There is no doubt that I was overwhelmed when I had McKenna. This was so for a number of reasons: it was an unexpected pregnancy, we were married for just six months (do the math on that one…), I was the first of my closest friends to have a baby so no one was there to offer sound advice, and she was an unhappy, sick baby. My brain was preoccupied by everything relating to babies and being a mom. With Robbie, things are different. I’m enjoying his babyhood much more than I was able to enjoy it with McKenna, also for a number of reasons: he’s our second child, he was very planned (can’t be much more planned than in-vitro), we have been married now for seven years and have overcome our share of differences, I’m probably the last of my group of friends to have a baby so I have plenty of people to turn to when needed, and for the most part, he’s a healthy and happy baby (sans some digestive issues). Not overwhelmed at all.
So when I recently began a series of unfortunate events, I had to wonder if I am once again overwhelmed or if I’m just preoccupied. It was about a week ago when I began to notice a slow transformation of sorts. Nursing Robbie, for example, has brought out the exhibitionist in me. My boobs are exposed constantly, so much so that I forget to close up shop and I’ll walk in front of open windows with my newly engorged porn-star boobs clearly visible to any passersby. I say “boobs” instead of “breasts” simply as a way to put them into a schema that reflects how I feel about them. “Breast” implies fairly firm hand rubbing, flicking of nipples in between fingers and gentle tongue play that leads to stimulation down below. No, that’s definitely not the use for them lately. They’re “boobs”, objects that bring on an animalistic aggression in my son that can lead to blood if not guided correctly by the referee (that would be me). It’s anything but sensual. It’s more like the game Whack-a-mole, except he feverishly tries to attack the nipples before the milk drips down. I’ve become so carefree, in fact, that neighbors have come by and I just sit there, boob exposed, and we have a pleasant conversation. At least that’s my point of view. My neighbors may feel differently about that considering my porn-star boobs are not on a porn-star body.
There have been other small signs that have made me question whether I'm overwhelmed or if I’m preoccupied with mommyhood. I’ve put formula in my coffee instead of my non-dairy creamer. (Luckily, I realized it before I took my first sip, but a definite sign something is amiss.) I’ve had to turn around to go back home because I’ve forgotten to get out of my pajama bottoms and put on real clothes before I’ve left the house. I’ve burned my eggs because I have forgotten I was cooking (okay, that’s not so unusual for me). But I think the real moment of truth came last week when I was getting ready to go to the store.
I couldn’t wait to get out of the house. With Robbie cozy in one arm and a bottle of water tucked in the other, I locked up the house and headed toward my car. The magic doors to my Honda Odyssey popped open and I buckled up Robbie in his car seat. As I pressed the button to close the door and walked around to the driver’s side, I suddenly had a very Eckhart Tolle-living-in-the-now kind of moment. This is it. I am living the American dream. I have a beautiful son, an absolutely amazing daughter, a husband who is loving and caring to everyone, a roof over our heads, two cars, two jobs that are extremely secure, and enough money to buy the necessities that I was about to purchase. I was suddenly overwhelmed. As I’m living this moment, with the deepest feeling of peace running through me, I buckled myself in, turned on the car, and began to back out of the driveway. A jolt and crunching noise abruptly awakened me from what felt like a meditative state. Rob’s car was behind mine and I ran right into it.
Wow…how did I not see that? I jumped out to inspect the damage and except for some swapped paint chips, all was well. I had to laugh at my own idiocy, to the blindness of my own environment, especially since I had to walk in between the cars to put Robbie in. Yes, it was unusual that Rob’s car was parked directly behind mine considering we have a double-wide driveway. But how on earth was I going to explain this one?
When he and McKenna got home from camp, I suddenly felt like I couldn’t admit to another adult my absentmindedness, my carelessness, my recklessness. I didn’t even have time to process the event in my own mind for Robbie began crying immediately after impact. Counting on the presence of McKenna, I turned innocently to my six-year old with my husband watching. “McKenna, I have to tell something to Daddy and I don’t know how he’ll react,” begging her to ask the inevitable “What do you have to tell him?” Being the inquisitive child she is, she did just that. “Well, mommy was backing up her car today and I forgot Daddy parked his car behind mine.” The look on Rob’s face was one of sheer shock as he yelled, “NO, YOU DIDN’T!” I looked at him with a smile and remorseful eyes. Panicked, he ran outside to inspect the damage. McKenna, flustered at his reaction, needed an explanation. “I ran into Daddy’s car today,” I explained. She covered her mouth and giggled. Even she finds it crazy. Rob suddenly came back inside stating, “I need a beer before I do this,” and he ran into the kitchen. “Get one for me, please,” I called out. When he returned with the beers, we all headed outside.
