Baby Bumps: From Party Girl to Proud Mama, and all the Messy Milestones Along the Way
Page 5
During the second trimester, the female’s sex drive decreases rapidly. When I started showing in the sixth month, desire turned off. I went from massively turned on to completely switched off. It didn’t have anything to do with Jionni’s behavior or sex appeal. He was the same damn handsome Italian stallion he always had been. But he’d come at me with his junk, and I’d slap it away, screaming, “Get that thing away from me!” and then run for the bathroom. My stomach was constantly queasy. Sex only churned up my sick stomach. I was exhausted, in pain, and inflated with gas, fetus, and fluid. The last thing I needed was something else shoved in me. As my belly grew, it felt like my vagina shrank. There wasn’t any room to maneuver in there. Sex got really uncomfortable. The only position that didn’t feel like being impaled on a stake was side-by-side—spooning position, aka, what old people do when they’ve been married for twenty years and are too bored and lazy to get on top of each other. Spooning is sweet, I guess. It’s cozy. But it is so not hot!
Unfortunately, the male’s sex drive increases. I’d always wanted big JWOWW boobies, and when I hit the second trimester, I got them. Before my pregnancy, I always had swollen, sore breasts before my period. Welp, pregnancy boobs put period boobs to shame. They ached. When I bumped into something, I’d groan and almost pass out. As painful as they were, they did look ripe and bountiful. I understood why men were fascinated by ginormous breasts just by looking at myself in the mirror. Jionni loved them. He grabbed for them every chance he got. I had to boob block him. “You can look all you want, but don’t touch!” I yelled. Seriously, the tiniest contact sent a shock of pain through my entire system. I couldn’t get comfortable, especially when I needed my beauty rest. Lying on my stomach, they squished. Lying on my side, they squeezed. Lying on my back, sploosh. Bras pressed against the soreness. I tried free-boobing it with layers of clothes to keep them somewhat penned in. That made Jionni want me even more.
By the third trimester, the female would rather chew off her own limb than have sex. I would have loved to be like this one pregnant girl who told me smushin’ with a cushion was amazing. But I cringed whenever Jionni raised his eyebrows at me. Never thought I’d hate smutting with my man. I did put on a brave face and try to do it a few times toward the end. I would feel okay for about one minute, but then I’d ice over in pain. I would tell him to hurry up and pray it was over quickly. I just didn’t feel sexy. Jionni assured me, “You’re beautiful. You’re as sexy to me now as you always were.” My pregnancy paranoia took over, though, and I worried he was lying to me.
We both knew my body changes were temporary. My attitude was, “Let’s just wait to have sex until I feel sexy and not like I’m about to explode placenta all over the room. Sex hurts. I’m enormous. I don’t want to disappoint you, or turn you off, or get impaled, or have bad associations with being pregnant since I want to do it again three more times. Plus, I have to go pee/poop/fart/eat right now. So let’s put your penis away for the next three months.”
Here’s Jionni
Pregnancy sex? Did we have pregnancy sex? Maybe that one time.
We had a long dry spell. Her attitude was, “Let’s not.” And my attitude was, “Let’s go.”
Honestly, I wasn’t turned off at all. I didn’t care what Nicole looked like. To me, she was the same woman I fell in love with and wanted to marry. My attraction didn’t change because her body did. She thought that. I never did. She’s my fiancée. She’s carrying my child. That attracted me to her. Her boobs were a few sizes bigger. That was definitely a plus.
But if she didn’t want to, I wasn’t going to push. I was a good sport about it. It was all about Nicole. I really understood. I wasn’t happy! But I understood.
He did tell me I was just as beautiful to him as ever, even thirty pounds heavier. But we argued about it. He got sick of telling me that I was still sexy. But I couldn’t get enough of hearing it. I was a needy bitch. Any small slight turned into a major fight in a matter of seconds, thanks to hormones.
