Welcome to my blog. After some encouragement from friends, I've decided to begin publishing some of my thoughts and attitudes regarding my pregnancy. Considering I'm due anyday at this point, I guess it's a good way to pass the time. I'm completely over the whole "nesting" concept. Screw it...let my house look like crap.
This was written in my second trimester of pregnancy.
Doctor: How’s it going?
Me: How is it going? Well, it depends on how you are feeling today. If you are in the ‘I really can’t wait to listen to my patients today’ kind of mood, I’ll tell you. If you are in the ‘The weather’s getting warmer and I can’t wait to hit the links. Patients are such a pain in the ass’ kind of mood, I’ll tell you I’m fine. So which is it, doc?
Doc: (pause…pause) Tell me what’s going on.
Me: Well, sir, I’ll tell you. After lying in bed for eight hours, only four or five of which I was actually sleeping, I run to the bathroom hoping not to leak on the way. Once I’m done, I follow your orders and lie back down in bed to put on clean underwear and slip on my vulva supporter…you know, that sixty dollar not-covered-by-insurance contraption that’s basically a jock strap for women, which was no doubt created by a man because all it really does is chafe my inner thighs. The thing doesn’t prevent the blood flowing to varicosities whatsoever; it just rests there looking like a transvestite’s dream. At least they took the time to put decorative lace on the front so I can tell if it’s inside out or not. Once it’s tightly adjusted, I reach over and slap my husband for laughing and I painstakingly get out of bed. I get dressed, but only after I use the body adhesive glue you suggested to keep my compression stockings from falling down. Did I tell you that when I take them off it’s more painful than getting a Brazilian bikini wax, an act I can’t even imagine doing right now? Think about if you had chest hair removed, sir. I finish getting dressed, then I get my six year old ready for school, drop her off and drive 45 minutes to a job where I’m on my feet all day. With each step, the veins remind me that I’m going to be 40 this year. Not just the veins in the legs…I’m talking about the ones in my vulva. Quite frankly, sir, I feel like I have a pinched nerve in my pussy. Imagine if every step you took, every time you got up from a chair or every time you rolled over in bed, someone grabbed your testicles and twisted them. That’s what it feels like. Oh! And lately, that feeling has been entering the walls of my vagina. Not like, “Oh baby, that’s close to my G-spot,”…no. It’s more like “Holy crap, I want my epidural now!” By noon, my ankles have turned into cankles. I’ve taken off my wedding ring, because my fingers are beginning to swell and I don’t want them chopping it off. Lucky for me, I now get the “Oh, look at her. She’s pregnant and single,” look from strangers at Starbucks. Yes, Starbucks. I’m drinking caffeine. One small latte a day, that’s it. I need to, you see, because caffeine is my only vice left. Usually, I drink wine or masturbate, but with the pinched nerve in my pussy, masturbation is not exactly an option and I’d like to wait until my third trimester before I start kicking back some wine every night. Anyway, after I teach a bunch of 13-year olds all day, I race home to pick up my daughter because my husband just started his second straight season of coaching and he doesn’t get home until 8:30 or so. She and I go over homework, I make an attempt at dinner, and I have to remind her why I can’t chase her outside or play tag or baseball. She says, “Oh yeah…the pain in your poonie”. That’s what we call it. It’s Caribbean and it’s much better than ‘vagina’. Once she’s in bed, I lose some more skin cells by ripping off my stockings. I take off my jock strap and stare in wonder at my newly engorged breasts that are spilling out of my bra. I shower, since I’m not allowed to do it in the morning, per your orders. Oh! I once made the mistake of using my compact mirror to look at my vulva. It looks bruised…it’s no longer rosy pink. It’s purple. I then lie down in bed, stuff a small pillow underneath my lower back and sleep for an hour or two before I wake up to the pinching-pussy because I need to switch positions. Furthermore, every Friday I break into tears because I’m exhausted and quite frankly, sir, if I have to work until the end of June, I’ve estimated that I will have drunk about six bottles of wine, denied my husband sex for ten straight months and sue your ass for causing our divorce. So, that being said, may I please go on bedrest?
I did end up having a very similar conversation with my doc. He laughed to a professional level and our relationship has not been the same since.
No comments:
Post a Comment