Blog It Out, Bitch

by Perez, Nina

  "Donny."

  "What?"

  "We're having a baby!"

  "I know."

  Silence.

  "Nina."

  "What?"

  "We're having a baby!"

  "I know!"

  Then we giggle like fools. Then we start making plans for turning the guest bedroom into the nursery and the bonus room into a guest bedroom/rec room. I'd love to install a chair rail in the nursery and paint the top half a light green and the bottom half a khaki color. I think it's a nice gender neutral look. Donny is looking forward to buying a rocking chair to sit by the window. You guys have to see him, he's SO excited.

  I prefer to not know the sex of the baby until it's born, but Donny wants to find out as soon as we can. When I told this to my friend David he said, "Why? Tell him it can only be one of two things. It's not like there are five possibilities." But Donny is just really excited. We're considering letting Donny find out while I, and Kali, remain in the dark, but I'm sure he'll slip up and tell me somehow.

  Because we have a ways to go, I purposely avoid websites with cribs, strollers, and such. Although I'm dying to hit up Pottery Barn Kids. You guys know I have zero self control so my ass will probably be window cyber shopping there as soon as this blog is posted.

  Finally, we've been discussing whether or not to share every baby name we consider with family and friends. Let me fill you in on a little secret: Expectant parents don't really want your opinion on their possible baby names... unless you like them. If you don't, then we expect you to lie and say you do or shut the fuck up. It's like people actually forget that this is someone's child we're talking about and say the rudest shit. So, to preserve this nice little relationship we got going on I may or may not share the names we are seriously considering because I cannot be held responsible for the raging hormones induced cussin' out I give any of you that diss my baby's name. I'm just sayin'.

  Baby Like

  December 27, 2007

  I will not gross you out with tales of constant morning sickness. I will not. At least not in this blog. I will; however, tell you all about how my body has been completely taken over by something the size of a raspberry.

  I no longer look to my vagina for sexual pleasure. It is simply the place from which I pee... a lot, and the baby delivery chute. My boobs? Milk jugs. And I only eat what the baby likes. Ask my friend Emily. She could be heard asking, "Did the baby like?" after lunch on Saturday.

  "The baby liked the rice pilaf. The broccoli smothered in garlic? Not so much. What the baby really likes is his sister's french fries in ketchup."

  "Hey!" That from Kali as I reached across the table and snatched a few. Apparently the baby really likes ketchup-covered french fries, which is unfortunate since I don't like ketchup on my fries. Go figure. What else does baby like?

  Baby Likes

  Joey Bag of Donuts Steak Burrito in a bowl from Moe's Southwest Grill

  Ginger Ale

  Buttered toast

  Buttered toast with jelly

  Yoplait Strawberry Banana Yogurt

  Multi-Grain Cheerios

  Candy Canes

  French Fries

  Scrambled Egg Whites

  Baby No Like

  Everything else with a special aversion to orange Juice

  The baby used to really like buttered cinnamon raisin bagels... until it decided it didn't... mid-chew. It wasn't pretty, people. The baby has also decided that it doesn't like the aroma of anything.

  Baby also dictates how I spend my time. Baby doesn't like riding in a car. We went to my Dad's house Christmas Eve, slept over, and opened all our presents there. He drove us home Christmas night. Sweet mother of God. I immediately hopped out the car, ran into the house, threw up, and went to sleep. The baby doesn't like the winding back roads between here and Grandpa's house. At all. Either that or it doesn't like Grandpa's driving.

  Baby likes playing Rock Band. Baby will let Mommy belt out songs for at least an hour before he decides, "Alright, enough of this shit, lady. Go lie down." And if I try to squeeze in one more song say, Soundgarden's Black Hole Sun or Hole's Celebrity Skin, I am hit with a wave of nausea so severe I barely have time to toss Kali the mic before I go running upstairs.

  Speaking of Kali, she has taken to saying in a very matter of fact-duh-how dumb can you be voice, "Because you have a baby in your belly!" whenever I say anything like, "I don't feel well." The other night she rubbed my back and cooed, "It will be okay, Mommy." Then, "I can't believe you want to have three kids. You're just going to feel like this again, you know." Good point, kid. Good point.