Rob knelt down in front of his car and began to touch the front bumper in a way that made me long for my boobs to be breasts. He looked carefully back and forth between the front of his car and the back of my minivan. He stood up, looked at me with furrowed brows and a lighthearted shaking of the head that said, “Who are you and why did I marry you?” It suddenly occurred to me that cuteness always works. “Look at it this way. It’s like a Reese’s peanut butter cup. I got my peanut butter on your chocolate and you got some chocolate on my peanut butter!” I paused with a smile, hoping he’ll find me quirky enough to see this latest faux pas as an adventure rather than a problem. He simply shook his head, smiled a bit, took a sip of his beer and gave me a kiss.
All was well.
I don’t know if Rob thinks I’m losing my mind or if I’m preoccupied with being a new mom again. But the truth is, at least in the case of the Reese’s peanut butter cup, it was neither. I wasn’t preoccupied. I was pleasantly, joyfully and thankfully overwhelmed with all that I have.
Monday, August 18, 2008
Tuesday, August 5, 2008
Confessions of a Cheerless Mom
McKenna has begun cheerleading this week and I hope she hates it. I highly doubt that will happen since she is naturally loud and energetic, but it’s a wish.
Oh...in case you were concerned, this entry is not about post-partum depression.
I know…I’m a terrible mom. It’s not that I want her to be miserable. I just dislike almost everything that cheerleading stands for. Why does she have to be one of the robots, yes robots, which have to support the boys on the field? Don’t we get enough messages that women are not free to find joy from within themselves, but that joy comes from the men in their lives? As a middle-school teacher, I see evidence of that everyday. Girls will say and do blatantly mean things to each other and to their peers to create a social hierarchy that is centered upon how boys perceive them. The more a girl can do to have boys notice her, the more popular she is amongst the girls. If someone else comes along, a threat is felt and the nastiness begins.
Cheerleading, in my mind, is a (semi-)subtle way of sending that message yet again. “Cheer those boys on girls! It’s very important that we do our best to support those boys out there on the field.” These girls are trained from a very early age to fit a certain mold. “Smile!” “Keep your arms straight!” “Jazz hands!” Individuality is simply out of the question. “Hair must be decided upon by the coaches and team moms. All girls must then wear their hair in the agreed upon fashion (ex: braids, ponytails, etc).” While some may argue that it’s creating a sense of team work, I would argue that it creates a sense of communism. With the 2008 Olympics beginning this week in China, I’ve realized that it’s not that far of a stretch. Yes, I believe cheerleading is a “sport” and I understand the trust that gets developed between the team, but I’ve also seen how it can turn girls against each other. Case in point…this year, a bunch of my students were on the Pop-Warner cheerleading team which just so happen to place first at the national competition at Disney World. Great for them…no easy accomplishment. However, a couple of students confessed to me how they were outcast from the team because they refused to drink and have sex like the rest of “the team” was doing (yes, I’m talking 13-year olds). While I know the argument can be made that this can happen with any sports team, I would beg to differ. As a longtime coach of girls’ basketball, my husband has found that his girls are and have always been, very accepting of the individuality that each player brings to the team on every level. Personality differences, sexual orientation differences, academic differences, etc. It makes sense, considering that basketball is a team sport that thrives on the individual talents of each player. In cheerleading, that’s just not so. The more you are just like everyone else, the better you are. It’s a pack mentality that spills over into the personal lives of these girls.
Why did I sign her up for it then? Well, Rob and I have always encouraged McKenna to have a “polite bite” of everything and that includes activities. She’s tried soccer, swimming, T-ball, dance, gymnastics, and Girl Scouts, all of which she has enjoyed, but has not latched onto. I guess cheerleading is a logical step for an American girl and I’m hoping it will be another stepping stone on the way to something that clearly demonstrates that a girl can do and be whatever she wants and that her sense of self comes from herself, not from what boys say, think or do.
Until then, I will support her enjoyment of cheerleading. I’ll continue to show enthusiasm as she shares with me what new stretches or routines she has learned. But I will do it while reminding her that she brings something unique to the team, that her individual sense of self, her confidence, her humor, her ability to make respectful and responsible decisions is what makes her such an awesome cheerleader, an awesome team player and one amazing little girl.
