I would dream of lying in bed sleeping or resting. Feeling a bit lonely and sad, I would grab a medical tool (which resembled a razor blade and just happened to be nearby) and perform my own C-section. I would pull my baby out and play with him right there in the bed. We would talk and giggle and I would hug and squeeze him. As soon as I would start to feel like this couldn’t possibly be good for him, I would put him back in my belly and sew myself up. I had this dream and performed this delicate operation throughout my pregnancy. Sometimes my baby had no nose or ears and I would sort of freak out, but for the most part I would look forward to the dream. I felt like I was getting to know my son before he even came out into the world.
One time I dreamed of him as an older child . . . like seven years old. I dreamed he came running in the bedroom while I was sleeping and put his little head on the edge of my bed and nudged me. I remember looking at him and smiling, thinking how cute he was and how he looked nothing like me. He was an exact seven-year-old replica of my husband. This always made me wonder: If you dream of a specific face, is that actually what your child will look like? And then I wondered, if the answer is yes, then what about the dreams where I delivered a green slimy cocoon? Who knows? Maybe I am a psychic and was foreseeing all those diaper changes!
Since I’m sharing, let me tell you that the best pregnant dreams are your sex dreams. In mine, when I remembered the details, I was pregnant and gorgeous—all airbrushed like Demi Moore on the cover of Vanity Fair. But even when I didn’t remember the specifics, I’d know I’d had one because I’d wake up in the middle of an orgasm! How’s that for outstanding? Believe me, this does happen, and quite frankly I wish it happened more often. Here’s hoping you get to experience it!
In the meantime, keep a journal of your dreams. You’ll definitely get a kick out of them when you go back and read about them later on.
Is That an Apple on Your Rectum, or Are You Just Happy to See Me?
(Hemorrhoids)
I’d seen the Preparation H commercials and I’d laughed my share of laughs at the actor’s discomfort, but now I realize that hemorrhoids are no laughing matter. These little devils can show up during pregnancy or, as with me, after delivery. When and if they rear their ugly heads in your rear, know that you’re not alone and that your doctor has seen them before. Yes, he has. Even ones as big as yours (we all think we’ve set records, honey, so get over it!).
Given that I’d made it through almost my entire pregnancy without a hemmie, and considering the fact that my little constipation problem (Stonehenge anyone?) had me pushing hard enough to bring them out if they were ever planning on coming out, I thought for sure I was home free. But there was no escaping them. Out they came and out they wanted to stay.
If you’ve never had hemorrhoids before, you’re going to be shocked when you peer around at your ass with a mirror and see the bloated balloon knot that greets you there. See yours for yourself, but let me be the one who describes how they feel.
When you’ve got a hemorrhoid and you go “Number Two,” you’re likely going to get a feeling down there like a sharp pinch. As the poopie comes out, you will think you are passing peanuts. Then as the poo progresses down, you will also think you are passing peanut shells. So I avoided going Number Two until I became so constipated that I was forced to go to the hospital. After I moaned in the emergency room for seven hours, the doctors came to a conclusion: I’m full of shit. I told them about my hemorrhoids, and they prescribed a stool softener.
If you are unfortunate enough to experience these painful little buggers, ask your doc for some stool softeners (but remember not to go to a specialist unless you absolutely have to). It will make those peanuts feel more like peanut butter. Wow—I can’t believe I just said that!
Hi, Porn Star!
(Engorged Breasts)
If you’ve never had breasts before (as in boobs that need a bra), or even if you’ve already got quite a rack, watch out and get ready, because whoppers are on their way!
You probably noticed that your breasts became very sore the moment you found out you were pregnant. It’s true what the books say: The soreness will eventually go away. But be forewarned: The sprawling balloons where your manageable boobs used to be will continue to enlarge.
My breasts became so out-of-control huge and heavy that I actually weighed them. I have a food scale, and I just had to know how they’d compare to a meal, so I plopped a breast up on the little metal tray. Each breast: five pounds. That’s ten pounds of breast. Think of that in terms of chicken and you’ll quickly see that your breasts could feed a family of eight or ten people! Though there are guys in this world who might disagree, to me that’s totally insane! I guess the bright side is that I would rather have ten pounds go to my chest than to my ass.