On top of all that tension, we had a semi-long distance relationship. In March, I was in Jersey City filming Snooki & JWOWW. In June and July, I was in Seaside Heights to film Jersey Shore season six. Jionni was back in North Jersey. He came to visit me as often as possible. But we got a bit out of sync with each other. When we were apart, I worried he was looking at and talking to other women. When we were together, I was grouchy and whining.
By the end of pregnancy, the couple shelves sex completely, except for the occasional pity handjob. As a devoted fiancée, there was nothing I wouldn’t do for my man (for five minutes). One bit of advice for future dads: Be happy with whatever bones your pregnant girl throws you. Otherwise, take a shower, lather up, and have fun.
Sexually, we got through the pregnancy intact. Even acutely frustrated, Jionni was there for me when I needed him. I was nervous that he’d stopped feeling attracted to me. Not his fault! He did everything right to make me feel appreciated and adored despite the fact that he wasn’t getting within ten feet of me. For a few months there, we were just friends. No, not “just” friends. Best friends, without benefits.
Of course, we did get the biggest benefit in the end. The baby benefit.
Chapter 6
Swinger
Women talk about the pregnancy brain that turns you stupid and forgetful. Mine turned me into a raving maniac. Tears would shoot out of my eyes. My anger would make veins pop on my neck. I was a certified psychopath during my pregnancy. If I wasn’t eating, gagging, or propelling myself around the room by ass gas, I was complaining, crying, yelling, or sulking. The crankiness was a surprise. I was so happy about being pregnant, I didn’t realize the hormones would take over my brain and make me hate the world. I’d be hyper and happy one minute, and then I’d attack Jionni like a banshee with a machete if he disagreed with me. Or I’d go from sad and crying, to eyes bugging out of my skull in anger, to whimpering for a hug. I was carrying a baby and had turned into an infant . . . or a psycho bitch in need of medication. I wasn’t the most emotionally stable person before, but during pregnancy, all restraint was gone.
Here’s Jionni
In the early stages, Nicole wasn’t so bad. At the end, though, she got needy. She was really milking the pregnancy. I was her slave 24/7. Whatever she wanted to eat, I had to get. Whatever she asked, I would do. I would agree with anything she said. Her farts didn’t smell, either. If she got tired or her feet ached, It was my fault. I just didn’t argue with her. She was pregnant with our child. It was the least I could do to make her comfortable and be wrong. Being right calmed her—for a few minutes. I didn’t let her swings phase me at all. I was committed to doing the best I could for her, even if that meant getting yelled at. I had sympathy for what she was going through. I just had to stick it out until she returned to normal.
After nine months of sobbing and screaming, I’m amazed Jionni still wants to marry me. I have to give my fiancé props. He dealt with my tantrums like a Sensei. It took that much patience to handle me. I wanted to murder him at least once a day. No reason. Just . . . because I was tired and queasy. Hormones took my emotions hostage. I had no control over how I reacted. I’d never been good at editing my feelings, so it all just came out like a machine gun blast. Jionni was the innocent bystander, in the wrong place at the wrong time.
Here’s a typical conversation from around month seven.
Jionni: “What should we have for dinner?”
Nicole: “Why are you always asking me questions? Stop pressuring me!”
Jionni: “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you.”
Nicole (crying): “I’m an asshole. I don’t know why you put up with me. I don’t deserve you.”
Jionni (coming toward Nicole to hug her): “No problem. It’s all this hormonal shit and . . .”
Nicole: “What are you saying? My feelings aren’t real? Fuck you! You don’t know what I’m going through!”
Jionni: “Nicole, you’re acting like a crazy person.”
The worst part about being a swinger was the whiplash. My emotions would turn my head around so fast, I looked (and acted) like the girl in The Exorcist. I wrote down in my pink journal, “Be nice to Jionni! Look what he has to deal with!” The more I tried to rein it in, the more out of control I felt. I wasn’t just Pregnancy Bipolar, with being up and being down. I was Tripolar or Quadpolar. Up, down, sideways, backwards, diagonal. I couldn’t predict where my emotions would go, how they’d change, how quickly I’d go berserk.