Oh...in case you were concerned, this entry is not about post-partum depression.
I know…I’m a terrible mom. It’s not that I want her to be miserable. I just dislike almost everything that cheerleading stands for. Why does she have to be one of the robots, yes robots, which have to support the boys on the field? Don’t we get enough messages that women are not free to find joy from within themselves, but that joy comes from the men in their lives? As a middle-school teacher, I see evidence of that everyday. Girls will say and do blatantly mean things to each other and to their peers to create a social hierarchy that is centered upon how boys perceive them. The more a girl can do to have boys notice her, the more popular she is amongst the girls. If someone else comes along, a threat is felt and the nastiness begins.
Cheerleading, in my mind, is a (semi-)subtle way of sending that message yet again. “Cheer those boys on girls! It’s very important that we do our best to support those boys out there on the field.” These girls are trained from a very early age to fit a certain mold. “Smile!” “Keep your arms straight!” “Jazz hands!” Individuality is simply out of the question. “Hair must be decided upon by the coaches and team moms. All girls must then wear their hair in the agreed upon fashion (ex: braids, ponytails, etc).” While some may argue that it’s creating a sense of team work, I would argue that it creates a sense of communism. With the 2008 Olympics beginning this week in China, I’ve realized that it’s not that far of a stretch. Yes, I believe cheerleading is a “sport” and I understand the trust that gets developed between the team, but I’ve also seen how it can turn girls against each other. Case in point…this year, a bunch of my students were on the Pop-Warner cheerleading team which just so happen to place first at the national competition at Disney World. Great for them…no easy accomplishment. However, a couple of students confessed to me how they were outcast from the team because they refused to drink and have sex like the rest of “the team” was doing (yes, I’m talking 13-year olds). While I know the argument can be made that this can happen with any sports team, I would beg to differ. As a longtime coach of girls’ basketball, my husband has found that his girls are and have always been, very accepting of the individuality that each player brings to the team on every level. Personality differences, sexual orientation differences, academic differences, etc. It makes sense, considering that basketball is a team sport that thrives on the individual talents of each player. In cheerleading, that’s just not so. The more you are just like everyone else, the better you are. It’s a pack mentality that spills over into the personal lives of these girls.
Why did I sign her up for it then? Well, Rob and I have always encouraged McKenna to have a “polite bite” of everything and that includes activities. She’s tried soccer, swimming, T-ball, dance, gymnastics, and Girl Scouts, all of which she has enjoyed, but has not latched onto. I guess cheerleading is a logical step for an American girl and I’m hoping it will be another stepping stone on the way to something that clearly demonstrates that a girl can do and be whatever she wants and that her sense of self comes from herself, not from what boys say, think or do.
Until then, I will support her enjoyment of cheerleading. I’ll continue to show enthusiasm as she shares with me what new stretches or routines she has learned. But I will do it while reminding her that she brings something unique to the team, that her individual sense of self, her confidence, her humor, her ability to make respectful and responsible decisions is what makes her such an awesome cheerleader, an awesome team player and one amazing little girl.
Tuesday, July 29, 2008
If You Want to Visit...
I think I'm too relaxed about things. I probably don't wash my hands the fifty times you are "supposed to" when handling a newborn. I don't feel the need to sterilize everything the baby touches. Recently, a friend of mine emailed me wanting to set up a visitation date. She jokingly wrote "I can't wait to hold him. You will let me, right?" Below was my response...
Since you would like to hold him, please be able to provide the following:
1) Photo identification.
2) Criminal history report with a copy of a full set of fingerprints.
3) Three letters of recommendation stating years of experience holding infants, years of education received in infant care, and psychological reports on you and your immediate and extended family members. No letters may be written by family members or friends.
4) All articles of clothing worn upon arrival must be washed three times in Dreft and cannot contain remnants of allergens. Clothes will not be provided for you if this expectation cannot be met.
5) Fingernails must be manicured so that nails do not exceed 1/16th of an inch beyond the fingertip. Clear polish only.
6) Shiny jewelry, toys, unique noise-making or any other attention getting contraption will not be tolerated and are therefore prohibited. We wouldn't want to draw his attention away from his mother now, would we?
7) Women must wear a sports bra one full size below their standard wear. This is to deter baby from trying to feed from the wrong person.
8) Men with enlarged breasts must purchase a similar item to achieve same effect as in #7(see Cosmo Kramer for "The Bro").
