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Apr 16 2012

My Pregnancy Crazy

By at 10:03 am

My cravings are more for ramen noodles and PB&J, but this lady's got a good thing going on here.

Pregnancy is rarely glamorous. I have a rash between my breasts, my face looks like the before pictures of a Proactiv commercial, and I bawl my eyes out in the shower for no apparent reason every morning (which is surprisingly therapeutic, actually.) My bowel movements walk a thin line between liquid and coal and on any given day you’ll find me yanking aside my maternity pants to scratch my itchy baby bump. I’m nineteen weeks and my belly button has already waged a full-on protest. I’d also like to take this opportunity to reach through the World Wide Web and slap women who perpetuate the rumor that pregnancy is a time for uncontrollable sexual desire. My babymaker is currently occupied, and dry heaving on my husband during sexy time just isn’t a memory that I want either of us to have. Sorry, babe.

And then there’s the dreams. When I was pregnant with my son, most of my dreams were about cats. I once I had a dream that my precious kitty froze in my arms, grew fangs and her eyes glazed over with a thick fog of death. I tried to cuddle her (Why! Why, would I snuggle a vampire cat?!) as clumps of fur fell away to expose her pink underbelly oozing with clotty blood.

This time around, I dreamed that the Kveller editors formed a motorcycle gang and traveled the country tongue lashing men in stretchy dive-bars where only Sarah Tuttle-Singer could actually hold her own in real life and the rest of us would flutter around offering patrons sanitizing wipes and Cheerios.

One night I dreamed that Ashton Kutcher stuffed 17 chicken nuggets down our toilet and as we hovered over the bowl anxiously wondering how many more our 100-year-old pipes could handle, I awoke suddenly when I reached in and tried to eat one (because THAT was the unrealistic part?). The next night I dreamed that Jessica Simpson had her baby and I taught her how to breastfeed.

You can’t make this stuff up, people.

I crave turkey sandwiches, full-bodied cabernet, and fantasize about smoking Benson and Hedges Deluxe Ultra Light Menthols out on my back porch after my son goes to sleep (and I haven’t smoked in over TEN YEARS!) Meanwhile, I eat my weight in Spaghetti O’s, ramen noodles and PB&J. I’d like to claim I’m eating the remains of my son’s lunch, but the truth is, my kid doesn’t touch any of those foods and neither does my husband. Apparently, I’m the only toddler in our house now.

And to top it off, last weekend my son choked on a waffle during breakfast–legitimately, no-breathing choked. My husband quickly finger-swooped the Eggo from his throat exclaiming, “I felt his epiglottis!” My kid was horrified, crying hysterically for me to hold him and as I tried to calm him down he vomited his breakfast all over me. My arms and belly were covered in regurgitated oatmeal/Kix cereal/strawberries and I started retching in between telling him, “It’s okay, Mama’s here.” My husband rushed over with a bowl that he placed under my chin only to have my son lean over and empty the remaining contents of his stomach, splashing me in the face. All of this was too much for one pregnant Mama and I sat on the floor sobbing uncontrollably for a good 10 minutes while my husband washed our frightened toddler and cleaned up the mess. He may seem like the hero in all of this, but I’m going to call him out and tell you that he was laughing hysterically at his vomit-covered family and if I weren’t losing my shit, I probably would have laughed, too.

You may think all of this is too much information, but the fact of the matter is that I’m pregnant so I’m going to tell it to you anyway, with minimal shame. Because the great thing about pregnancy, other than the fact that you have a beautiful, new life staring up at you by the end of it, is that it gives you an all access pass to moan, complain, dream crazy shit, eat whatever the hell you want, look like a hot mess, and cry for no reason. Meanwhile everyone tells you that you’re glowing and you’re a superstar for squeezing a bowling pin out of a hole the size of a Q-tip. Pregnancy is kind of awesome like that, so I’m going to enjoy it. Boob rash and all.


Note: The opinions expressed here are the personal views of the author. All comments on Kveller are moderated. Any comment that is offensive or inappropriate will be removed. Privacy Policy

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