Confessions of a Scary Mommy: An Honest and Irreverent Look at Motherhood: The Good, the Bad, and the Scary (5 page)

The whole experience made me wonder: Who
are
these women who blissfully glide through pregnancy? I have friends who claim to have enjoyed every moment of their trips to newbornville. They had precious little basketball tummies and glowing, dewy skin. They dressed in maternity bikinis and trotted around the swimming pool, putting us veiny, stretch mark–covered messes to shame. Had they not been with child, I’m quite sure I would have kicked them in the gut. While in heels.

And what about those freaks of nature who somehow get through all nine months never actually knowing that they’re expecting? I mean, who
are
they?! With my subsequent pregnancies, I swear I knew the minute we conceived. The wave of nausea, the constipation, the slight change in everything about
me . . . I can’t imagine going a few weeks without knowing, never mind months on end. I will be eternally jealous of women like that. I can only pray that they end up with colicky babies. It only seems fair.

For a brief period of time, when I was around seven months pregnant or so, I got a taste of how the other half lives. For a few weeks, I wasn’t a raging bitch from hell. I’d stopped throwing up constantly and was actually enjoying eating again. So much so that I impressively managed to pack on nearly thirty pounds by that point. It really was a medical marvel considering my inability to digest anything for the first few months. I finally looked pregnant—not just pudgy—and gained some energy back as well. Things were looking up. And then I hit the ninth month.

I wish the government could bottle the discomfort that accompanies this point in pregnancy—the bloating and the aches and pains and the baby’s kicks. I think if they were able to inflict all of this on even the strongest of men, those men would cave under pressure. It would be the best torture method ever. If I thought the beginning was bad, I was sorely mistaken. The end? Pure misery.

When I was thirty-nine weeks pregnant, I woke up in the middle of the night feeling just a little bit off. I was restless and sweaty and started having stomach cramps. Not “baby is coming” stomach cramps but “I really need to take a big dump” stomach cramps. That much I was sure of. I called my mom to see what she suggested I take: Pepto? Colax? A Coke? It definitely didn’t
feel
like labor, I reported (of course I had absolutely no idea what the hell labor was supposed to actually feel like), but I wanted
to feel better. It was highly unpleasant. “Honey,” she calmly explained, “that’s exactly what labor feels like. This is it.”

And that was my introduction to motherhood. Who knew that this totally new experience would echo something with which I was so well acquainted. It felt eerily familiar, highly uncomfortable, and not at all like I expected. In a word, it felt like shit.

And it was only just beginning.

Chapter 3
YES, YOU’LL SHIT ON THE DELIVERY TABLE

Mommy Confessions

• I’d rather have just about anyone other than my husband as my birth coach. Love him, but he’s totally going to steal my thunder.

• My newborn looks like an alien. Am I supposed to find her cute?

• I resent my children for the marks they left on my body. My boobs are deflated, my stomach a mess, and I’m covered in stretch marks. Thanks, kids.

• To the new mom who left the hospital looking like a million bucks: I hate you.

• My son came out looking just like my ex-boyfriend. My first thought upon seeing him: Asshole.

• I had an elective c-section. I’ve never told a soul that it wasn’t medically necessary; I just didn’t want my body going through labor.

• I can’t wait for delivery. That stay in the hospital is going to be as much of a vacation as I’ll get this whole year.

• I am terrified of dying on the delivery table. The fear consumes me.

• Childbirth is the single most disgusting experience I’ve ever had in my life.

• Since childbirth, my husband is unable to satisfy me. Think I need to trade in his dick for a bigger model.

• Once a woman asked me whether I planned to breast-feed my baby, so I asked her whether she shaved her vagina. Oh, I’m sorry, you don’t like personal, none-of-your-business questions?

• Since having a baby, all I can imagine during sex is the image I saw in the mirror. I will never look at my vajayjay the same way again.

• Childbirth was the highlight of my motherhood career. My kids are eight, ten, and twelve.

• Even my vagina has stretch marks.

B
ack when I was six months pregnant or so, Jeff and I signed up for childbirth classes at the local hospital where I was scheduled to deliver. We sat in the back row of a lecture room and listened as the aging nurse-practitioner dryly told us exactly what to expect from this “miraculous” event we were
about to experience. Never one to be a good student, I found myself doodling potential baby names mindlessly to pass the time so that Jeff and I could go get pizza down the street. Yum, pizza . . .

Before long, the two of us were playing hangman and tic-tac-toe while the other expectant parents studiously took notes. If class was any indication of future parenting success, we’d already failed big-time. Suffice to say, we didn’t get much out of that first lecture. We never went back for the rest of the sessions and figured we’d just wing it—childbirth couldn’t be that complicated, right? Women had been doing it forever without lessons like these; surely it must come naturally. Like conception. We’d be fine.

As my due date quickly approached, I casually remarked to a friend that we’d never finished our prenatal classes. Instead of laughing it off, she was outraged: How would we know what to do when the time came? How would we advocate for ourselves? What was our birth plan? What were our choice labor positions? How did I feel about pain medication? What about fetal monitoring? Labor augmentation? Each word out of her mouth grated on my nerves more than the last. Holy shit, woman. My birth plan was to have a freaking baby! I’d huff and I’d puff and I’d push that baby right out . . . wasn’t
that
enough of a plan? It wasn’t, she convinced me. At the very least, it was my job to be educated. If not for myself, for my child. Already, the mother- guilt was commencing.

This friend, who is no longer such a friend, did succeed in making me nervous enough to actually thumb through a pregnancy book. Maybe she was right—it might not be the worst idea ever to have
some
idea of what to expect from this whole
thing. Better to be prepared, I supposed. What did I have to lose?