9) All comments regarding child must be prefaced with phrases such as "This adorable boy...", "He is so lucky because..." and "Girls will melt when they notice..." Visitors must request in writing any additional phrases they wish to preface their statements with at least 48 hours ahead of scheduled appointment.
10) All comments regarding the mother, her pregnancy and/or her post-partum state must include phrases complimenting her with such terms as "exceptional", "phenomenal", "sexy", "hot" and "inspirational".
Failure to complete any of the above will immediately result in eviction from the property and from the life of both mother and child effective immediately. I look forward to your arrival.
Since you would like to hold him, please be able to provide the following:
1) Photo identification.
2) Criminal history report with a copy of a full set of fingerprints.
3) Three letters of recommendation stating years of experience holding infants, years of education received in infant care, and psychological reports on you and your immediate and extended family members. No letters may be written by family members or friends.
4) All articles of clothing worn upon arrival must be washed three times in Dreft and cannot contain remnants of allergens. Clothes will not be provided for you if this expectation cannot be met.
5) Fingernails must be manicured so that nails do not exceed 1/16th of an inch beyond the fingertip. Clear polish only.
6) Shiny jewelry, toys, unique noise-making or any other attention getting contraption will not be tolerated and are therefore prohibited. We wouldn't want to draw his attention away from his mother now, would we?
7) Women must wear a sports bra one full size below their standard wear. This is to deter baby from trying to feed from the wrong person.
8) Men with enlarged breasts must purchase a similar item to achieve same effect as in #7(see Cosmo Kramer for "The Bro").
9) All comments regarding child must be prefaced with phrases such as "This adorable boy...", "He is so lucky because..." and "Girls will melt when they notice..." Visitors must request in writing any additional phrases they wish to preface their statements with at least 48 hours ahead of scheduled appointment.
10) All comments regarding the mother, her pregnancy and/or her post-partum state must include phrases complimenting her with such terms as "exceptional", "phenomenal", "sexy", "hot" and "inspirational".
Failure to complete any of the above will immediately result in eviction from the property and from the life of both mother and child effective immediately. I look forward to your arrival.
Robbie's Arrival: July 23, 2008!
THE RUN DOWN:
1) My dad called the night before the induction and sang, "The sun (son) will come out tomorrow/bet your bottom dollar that tomorrow/there'll be sun (son)...Just thinking about/tomorrow..." etc., etc.. I needed the laugh.
2) 5:30am: Drove through viscious storms to arrive at L&D at 6am.
3) 7am: 1cm dialated. Received pitocin.
4) 7:30: Still no pain but now at 4cm. Because things are progressing quickly, Doc orders epidural.
5) 7:50: Anesthesiologist begins epidural procedure. Due to excessive swelling (yes, even in my spine) he struggled.
6) 8:25: Epidural complete. To his credit, anesthesiologist states he's worried because I felt tingling too quickly.
7) 10am: No change in dilation. Disappointed.
8) 10:30: Doc breaks water to move things along. Doc chit chats with hubby telling him what a saint he is to be married to me. "No matter what wrong you do in your life, you're going to heaven because you're married to her. From the moment she walked into my office, she let me know who was in charge...and it wasn't me." Okay...maybe I've been too proactive.
9) 12:00pm or so: Six cm.
10) 1:30: Turn on Yankee game to help pass the time. Doc and hubby sit and watch the game.
11) 2:45: Doc tells me I'm fully dialated and asks if I can wait until the game is over before we begin pushing. He and hubby laugh and then proceed to sit down to watch the game.
12) 2:50: I ask Doc and hubby if I needed to turn off the TV to get the show on the road.
13) 2:53: Pushing began.
14) 3:06: Robbie arrives!
15) 3:15: I about vomit as I watch the doctor sew what seems to be a quilt down below. He later states it was "just a couple of stitches". So much for perineal massage.
16) 5:00: Spinal headache began do to epidural going "too far". The worst migraine I've ever had. Drugs didn't work, hydration didn't work. Was informed of a last ditch effort to relieve the pressure build up. Have to make decision whether I should "ride it out because it may go away in a week or so" or to do the procedure.
11) 35 hours after Robbie's arrival (1:30amThursday night/Friday morning): a different anesthesiologist and a nurse arrive to do what is called a blood patch. They withdrew 18CC's of my own blood, went back into my spine and injected me with blood to try to create a clot to stop the leakage. I seriously wouldn't wish a blood patch on my worst enemy. It really sucked.
12) Discharged Friday afternoon and I've arrived home to enjoy a family of four!
