the end of the journey. Don’t worry; I’ll still make you laugh, but I have to warn you that in this section I actually take you to a serious place for once. Here I go . . . My name is Jenny and this is my story.
I woke up one Friday morning in May feeling my usual miserable self. But I noticed that on this particular day I was a tad more miserable than usual. I rolled off my firm mattress and noticed that I was having multiple Braxton Hicks contractions. I knew it was them because they didn’t hurt, but I was getting them every few minutes. Then I waddled to the bathroom and noticed my bowels were really awake and eager to be used. As I sat on the toilet, it occurred to me that I might be starting labor. It was just about my due date, after all.
So what does one do? Well, any normal person would tell her husband to be on full alert, and she would make sure her bags were packed and yadda yadda. Not me. No, I called and made a hair appointment because I wanted a nice blow-dry for all of my delivery pictures. Yes, I’m an idiot.
Off I went to the hair salon, and as cosmic punishment I immediately started to feel crampy. I sat through my blow-dry even though my hairstylist told me I was crazy and needed to get home (remember, this was the guy who had witnessed my false labor months before). I suffered through the final stages of grooming sweating and moaning. When I finally made it home, I couldn’t lie down because I was too eager, and I knew we still had some time before we should go to the hospital. No longer Psycho Chick and with a surprising presence of mind, I remembered the “4-1-1 rule” that my doctor had drilled into my head: My contractions needed to be four minutes apart, one minute long, for one hour before I went to the hospital.
I needed to kill time. I snuc
k into the bathroom and pulled out my waiting enema. It looked mean and foreign and invasive, but I thought hard about using it. Remember, my big fear was not if I was going to tear my vagina on the table but if I POOPED ON THE TABLE. After standing in the bathroom for ten minutes having contractions and feeling miserable, I came to the conclusion that the last thing I wanted to do was to stick something up my butt. So, I threw the enema away. Little did I know I was also throwing away any hope of having a poop-free delivery.
Finally, at midnight, my contractions were 4-1-1, so we ventured off to the hospital with our suitcase and our nervous bellies. On the drive there my husband and I talked about how we felt like we were standing on the edge of the Grand Canyon and didn’t know whether to fly or fall in. We were absolutely terrified about what was to come. We understood that this would be the last time that life was only about the two of us. In a few hours we would be responsible for another life. No more clowning around. As Dr. Phil would say, “It’s time to get real, people.” We looked at each other and smiled, and when we arrived at the hospital, we were whisked off to labor and delivery.
From there, things slowed down. As when I was in premature labor, they hooked me up with belts to monitor the baby’s heart and measure contractions. My sweet little nurse asked if I wanted to get hooked up with an epidural yet. This part was confusing for me because I wasn’t in severe amounts of pain, but I’d heard those horror stories about women who waited too long and couldn’t get an epidural. Then there were the stories about the women who got it too early and it ran out right before they were about to push. I asked her if she thought I was close to pushing, and she laughed and said, “Darlin’, it’s midnight, and you probably won’t start pushing until three in the afternoon.” So I figured I would wait on the epidural. I wasn’t too anxious for a needle in my back anyway.
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