One day, Jionni could joke around with me and call me an idiot. I’d laugh and feel so much love for my man that I’d cry for joy. The same exact scenario could take the place the next day, and I’d explode like a volcano, spewing angry lava, leaving nothing but scorched earth behind me. After a couple of incidents like that, Jionni was scared to talk to me at all.
Whenever we discussed the baby, my emotions were on a roller coaster. Sometimes, I’d feel unbearably excited to meet Lorenzo. Other times, I’d be speechless with terror about what kind of mother I’d be. Then I’d feel bottomless sadness for no reason at all. I cried once a day from month four until the end. At one point, I was having lunch with a friend and went from laughing my butt off, to weeping into my plate.
“People are staring,” she said self-consciously, glancing around the restaurant.
Yeah, you don’t want to be seen in the company of a weepy pregnant lady. Other people will think you are a total bitch for making her cry.
“Who cares if they stare?!!” I yelled. “Sorry to make you feel uncomfortable. I wouldn’t want you to get upset or anything.”
She just shook her head at me with pity. “Nicole, I think you’re having a legit mental breakdown.”
I have a long history with mini-meltdowns. Every month, during PMS, I feel super sensitive and act like a lunatic. My week of being an unpredictable bitch is, in its way, predictable for my friends and family. At the first psycho sign, they know to back away, slowly, with their hands up.
Well, pregnancy was “that time of the month” every day for nine months. And that’s if you don’t have postpartum depression, which I’ve heard is like the ninth circle of Hell. That’s serious shit, and needs medication. So-called “normal” hormonal breakdowns like mine just had to be endured.
Jionni got used to me saying “I’m sorry!”, “Don’t hate me,” and “I didn’t mean it!” If I wasn’t crying or yelling, I was apologizing for the horrible things I said. Words would fly out of my mouth before I could stop them—especially if there was any implication I was fat. If Jionni said, “Still hungry?” I’d freak out.
“Are you saying I’m fat?” I’d scream.
“No! I’m . . . I just . . . can I go watch TV upstairs?”
“Oh, God, I’m so sorry! Say you forgive me!”
He’d sigh and say, “I forgive you. But . . . can I still go upstairs?”
I wish I could blame my shaky emotions solely on hormones. But they were triggered by a few different factors, like frustration with my body changes.
I’d read that after the halfway mark, things were supposed to get better before they got a lot worse. You were showing, so people didn’t think you were just gigantic. You weren’t so huge that you couldn’t fit through a store aisle. Morning sickness eased up. During the sixth and seventh month, you were supposed to feel more energy and less exhaustion. That was the myth anyway.
For me, big surprise, the second half of pregnancy just increased all the lousy symptoms. I started to think I wasn’t ever going to get a break. My stress doubled down when we started filming Season Six of Jersey Shore in Seaside Heights.
I didn’t put on a swimsuit or go near the ocean — or a hot tub — for the entire six weeks of filming. I was sure some of the water, bacteria, chemicals, or slut-borne spirochetes would get inside me and deform my baby. That thought alone made me a wreck. I became convinced that just being in the shore house with my roomies was dangerous for the baby. The place was filthy with food left out all over the place, bugs, dogs, dog shit, and about fifteen different kinds of mold and germs. I should have worn a surgical mask just to walk in the door. People don’t necessarily classify paranoia as a “mood,” but my mind swung in that direction constantly during the summer. I was so afraid of something going wrong, I played it super safe. I moved out of the house and into a bungalow next door where I could sleep and stay clean.
That made me feel safer. But I was still pretty miserable about all the limitations. I was just round. I moved at half my normal speed, like a sea mammal flopping awkwardly on land. Every day, I lived in fear someone would see me on the boardwalk and report a manatee sighting.
And I was sober. It was like Cancun all over again, times seven. Being in Seaside for the previous four summers had been all about boozing and partying. We’d drink and dance every night. But being pregnant, I couldn’t be around alcohol. My roomies were supportive and they understood. But watching them drink made me crave alcohol. Shots of OJ and pineapple juice weren’t as fun as Jäger and Patrón. I started to really miss what I couldn’t have. The closer I got to giving birth, the harder it was to stick to the rules. I did, of course. But man, did I want a drink!