Not only did my boobs get enormous, but they got that way very quickly. By the end of the second month of pregnancy, I was already out buying new bras. I needed major support to hold up these new bowling balls. But I refused to buy a maternity bra because they looked like they were for Grandma’s big boobs (it wasn’t until a little later that I gave in and went for coverage of Granny’s big ass; recall page 23). So I went to the department store and tried on a 36D. Unfortunately, at that size, they ALL look like Grandma bras. Without an option, I bit the bullet, bought my big ugly bras, and wore them day and night. Yes, I said night, too. I noticed that wearing them when I slept really kept my boobs from sliding around and hanging off the sides of the mattress.
A few months later I was once again shocked as I attempted to put my big, ugly bra on one morning. And it wouldn’t fit. My boobs were at it again. Unbelievable. I just couldn’t believe my eyes. And then I noticed that not only had my boobs grown but my areolas had turned into National Geographic nipples. (You know, those Ubangi tribe women with nipples as big as dinner plates.) And to top it all off they had turned dark brown. Prepregnancy, my areolas were cute, small, and pink. Now they looked like burned pancakes. I was freakin’.
I didn’t care if my husband was having fun with my new giant boobs. I wasn’t going to let him get a look at this. I was totally embarrassed. As far as I was concerned, what I had for him to play with weren’t play-worthy anymore. I needed help. So where does one go to get understanding, camaraderie, and answers? Well, there’s this book for you. But for me, it was off to the maternity store.
For a place I had wanted no part of, I don’t think I could have run there fast enough. This was my new home, a place where other women walked around with giant brown nipples, too. And there, standing before me, was a giant rack of the ugliest, biggest, and most comfortable-looking bras I had ever seen. A MATERNITY BRA! I just had to try that bitch on so fast that I didn’t even bother to close the dressing room door. Ah, comfort beyond belief. Take it from me and don’t hold out for style. Don’t wait long to join the team. Surrender to the maternity bra and your world will be transformed.
If I scared you at all about how big your boobs are going to get while pregnant, then you’re in deep shit because compared to milk-filled boobs, you ain’t seen nothin’ yet!!
When your milk comes in, you and Pamela Anderson can share bras. True enough. There aren’t enough words that can accurately describe what happens. “Hi, Porn Star!” is just the beginning.
Here’s how it goes down: As if your body hasn’t been through enough already, a few days after delivery, your breasts are going to start getting sore. When I told my mom that mine were sore, I saw a little panic in her eyes. She obviously knew what I was about to go through. I kept reassuring her it was all okay. I’d been through the worst of it with breast surgery before, and I really thought I could “do” boob pain.
Fast forward to . . . (crying) “MOM, I NEED HELP! I can’t take the pain, I’m either going to die or cut off my breasts.” It’s crazy how badly they hurt, and I was already on painkillers so I couldn’t even imagine what they would feel like sober. When I tell you that I walked over to the mirror and lifted my shirt and sobbed ridi
culously, you have to believe me. Now for all those breast feeders out there, I hear that feeding your baby can immediately relieve this pain and engorgement. But they will engorge uncomfortably before each feeding until you’re into a routine. I was not breast feeding, so I had to fight it and let them dry up. They were so swollen that the top part of my boobs were hitting my collarbone and the bottom half touched my belly button (only a slight exaggeration, I promise you).
If, like me, you aren’t going to breast-feed, you’re going to go through the wringer like me, too. I don’t want to scare you, but in some respects, I have to say that this boob thing was more baffling to me than delivery. It all happens so fast (the engorgement, that is, not the relief) and there’s not much you can do.
Some people told me to ice my mams, but the only thing I could find that would fit were two huge bags of frozen vegetables (we’re talking commercial-sized bags, here), and they melted too quickly. Another person suggested I wrap my boobs in cabbage leaves. I don’t know about you, but even if this old wives’ tale really works, I wasn’t up to the challenge. About all I can suggest that I know works is to bind your breasts up (think Hillary Swank in Boys Don’t Cry and Gwyneth Paltrow in Shakespeare in Love). I used a long scarf and didn’t take it off my chest for days. Just taking it off for a shower was excruciating. Any little movement was agony. So much to look forward to, eh?
