A lot of people talk about how much they love being pregnant. The joy and the wonder of having new life growing inside of you, the fierce bond you develop with your fetus and the supposedly hot fetish sex. Well, for me there was none of that, no sexy boudoir maternity photos, no dorky baby announcement with my baby daddy’s head on my bulging belly. I pretty much hated every moment of it.
But because pregnancy is the fastest and easiest way to get a "free" kid, for me anyway, I pretty much had no choice but to suffer through 9 months of barfing and not crapping.
Well, to be fair, you do finally stop barfing and you can manage to squeeze out a crap every once in awhile, but they are so massive and hard when they finally appear, that they literally clog the main line of your house. So then you have to spend hours pouring boiling water down your toilet, hoping and praying that you are able to break the baby-arm-sized poop free. Shreddy poop floats up.
You pathetically delight in your success, you imagine it flailing around as it floats down the pipe like a liberated woman spazzing out to the song New Attitude at her divorce celebration party. Oopsie! You’ve unintentionally triggered another barf session by thinking of your turd. It’s too late, you can’t go back.
Maybe if I wasn’t so consumed with trying not to get shredded poop water on me as I barfed into a backed up toilet, I would’ve seen the beauty of it all.
The other supposedly great thing about pregnancy is that people treat you like a queen... or so I’ve heard. I mean, one time I almost fainted and a waiter brought me saltines, and another time someone let me cut in line at Home Depot. But I thought there’d be more.
I was having a baby, the most noble fucking thing you can do! I don’t think that’s true, but I thought everyone else did. What the fuck, people? Do what I say, not what I do! Maybe I would’ve received more queenly treatment from strangers if I had left my house more, but a few free saltines hardly seemed worth the effort.
And the more I shut myself in, the more scared I became about leaving. How did I know some psycho bitch wasn’t gonna cut my gut open with a car key to steal my fetus and leave me to bleed to death in the Target parking lot? Did I really need to lay there dying helplessly, only to be gang-raped by the hobo encampment that lived in the recesses of the Target parking lot? I did not. Pro tip: Surging pregnancy hormones and a true crime addiction are not a good combination.
So, my irrational fears forced me to be a shut-in, staying at home, sprawled out on my sofa, shoving my face with Trader Joe’s Peppermint Jojos and trying not to murder people for eating cantaloupe improperly or for watching 60 Minutes in my presence (ahem, baby daddy Jim).
I promise you, I am normally a super-chill girl, without a smidge of paranoia or homicidal blind rage.
Still not convinced that pregnancy sucks? Wait! There’s more!
You have to go to the doctor A LOT. They test you for everything, which was not a good match for my new-found hormonal-induced paranoia. Every week I lived in fear, fear that I had HPV, cervical cancer or a baby so genetically fucked that I might have to abort her. “What if I’m HIV+?” I said endlessly after receiving my first-ever HIV test. Jim would just roll his eyes at me and I would be mad at him for doubting the mere possibility of my HIV+ status.
Despite all my hatred of going to the doctor’s office, I did eventually become accustomed to trekking my ass in there every few weeks. But just when you think that all the testing has finally come to an end, and that your last month of appointments will only be about how horrible labor and delivery will be, they throw the fisting at you.
Let me explain. After every check-up, when making my next appointment, I would always request the rundown of what I could expect at the next visit. Basically I just wanted to know if someone would be looking at my naked vagina. I needed a week of stressing out to prepare for a vagina showing.
But more importantly, I needed to bring my vagina refreshing kit, basically a Ziploc bag of baby powder and rosewater spray, which I would employ after peeing in my cup. Years of douche commercials have scarred me for life when it comes to owning a smelly vagina. It is my life’s goal to never be embarrassed by vagina odor.
In fact, one of my proudest moments ever was testing negative for Group B staph bacteria on my anus/vagina opening. Over 75 percent of pregnant women test positive for this. I was one of the elite few clean pregnant anuses in the world.
So the nurse rattled off the list of all the various poking and prodding I was to expect at my next exam.
“Blah blah blah blah and then the doctor will also be checking your cervix.”
“Excuse me?” I said.
“She’ll be checking your cervix.” I put two and two together fast.
“She’s gonna fist me?” I said loudly, and if I’m being honest, intentionally, for comic effect. I was sort of the funny patient, so I felt obligated to keep the hilarity rolling at all times.
Jim shook his head in shame. I just glared at him. The nurses think I’m hilarious, Jim. I laughed and laughed as I exited, but inside I was an emotional wreck. It’s hard being the sad clown!
In my defense, my only knowledge of fisting was a friend’s story about how she caught gonorrhea after a particularly rambunctious fisting session. But what are you going to do? Apparently they haven’t come up with a more high-tech way to check how ripe and spongy your cervix is.
Fun Fact: your cervical dilation is measured in fingers, like an old-timey drink pour! So, yeah I got fisted, many, many times in fact. Let me just add that there’s nothing more humbling than apologizing to a woman with her forearm inside of you for gushing what seems like a gallon of amniotic fluid all over her.
So no, pregnancy is not for me. But getting a lovable babe at the end of it all makes the fisting, the acid reflux and the mainline snaking bills all worth it. In fact, it is so worth it that I am currently suffering through it all over again and let me just say -- it ain’t easier the second time around!
In addition to getting a new baby, I am also getting a new addition to the ‘Things I hate about pregnancy’ list: pregnancy-related skin tags! So while you’ve probably been enjoying a nice day of non-pregnancy-related activity, I’ve spent my day online, researching home-remedies for removing all my newly formed skin tags.
I’ve narrowed it down to either burning them off with oregano oil or cutting off their circulation with dental floss until they die and fall off. For some reason, either of these options are preferable to letting another living human being have a gander at them, even if that person is a medical professional. It’s almost cute that I still I have any modesty left at all.