Although there was no chance I’d give into temptation, I thought, Why test myself? That meant avoiding my friends, which made me feel isolated. They were still doing what we always did—swilling tequila, getting in fights, hooking up, making fools of themselves. You know, fun. But I couldn’t join in. They were NC-17, and I was G-rated. I tried to get in on the action with them, but it felt wrong. A pregnant woman shouldn’t go clubbing. She shouldn’t crawl home at dawn, or throw punches, or brush her teeth with vodka and pizza. She should put her swollen feet up, eat lots of hydrating watermelon, and take naps. So that’s what I did.
Sure, I missed being in the shore house, and doing shore things. But then again, I was glad not to have to get involved in all the craziness, the hangovers, the drama. Pregnancy does make a woman single-minded, even when she’s going a million emotions a minute. My entire life had been reduced to one thing: all pregnancy, all the time. I don’t blame my roomies for giving me a wide berth— not only because I took up the whole sidewalk.
I was worried they were avoiding me, or bored with me. But it wasn’t true. In the end, they threw me a baby shower, brought Jionni into the circle, and made me feel loved and supported. When I did manage to connect with my friends—like when I brought Sammi and Deena to my sonogram and when Jenni and I visited the doctor after she hurt her foot at the club—I felt really happy. But then—whiplash—I’d get sad and sulky. It wasn’t only the final season of Jersey Shore. For me, it was also the end of an era of my life, and the beginning of a new, foreign, unknown one that scared the shit out of me.
The only thing that I could rely on to always make me feel better? A long, hard fart.
You basically have to give yourself over to being completely out of control. As soon as you stop trying to steer the swings, you can relax and enjoy being a psycho bitch. It helped me to see the positive side of it. I could scream and cry and punch, and people would forgive me. Being pregnant does let you get away with horrible behavior—with good reason, since you didn’t do it on purpose. The victims of your swings see you as an innocent, helpless creature that might snap and whine, but she’s so cute, you get over it.
Chapter 7
She’s Always Right
This is Jionni, Nicole’s fiancé, aka the Impregnator. Nicole wanted me to write a chapter in the middle of the book for all the guys who have to deal with their pregnant girlfriends and wives. If I had one rule that ruled them all, it was, “She’s always right.” As long as I kept that in mind, I could talk to Nicole and get through some tense hours, even a whole day, with my nuts attached. If you can make that your mantra—“she�
�s always right . . . she’s always right . . .”—nine months of pregnancy won’t feel like a decade.
I made a list of other things to constantly remind myself about Nicole during this time. Dads: copy these pages and hang them on the wall. Read them every day.
♦ Mood swings are coming, whether you expect them or not.
♦ No matter how nice and soft you talk to her, you’ll always have an attitude.
♦ Her fuse is short! She gets mad faster. Learn to duck if she throws a phone at you.
♦ If it smells like a fart, 99 percent of the time, it was hers.
♦ Do NOT blame her for the fart smell.
♦ No matter how wrong she is, tell her she’s right.
♦ No matter how wrong she says you are, don’t get mad.
♦ She will say rude and hurtful things, but she doesn’t really mean it.
♦ If you say rude and hurtful things to her, you are in deep shit.
♦ She is the mother of your child. Always care, always be there.
♦ Try to make her smile. Try again. Try harder.
♦ You will gain weight, because you’ll eat when she does. And she eats a lot.
♦ Do NOT point out how much she’s eating.
♦ Fights happen. She might apologize a dozen times, or she’ll refuse to apologize at all. Either way, bite your lip and do what you can to cheer her up.
♦ Every look you give her is nasty. Every comment is rude. You’re a jerkoff. When she points this out, agree with her.
♦ Whenever you get frustrated, remember it’s temporary. Suck it up.
♦ Having a baby is not an accident or mistake. It’s a blessing.
♦ Make sure your girl knows how much you love her and the baby, and that you’ll be at her side until the end.
♦ If she runs to the bathroom and turns on the water, do NOT go near there.