It’s been a while since I’ve been knocked up.
I got pregnant with my first son on our honeymoon in St. Lucia. When we returned I was all itchy and bitchy and my boobs hurt and I couldn’t poop. I thought it was because I did nothing but eat carbs the whole time after months of the South Beach Diet like any good neurotic bride before her wedding. I live in Maryland, and called my dear friend Jen in Florida. Within 3.5 minutes she informed me that I was pregnant, and approximately 2 minutes later I was driving to the drugstore like Mario Andreotti to purchase my pee sticks. I called her back to have my pee-on-a-stick moment, actually 3 in a row, (there were cups of pee and pee sticks everywhere) because i didn’t believe it. I had spent my entire life trying to prevent pregnancy, so I did not expect this the first time we pulled the goalie. My husband had delivered magic David Beckham sperm.
I then called my Gynecologist / OB freaking out. “Oh my god, I’m so scared, I just spent 2 weeks on the beach doing nothing but drinking and sitting in hot tubs!” To which she replied, “Oh honey, that’s how babies are made.” I knew I had the right OB.
Anyway, I came across these entries tucked away in an old folder. I figured they deserved a post.
So if you have ever been pregnant, are pregnant, are considering being pregnant, or are currently having sex with a pregnant wife, this ones for you. Enjoy.
Mothers Day 2004
Happy Mothers Day!
Well, I’m really excited to become a Mother! With 2 weeks to go, I now weigh more than my husband and can no longer climb the stairs without needing a nap. I wear the same pair of fat-pants every day and have about 2 remaining shirts that still fit over my enormous belly and grotesquely swollen breasts – which closely resemble 2 honeydew’s in a pair of socks with nipples the size of ripe, summer tomato slices with olives toothpicked into the middles. I have incessant indigestion and frequently belch as if I have a 65-year-old man, such as Brian Dennehy, trying to escape from my soul, often accompanied by the partially digested smell of whatever I’ve eaten. (It is fun to get strangers to guess!)
I have lost all remaining coordination and whatever I eat tends to wind up wither on my breasts or belly. My shirts could easily be mistaken for an artists smock as they are all stained with dabs and dribbles of maple syrup, spaghetti sauce, mustard, ice cream and whatever else I’ve shoveled into my feed hole during the day. Under my shirt I usually have crusty toothpaste that has been sprayed and dripped directly on my belly from the morning’s brushing.
My wedding rings no longer fit from the wonderful, magical effects of edema. This makes me look like a single knocked up slut to all of the other expectant mother’s in the waiting room when I go for my OB appointments. This phenomenon known as edema is also responsible for the fact that I can now only buy shoes at Payless as they are the only ones that carry 11 wides. These are typically the shoes that african american transvestites gravitate to, and make a spectacular show on the feet of a fat, white expectant mother in tandem with her drawstring sweatpant capri’s that she’s moved into.
This brings me to the next fun word…leukoreah! If you have not heard of this, it is in essence what makes you walk around smelling like a whorehouse. And isn’t that irony for you, considering I would rather french kiss Al Rocher while Willard Scott licked Smucker’s jam from my naked body in front of 20 senior citizens celebrating birthdays over 100 “years young” than have sex with my own husband? Sex now makes you feel like a pig in the pasture, as you settle on all fours, just a big fat ass and vagina in the sheets with belly and breasts flopping and smacking your own chin while you know that your husband secretly has his eyes tightly shut thinking only of some supermodel or porn queen rather than the pig in front of him that is his wife. He says it’s like going to the gym…you hate going, but once you get there it’s not so bad. That makes me feel better.
So, with all of that said, I hope you have a fabulous mother’s day! Please think of me waddling down the street in my sweatpant capri’s, shirt stained with dabs and dribbles of maple syrup, spaghetti sauce, mustard & ice cream in my 11 wide african american transvestite Payless shoes smelling like a whorehouse and all the while needing a nap and belching profusely. Pregnancy is truly beautiful.
Get it out of me! Asking your husband to perform a c-section.
Ahhh, 36 weeks. I feel like I’ve waited and waited to get to this point, and now that I’m here, I can’t imagine going 4 more weeks. I’ve just returned from my now weekly doctors visit, and celebrated the fact that I only gained an additional 4 pounds with a cheeseburger and 10 piece mcnugget.
This week has been torture. My belly is so rock hard, and it feels like the baby is taking great pleasure in kicking my ribs out as if they are piano keys and he’s playing his first solo. In conjunction with this lovely feeling, comes enormous head buts aimed at my bowels making me feel as if I’m going to poop myself every 10 minutes. And lest we not forget to mention the fact that he has positioned himself on some wonderful nerve that causes my back to lock up in pain, and every single nerve in my left leg go completely numb. This has now created my very attractive posture. Left hand clutching my back, limping like an 86 year old after a hip replacement surgery, while dropping everything I attempt to carry in my carpal tunnel ridden right hand. Needless to say, I’m ready to have him on the outside.
So I was hoping during my checkup that my doctor would have wonderful news like “you’re 2 cm dilated!”. No such luck. Instead, I winced in pain as my totally neglected vagina was inserted with 2 fingers that felt more like Ron Jeremy on Viagra. She laughed and told me “Wow, your cervix is rock hard!” On the ride home, I called my husband at the office to let him know that we “had to start having sex to get things moving.” Although I’m sure part of him was happy to know that he was given entry privileges, I’m pretty sure “having sex” for a purpose sounded more to him like “give me an enema so I can go to the bathroom”. Beggars can’t be choosers, that’s what I say.
So now all of the things they tell you not to do to trigger labor have become intentional parts of my daily routine. I take the bumpiest road possible to the grocery store and play with my nipples while driving. After grocery shopping, I carry 6 bags in each hand, nearly dislocating my shoulders, into the house at once and hoist them onto the counter. I massage my ankles and the webbing between my thumb and forefinger.
So that’s the latest, I’ve got to run now, I’m on my way to toys-r-us to buy myself a pogo stick.