  Anyway, I discovered that the baby really likes music. I feel less icky when I'm just lying in bed, reading a book and listening to Rhapsody via my TiVo. God bless this feature and what I'm going to do in 28 days when the 30-day trial runs out is beyond me. It's like having Tower Records (or Virgin Megastore if you prefer) in my bedroom. If I feel like hearing it, I just search for it and bam, there it is! The baby even allows me to... dance (gasp!) around the bedroom, but only momentarily.

  Baby Likes

  Marvin Gaye

  Stevie Wonder (we're listening to "Do I Do" right now)

  The Beatles

  Elvis

  The Police

  Prince

  Oasis' Fuckin' in the Bushes and Go Let it Out

  Santana's Black Magic Woman and Oye Como Va

  and very early Madonna

  Oh, and I can't front... the baby likes the Evita soundtrack. Don't judge me or my baby!

  We're about to find out how the baby feels about early Michael Jackson. I'm talking, Don't Stop Till You Get Enough Michael. Since Donny has just left for work it's safe to tell the baby how Mommy just knew Michael was going to be his Daddy when she saw that video for the first time.

  The Ugly Truth – Part One

  January 6, 2008

  Every time you do something the experience is unique. Even the things you do all the time. Things you've done millions, thousands, hundreds, and dozens of time. Brushing your teeth, having sex, driving to work every day. Each time, the experience is different than any other time - sometimes slightly, sometimes drastically. We all know this. But for some reason I was totally unprepared for the possibility that this pregnancy would be different than my first.

  When I first realized I was pregnant just three weeks ago, yet it feels a lot longer, my emotions went as follows:

  1. Shock

  2. Fear

  3. Happy

  Shock: I don't buy it whenever I hear someone say, "We didn't mean to get pregnant." Or, "It was an accident." That's because I grew up with a mother who was fond of telling my brother, sisters, and I, "Don't bring no babies in here." And, "I ain't raising no babies but my own." And you know how, though rare, it is possible for a woman to get pregnant if she has unprotected sex during her period? Well, my mother used that little nugget in her arsenal of fear to ensure that we understood that sex meant possibility of babies. And bringing babies home before we were on our own was a no-no.

  And since no form of birth control is 100 percent (except abstinence) I was always convinced that I'd be that .1 percent to get knocked up while on my period, and using a condom, while on the pill, with a guy who had a vasectomy. That could have everything to do with the fact that my mother put the fear of conception into my head or with the fact that I have this over-inflated ego and truly believe that I'm more special, unique, different, etc., than everyone else. Either or.

  When Donny and I decided a few years ago that we were going to start trying for another baby I really thought I'd get pregnant like that. (Insert finger snap here.) After two months of trying I was convinced something was wrong. I began charting my ovulation on a spreadsheet I'd devised. Boxes that indicated days when I had my period were shaded in bright red. Days when I was supposed to be ovulating were green. Days when Donny and I had sex were marked with a check mark. I was serious. Each morning, as soon as the alarm went off, I'd reach into the
bedside table for my basal thermometer and stick it in my vagina to get my internal temperature. That number determined where each day's box went on the spreadsheet. I'm telling you, I was serious and after about a year, nothing. Then I got laid off, went back to school, blah, blah, blah.

  I wasn't shocked to be pregnant because I didn't understand how it happened. Like I said, my whole life I just assumed that any time a penis entered my vagina I could get pregnant. It was more like when. For the first week, Donny and I would just shake our heads and go, "Did we even have sex in November?" We vaguely remembered having sex maybe twice. But as we know, it only takes once. When Emily expressed her fear of sitting on my bed because she didn't want to catch "baby-making cooties," I told her she was more likely to leave my house and go purchase a flat-screen TV and an Xbox 360 after sitting on my bed. In early November we'd purchased the flat-screen for the bedroom and moved our Xbox there as well. There was more Halo-playing going on than baby making... or so we thought.