Ready and Squeeze . . . Your Kegels
(An Exercise for the Vagina)
Throughout your pregnancy you’re going to hear women whining about Kegels. “Are you doing your Kegels?” “Make sure you’re doing your Kegels or you’ll be sorry.” Even women who aren’t pregnant are going to warn you to pay attention to your Kegels. I’m not saying don’t do them. People swear by them. I was just always so annoyed with them. Who really wants to squeeze her vagina in and out all day long? Woman-to-woman advice aside, where’s the scientific proof that Kegels will really do any good? I swear I wouldn’t have done them if the I’ve-had-a-baby-and-so-take-it-from-me sisterhood hadn’t scared me into squeezing.
So let’s say you’ve been scared or pressured into vagina flexing. How do you know you’re doing it right? Obviously, there’s no personal trainer to spot you on this one! If you want to know if you’re doing your Kegels right, give this a try: The next time you’re peeing, stop the flow of urine midstream. The muscles you’re using to do this are your Kegels and they are the ones you should be trying to flex all day. But more than needing to know why this is important to do, don’t you wonder who discovered this magic muscle?
Beyond guessing that it was someone named Kegel, I don’t know the answer to the who, only to the why. Kegels are supposed to improve muscle tone in your wazoo so your post-delivery healing process is a lot faster. That is, after you blow out your vagina in delivery these magical Kegels are supposed to help make it bounce back into shape. Strong Kegels are also supposed to help you regain control of your leaky bladder after delivery.
Even though doing my Kegels annoyed me, my husband kept bugging me to do them because he was scared that the next time we had sex it would feel like he was throwing a hot dog down a hallway. And I believe those were his exact words. So, there I was on the couch watching Friends, squeezing away. And there I was in a supermarket line uncomfortably doing my Kegels thinking everyone knew that my vagina was squeezing in and out. And there I was on the phone talking to my mom, and she’s completely unaware her daughter was doing Kegels. Bizarre.
In the end, I say if it’s really possible to get your vagina “back in shape” after delivery, go ahead and do those Kegels. There’s nothing worse than a big, sloppy vagina. You want to keep that thing pretty as long as you can!
Well, It’s Not 1972 Anymore!
(Baby Boomers Explaining How It Was in Their Day)
God love the baby boom generation. Boomers are really making getting old look good. They’re not going to surrender to a rocking chair. They’re going to keep going to their Weight Watchers meetings and doing their cardio class twice a week. And they’re clearing the path for our generation to have more respect when we get older. More power to them.
All this said, I have to say that there are just too many baby boomers out there, and all of them seem to have advice about how pregnancy should be “done.” Here’s an example: My mom’s a boomer, and her take on pregnancy weight gain just blows my mind. Back when she was preggers the doctors were extremely strict about gaining weight. And if you ask most of these baby boomers what they gained, they’ll tell you about eighteen pounds. And do you want to know the reason why? From my perspective, it’s clear that the reason is that all the doctors were men and wanted to keep the chicks skinny. But it’s also because back then the average woman was nineteen or twenty when she started having babies. Now, as you know, women are having babies in their late twenties, their late thirties, and even into their forties. We’re coming in older and heavier, and we’re packing weight in proportion to our age! Good news: The doctors (lots more of them are women now, too!) and books say gaining twenty-five to thirty-five pounds is normal nowadays.
But I’ve done a little research myself, and I think those books and experts are even a little off. Most women I’ve talked to gained about fifty pounds. Sure, there are annoying exceptions, but I swear most were in the fifty zone. Even my doctor said fifty was pretty normal. Of course, I surpassed this new normal by ten pounds, but you get what I’m saying. Maybe Mother doesn’t always know best, you know?