1) My dad called the night before the induction and sang, "The sun (son) will come out tomorrow/bet your bottom dollar that tomorrow/there'll be sun (son)...Just thinking about/tomorrow..." etc., etc.. I needed the laugh.
2) 5:30am: Drove through viscious storms to arrive at L&D at 6am.
3) 7am: 1cm dialated. Received pitocin.
4) 7:30: Still no pain but now at 4cm. Because things are progressing quickly, Doc orders epidural.
5) 7:50: Anesthesiologist begins epidural procedure. Due to excessive swelling (yes, even in my spine) he struggled.
6) 8:25: Epidural complete. To his credit, anesthesiologist states he's worried because I felt tingling too quickly.
7) 10am: No change in dilation. Disappointed.
8) 10:30: Doc breaks water to move things along. Doc chit chats with hubby telling him what a saint he is to be married to me. "No matter what wrong you do in your life, you're going to heaven because you're married to her. From the moment she walked into my office, she let me know who was in charge...and it wasn't me." Okay...maybe I've been too proactive.
9) 12:00pm or so: Six cm.
10) 1:30: Turn on Yankee game to help pass the time. Doc and hubby sit and watch the game.
11) 2:45: Doc tells me I'm fully dialated and asks if I can wait until the game is over before we begin pushing. He and hubby laugh and then proceed to sit down to watch the game.
12) 2:50: I ask Doc and hubby if I needed to turn off the TV to get the show on the road.
13) 2:53: Pushing began.
14) 3:06: Robbie arrives!
15) 3:15: I about vomit as I watch the doctor sew what seems to be a quilt down below. He later states it was "just a couple of stitches". So much for perineal massage.
16) 5:00: Spinal headache began do to epidural going "too far". The worst migraine I've ever had. Drugs didn't work, hydration didn't work. Was informed of a last ditch effort to relieve the pressure build up. Have to make decision whether I should "ride it out because it may go away in a week or so" or to do the procedure.
11) 35 hours after Robbie's arrival (1:30amThursday night/Friday morning): a different anesthesiologist and a nurse arrive to do what is called a blood patch. They withdrew 18CC's of my own blood, went back into my spine and injected me with blood to try to create a clot to stop the leakage. I seriously wouldn't wish a blood patch on my worst enemy. It really sucked.
12) Discharged Friday afternoon and I've arrived home to enjoy a family of four!
Monday, July 21, 2008
McKenna's Point of View
Life through the eyes of a six year old is simple. Everything falls into a neat, little compartment that they've created in their minds. My daughter is no different, especially when it comes to my pregnancy.
McKenna: So, where do you get the milk from?
Me: Well, the woman's body has the right hormones and chemistry that it makes milk on it's own. We're like cows that way.
McKenna: Boys aren't like that, right? They're more like pigs. They just get dirty!
McKenna: So, where do you get the milk from?
Me: Well, the woman's body has the right hormones and chemistry that it makes milk on it's own. We're like cows that way.
McKenna: Boys aren't like that, right? They're more like pigs. They just get dirty!
Sunday, July 20, 2008
Airing My Dirty Laundry
I wanted to shop today, to walk around and get some exercise. So I went to Ulta and bought some salon shampoo and conditioner and then headed off to Super Stop and Shop to hit the salad bar for lunch. I perused the Starbucks counter and decided "why not?". I got my Mocha Frappacino light, paid for the salad and decided to head to Borders right next door to take advantage of their 40% off CDs coupon. I look down and there it was...three nickel-sized drops of my Frappacino on my nicely bleached, white T-shirt!!! What the F*#!! This will be the third shirt I've had to put on today! The first one was damaged by an overactive pour of liquid make-up. The second was thrown in the laundry bin after I dropped my egg whites on it...unfortunately I like my whites with green taco sauce! Now this? I've decided to become a semi-nudist. It's quite freeing, actually. I'm now walking around the house with my sports bra on and white slippers (my feet hurt--sorry for the visual). That's it. Very low potential of ruining clothes. Granted, I would put some panties on, but here's the thing: I need to wash all of those too. It seems that I've become incapable of removing them before the pee begins to drip out. Sure, I try to wipe the panties with water or soak up the drops, but there's only so many times that can happen before fresh ones are needed. Besides, I'm home alone, so no one can see. Oops...gotta' go...I forgot to close the curtains and the neighbors are out!
My Fantasy Rant to OB/Gyn
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.
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.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)