  Fear: Never mind the fact that I'd already done it. You'd have to be a blazing fool not to feel an overwhelming wave of fear at the thought of pushing out seven to nine pounds of flesh, bones, blood, muscle, and hair from your vagina. Then, being responsible for the overall well-being of (yet) another human being.

  Happy: The thought of experiencing all the joys of watching my baby grow, learn, talk, laugh, and just exist, with my husband, was just too good to be true. And not just any husband. Hands down, the best husband ever.

  Then, on Christmas Day, everything went to shit.

  The Ugly Truth – Part Two

  January 7, 2008

  You can't be a Mom and be a punkass bitch or a bitchass punk. Whichever you prefer.

  So, what I'm about to share with you today I haven't told ANYONE. Except Donny and my sister, Christine. And even with Christine I didn't get too in depth.

  We found out I was pregnant on December 16th and from that day till Christmas Day I was the typical pregnant gal. I was happy, I was excited, I was wondering if it was going to be a girl or a boy, what we'd name it, what he'd look like, I was excited about finally being able to convert the guest bedroom into a nursery, etc., etc., etc.

  We spent Christmas Eve at my parent's house. We hauled all of our presents over there and spent the night. Now, I'm one of those people that find it hard to sleep on Christmas Eve anyway. I wake up several times during the night disappointed to see the sun still isn't up and then I finally can't take it anymore, and around 6 am I'm waking up Kali and Donny to go open presents. This night was worse. I woke up no less than twelve times each time feeling sick, uncomfortable, and hot.

  Finally, around 5am I was awakened by an ongoing commercial for a Girls Gone Wild video featuring ex-Real World castmates. Um, what the fuck is wrong with these people? These were like castmates from 10 years ago. They're in their 30's. They have nothing better to do than to go out and try to get young white girls to show their tits and make out with each other? What did they want for their lives before they went on a reality show? Get a fucking job, people. And what's up with those girls? Are there really that many white girls in college with Daddy issues? Let's assume they all graduate - they're supposed to be the next leaders of industries? Talk about a national crisis. Somebody needs to do an intervention for young white girls in college.

  Anyway, disgusted by both the commercial and my stomach I went downstairs to find my father putting together a race track for my nephew and there was Kali's new bike under the tree in the great room. My sister had taken all of Kali's and my nephew's presents and stacked them around the tree in the foyer. It was a pretty sight. I tried to concentrate on getting into the Christmas spirit while I munched on crackers and ginger ale and chatted with my Dad. But I could feel that something wasn't right.

  We had a typical Christmas day and ended it with a nice roast, baked potato, fresh vegetables, buttered rolls dinner. Because it was a holiday we ate in the formal dining room on the good dishes. After dinner I sat around the table with my sister, stepmother, aunt, cousins, Dad and Donny and we discussed baby stuff. One of my cousins is also pregnant (due in March) and she received a baby name book from my sister for Christmas. She already has a little boy, Vincent, and is expecting another and had wanted to name the new baby a V name as well. After we passed the book around the table we realized there are no other good boy V names.

  We shared our name choices for both boy and girl. They were met with a lukewarm reception. Everyone loves our middle name for a boy. First name? Not so much. They'll get over it. I'm not sharing it here because on top of everything else I don't want to have to cuss any of you out. In fact, I may do like some other bloggers and just refer to him/her by some nickname or initials.

  It was time to go home and my Dad and Donny loaded up my Dad's SUV with all our crap and off we went. That is when shit officially hit the fan. The ride from my Dad's house to ours is about 35 minutes taking back roads. These roads twist and turn like a motherfucker. I spent the whole ride in the backseat trying not to throw up. My Dad has this TV/DVD player installed in the roof and Kali was watching Madagascar. At one point she said, "Mommy, look at this part. It's funny." I did and wished I hadn't. It just made me dizzier. I spent the rest of the ride with my forehead pressed against the window because it was blessedly cold.