I remember one day in the gym I was walking on the treadmill and a baby boomer was next to me. She struck up a conversation about my pregnant belly and proceeded to ask me how much weight I’d gained so far. I thought the question took balls, but I didn’t mind sharing. At that point (seven months pregnant), I had gained thirty-five pounds. I told her and she almost fell off the treadmill. Her eyes bugged out and she screeched, “YOU’VE GOT TO BE KIDDING! WELL, YOU BETTER SLOW DOWN THERE, SWEETIE, BECAUSE THAT’S JUST RIDICULOUS.” I couldn’t believe she was going off on me. She continued to explain that back in her day, she only gained eighteen pounds. I couldn’t hold back, I shouted at her, “IT’S NOT 1972 ANYMORE!”
Weight gain is one thing. But then there are the “Well back in our day we had no epidural” women. My feeling here is God bless ya, but don’t even think for one second we are going to go without just because you did. It’s a whole different time; our way of living has dramatically changed. Modern medicine has advanced things, ladies. We love hearing the story of your personal ordeal, but please don’t lecture or make us feel like we’re doing pregnancy wrong just because we’re doing it better (uh, I mean different).
Did a Sewer Tank Explode, or Did You Just Fart?
(Gas)
My poor poor husband. He has always enjoyed the real side of Jenny—after all, he knew something about me before we got together—but I don’t think he ever expected this.
Now, we’ve all eaten something bad and suffered the consequences, especially while driving in a car with the windows rolled up, but a pregnant woman’s farts can truly bring a man to his knees. Things start getting bad in the first trimester. Unfortunately, when you don’t look pregnant (only fat) you don’t get too much sympathy; no one cuts you much slack. But even if you don’t look like you have an excuse, you have no control either. You just kind of have to hope that a sweet little smile and an “oops” will get you off the hook.
The worst time for me and my gas was when we were out in public. I would feel the gas building up, and I’d run to an empty aisle in the store and pray no one decided to come along when I released my poison. Another effective but risky strategy is to do the ol’ walking while you’re farting routine hoping that the stench dissipates as you move. But come on, you know that there will never fail to be some poor bastard who will walk directly into your line of fire.
Obviously, the main reason behind the alluring odor of these precious bursts of air is constipation. If you try to stay away from gassy foods and/or simply not go
rge yourself, you might have an easier time than I did. But either way, I highly suggest carrying a little air freshener spray in your purse. And for the home, invest in some scented candles. Your husband might think you’re trying to be romantic, so just go with it if you can stand it. Remember, he doesn’t need to know that you’re trying to cover the smell of death. And if anything escapes accidentally, at least you’re trying!
Hands Off, Dude!
(Strangers Touching Your Belly)
It would be great if we lived in a world where strangers weren’t so strange. In civilized society, people don’t just come up to you and touch your stomach. If they did, you might have them arrested! So why do people think it’s okay to come up to pregnant women and pet their bellies?
Now, I know most people mean well, but I would imagine that you’ll feel as protective of your belly as I did mine. And as a general rule, I think they should all ASK FIRST, don’t you agree? I remember a couple of times when I was wearing a tank top that showed a bit of my bare belly, and total strangers (once a completely greasy guy) would think that the exposed skin was okay to touch. No, off limits! Back off. The people who touched me are just lucky that I didn’t bite their hands off like a guard dog. Woof! Woof! Stay away.
One particular encounter with an old Jamaican lady gave me the willies on top of making me angry. I was walking down the street and she stopped me, placed her hand on my belly, and began chanting a voodoo-like prayer. I was in such shock that I couldn’t move. Maybe it was wandering mind syndrome (see page 95), but before I had time to kung-foo her, she was already gone. I was so freaked out afterward that I got my ass home and scrubbed my belly, saying my own Catholic prayer.
The one exception to my rule of ASK FIRST was when other pregnant women touched my belly. I think you’ll agree that there is an unspoken camaraderie between all pregnant women and you want to share the moment every time you see each other. There’s that knowing look and smile we give each other as we pass. So I say, if another preggie wants to touch the belly, she can go right ahead. But the door is only open to those of us in the knocked-up club.
Belly Laughs Page 4