The first chapters of my chosen book were a breeze, but the more I read on, the more horrified I became: First came the mucus plug. There was actually a plug keeping things staying put up there? Literally, a plug made of mucus? I could hardly blow my nose without gagging. Then I got to the chapter on episiotomies and vaginal tearing. I’d naively assumed that my body was made to open up like a floodgate and close back up, effortlessly. Not always, I found. I could actually tear my vagina open? And need stitches to sew me back together again? My lady parts ached just reading the words. But the worst part of the book to me was the small warning at the end. It was almost an afterthought, as if it didn’t deserve much attention. Beware, it read, that when pushing the baby out, it is not uncommon for “other substances” to be pushed out as well.

OMG.

Seriously? “Other substances”?! I couldn’t even pee with the door open! For the first five years of our relationship, Jeff was convinced that my body was unable to produce gas (a lot of “silent but deadlies” and blaming of the innocent dog, in case you were wondering). The thought of actually pooping in front of him along with a roomful of people was simply too much for me to process. Couldn’t I just sign up for an elective c-section? I’d rather have major surgery than be humiliated like that. Perhaps I wasn’t up for this whole thing after all.

A few weeks later, I had no choice. I found myself pacing the halls of the hospital, attempting to get my water to break “naturally.” Always one for a fun scene, I was rather looking forward to a big flood of water as I stood up after dinner or waddled through
the mall during the busy lunch hour. No such luck, and my water had to be broken manually (which, for the record, is not nearly as fun as it sounds). The start of my labor was
so
not how I imagined my Hollywood delivery would be. I should have known better by then. There ain’t nothing glamorous about childbirth.

The rest of my labor went similarly. You know how in the movies and on TV, it’s three pushes and the baby comes out? In my dreams. With all of my deliveries, it was hours of resting and monitoring and poking and prodding. I was actually bored. When it was finally time to push, I was
ready
. I was in the zone. Bring it on! I was woman, hear me roar!

But I didn’t. Roar, I mean. I’d opted for the drugs early on so I wouldn’t be in pain, and I wasn’t. None at all. It was the best decision I could have made. Seriously, highly recommend, five stars, two thumbs up. What I
do
regret, however, was letting Jeff know exactly how little pain I was in. Because of my honesty (always my downfall, dammit) I am completely unable to pull the birth trump card. When he’s whining about a cold, my “Well, I bore children and complained less!” isn’t nearly as effective as it could have been. It sucks. My advice to you, future mothers: Get the drugs, but fake the pain. It’s a win-win.

When I finally grunted Lily out, along did come a little something else, but it wasn’t even a blip on the radar at that moment. Actually, being able to piss and shit openly was oddly liberating. Kind of relaxing, even. Plus, I had a far more important thing to concentrate on. Something that, eight years later, still infuriates me. From the moment my daughter came out, one thing was clear: She didn’t resemble me in the least. She did, however, look eerily like her other DNA contributor, whom we shall now refer to as “the prick who trumped my genes.”

I mean, seriously, what the hell? I carried this child for
nine months
. She bruised my insides and caused my feet to grow and hips to spread and made a road map of my stomach. I had to get rid of my favorite heels for her! And my skinny jeans! What did
he
do? He made a deposit and went on his merry way, that’s what. I knew one thing for sure: the gene pool was bullshit. And I was pissed.

Also bullshit? That moment immediately after birth that I’d been waiting for. I’d watched enough soaps and movies to know what those precious moments would be like: The nurse would place my hollering baby on me and she would latch onto my breast and I would instantly feel like a mother. The clouds would open and light would shine in and we would be surrounded by rainbows and butterflies and happiness.

Or not.

I wanted my money back.

Instead of a perfect pink baby, I was given a slimy, nasty-looking thing whose head looked like it belonged in a dated
Saturday Night Live
sketch. She was gooey and blotchy and looked like she’d just been in a major fistfight. Unfortunately, she also looked like she’d lost. Big-time. Fortunately, she cleaned up well. (Thank God.)

But even all tidied up, I didn’t feel the immediate outpouring of love that I was expecting. I felt relief that my months of puking up prenatal vitamins hadn’t resulted in two heads and twelve fingers. I felt grateful that she didn’t need to be carted off to the NICU or have a barrage of tests. I felt ecstatic to no longer be pregnant. And I certainly felt protective of her tiny little body. But love? How do you feel immense love for someone you don’t even know?

I wanted to get to know her, though, and I wanted to do that at home. I was ready for us to begin our lives together. I missed my dog and I wanted to sleep in my own bed. Plus, I really needed a good shower and the hospital didn’t have all of my yummy shampoos and body washes. Home sweet home. I could almost taste it.

In retrospect, I have no idea what the hell I was thinking. With my subsequent children, I was smart enough to know that the hospital is a pleasure cruise compared to what I had waiting for me at home. With my last, I practically had to be escorted out in handcuffs. Seriously, if I’d had them, I would have cuffed myself to the bed.

At the hospital, you have 24/7 nursing care. You have room service (it may not be five-star quality, but at least you don’t have to cook). You have power over the remote control. You have a bed to yourself. You have a private bathroom. And, if you’re really smart, you’ll send the baby to the nursery and actually sleep. It’s the most relaxed you’ll have been in months. And the most relaxed you will be for a long, long time to come. Oh, one of the many things you just can’t appreciate with a firstborn child. Really, it’s reason enough to try for another one.

There’s nothing like that trip home, though, whether it’s your first or (God help you) your tenth. You have a new baby, a fresh outlook, and the world is your oyster.

Until you walk through your front door.