  When we pulled into our driveway I didn't even attempt to help bring the stuff in the house. I hugged my Dad, wished him a Merry Christmas, thanked him for the ride and went upstairs to throw up. Then I stripped out of my clothes and fell asleep. It was around 9pm. From that night forward I threw up everything I ate or drank for the next four days. EVERY. SINGLE. THING.

  There was one day in there that I got a migraine. Donny had put his PDA in my face to show me something. I looked up at it for about three seconds and boom... instant migraine. That was not fun. I think that was Thursday, Dec. 27th. The days from Christmas to New Years are kind of a blur. There was a lot of vomiting. A lot of praying for death. A lot of misery. Donny would come home every day and run me a bath, turn out the lights in the master bathroom, light candles and help me into the tub. Then he'd proceed to bathe me. Bathe me because I was too weak to bathe myself. At one point he actually got into the tub with me to do so.

  "I look and feel ridiculous."

  "You're having my baby."

  At just like that I realized I hadn't thought about the baby or being pregnant in days.

  Here comes Ugly Truth Number One: Friday, Dec. 28th I hit rock bottom. I told Donny, "This baby hates me." I thought I was being funny and cute. I thought it was a clever way to sum up that the first trimester was kicking my ass. A friend later joked, "It's because he knows that deep down you resent him for making you sick. It's a vicious cycle kinda thing."

  At first I laughed. Then I really thought about it. Did I resent this baby? The answer was yeah, I kinda did. This isn't what I wanted. This is what I wanted: I want a sibling for Kali. I want a son for Donny. I want a family of four. I want another child in my life. I want to breastfeed again and experience that wonderful feeling you get when you are nursing your baby and they place their tiny hand on your breast, and you can hear them breathing through their nose and swallowing. I want to stand over my baby's crib and watch him sleep on his back and smile, and wonder, "What are you smiling about?!" Watching newborns sleep and dream always amazed me. Their frames of reference are so damn small. They've only been alive like, a month, and they're smiling in their sleep? Their vision is still cloudy those first few weeks. What mental pictures could they have possibly amassed to cause them to smile in their dreams? I want to watch my baby learn to crawl. You know, when they realize they can hold themselves up on all fours and do that rocking thing back and forth with their little diapered butts in the air. Too. Fucking. Cute.

  I want a baby. To be pregnant? Not so much. Then I tried to remember if I felt this way while pregnant with Kali. Nope. Why? 1. I didn't know any fucking better and 2. This pregnancy was starting out a lot rougher. Wh
en you go from little to no morning sickness in your first pregnancy and massive, constant, please-God-make-it-stop morning sickness in your second, you start to re-evaluate some things. You also start to look at this whole motherhood thing a lot differently. Like I said, you can't be a punkass bitch.

  But Friday night, I was this baby's punkass bitch. Donny was sleeping and I was trying to watch The Nanny Diaries. I had to pause it numerous times to go vomit. I realized after awhile that I wasn't even throwing up anymore. I had nothing left in me. I went from throwing up food and beverages to stomach acid. It burned and it was coming through my nose. I was having awful thoughts.

  "Please God, make it stop."

  Then I'd feel guilty. What if I had a miscarriage because God thought I was being ungrateful? Is that what I wanted? No, of course not. But I couldn't take much more of this. I was weak, tired, in pain, miserable, uncomfortable, and sad. So, for the first time in days I referred to my baby.

  "Please God, I love this baby. Thank you for this baby. But, you have to help me. I can't do this."

  Punk. Ass. Bitch.

  Then I stood there over the toilet bowl, bent over, with my hands resting on my knees, trying to catch my breath and praying that the heaving didn't start again. I looked down at my bare legs and thought, "Wow. My legs look great." They did! So I stumbled to the scale and learned I'd lost 6lbs! Six. Fucking. Pounds. In like three days. Then I threw up again.

  Then I got in bed and had Breakdown Number One.

  "Donny. I can't do this. I can't do this."

  I just moaned this over and over again.

  "Yes, you can. It will get better. It's just the first three months."

  "But I'm only 7 weeks! I can't do this for another five weeks. I can't do this. I feel like I'm dying."