What's behind door #2?

The birthing, part Deux.

It was time to push. I felt sick to my stomach. Not over the excitement that I would soon be a mother, or over the fear that it would hurt. Nope. My paralyzing fear was that with a whole team of people watching me I would make a poo on the delivery table. My doctor and everyone else in the room was well aware of this fear, since in my loopy state I kept saying “I’m so so sorry. I ate Chipotle. I’m so sorry. You’re a really nice nurse and if I’d known, I wouldn’t have eaten the tacos.”

Typically I’m not the type of person who is easily embarrassed. Tyler has walked in our bedroom many times to find me shamelessly working something out in the master bath.  He HATES it, but in my defense, I feel that the sight of me going #2 is nowhere NEAR as traumatic as the smells he leaves behind.  I’d also been reassured by a friend that as soon as she made a poo during delivery it was whisked away so quickly nobody knew it was ever there. I imagined this team of people standing there in biohazard suits, tissues in hand, just waiting for the event. That gave me some hope, but it didn’t take the fear away. 

My doctor came back in the room after the dreaded 45 minute wait, and took the bottom of my bed away so she could sit eye level with my lady bits. Tyler, my sister Courtney and my mom were there. I think Tyler and Courtney each held a leg, but the memory is blurry – we were like 17 hours in at this point. My super nice nurse was there for a long time and even stayed past her shift in hopes to meet Kensie. Unfortunately the total pushing experience took longer than we hoped - almost 2 hours. Imagine trying to push a watermelon out of your lady parts for the ENTIRE duration of a full length movie. Such a treat. 

When the pushing started my doctor warned me:

1. Do not make faces, it wastes energy

2. Do not scream, it wastes energy  

3. Do not clench your bum cheeks, it wastes energy. 

Let me tell you what wastes energy: concentrating on NOT doing the 3 things that you want to do most while trying to get a human head out of your body. After about 15 minutes of pushing and concentrating on NOT doing these things, I heard my doctor say “oh look at all that dark hair!”. I saw my mom covering her mouth. My sister and Tyler both looked like they were REALLY regretting having to stare at my vag for this long. I was suddenly regretting the hours I spent making headbands for my unborn child who I was convinced would be bald. More than that though, I had this false sense that since we were only 15 minutes in, and we saw hair, I would be done with this thing in like 5 more minutes and the nurses and doctors would shower me with kisses and carry me on their shoulders as the greatest pusher of all time (#epickegelfail). At this point they wheeled the mirror over at my request so I could see what was going on down there. This was a great idea –at first. I felt so encouraged by the fact that I could see her, that I pushed with 3 times my previous effort for a really long time. 

The problem with this was that what I pushed out wasn’t a baby.

As I gazed into the mirror at a horrifyingly unfamiliar vagina, I noticed something even more terrifying roughly 2 inches south. Mr. Poo, apparently disturbed by all the commotion, was peeking out his front door to see what all the fuss was about. I guess out was better than in for him, what with the head crowding his space ‘n all. I tried to clench and stop him, but there was nothing I could do. As if in slow motion the small round poo rolled out. It fell sloooowly.  “Ohhhh noooo”, I shrieked. I could tell by everyone’s facial expressions that they were waiting to see how I’d react. They knew I’d been dreading this moment, especially in light of the Chipotle. 

The poo hit the table. BOOM.

In a panic I looked at Tyler and said “Get it! Geeeet it (girly whine voice)!” After all, he knew this was my biggest fear, and I would have done it for HIM. 

“WHAT?!” he said. “I’m not getting that. Gross! I don’t even have rubber gloves”.  

Final dagger through the heart. I lost it. I mean really lost it. I was hopeless. It wasn’t enough that a whole team of people was staring at the horror between my legs. It wasn’t enough that I couldn’t get this kid out.. ohhh no. I’d just pooped in front of them. I mean not like “oops I forgot to close the bathroom door” pooped. Like POOPED. Straight out the bum POOPED. And where the f- was the team of tissue wielding clean up specialists? At this point I couldn’t stop crying. My doctor gave me some tough love and basically told me to get it the f- together. The poo was then removed.

Kensie didn’t move from her exact location in the old birth canal for another hour. I pooped 3 more times. My nurse tried to encourage me after a while by telling me I was really doing a good job and making progress! (Apparently at this point I turned to her and yelled “YOU KEEEEEP SAYYYYING THAT!!!!”).

At about an hour and 30 minutes into the pushing a nurse came in and asked if I was wearing jewelry. I knew this meant they were considering a c-section.  I was ready for this to be over and started saying “Cut ME juuust CUT ME”. I didn’t think I could get her out. 

My doctor was apparently concerned too. At this point she looked me straight in the eye and said “do what you need to do, if you need to scream, scream”. 

I screamed. I yelled. I raised the dead. This, coupled with an advanced pilates style pulsing/pushing technique squeezed the little darling right out of me. 

What a relief. She was perfect. She was beautiful. All icky and bloody, but beautiful. They handed her right to me and I started crying. I couldn’t see her face, so I put my hands under her arms to support her, and the nurse turned her toward me. Right then she pushed down on my chest with her little legs and tried to stand up.

And then….

She pooed. 

Right on my chest.  

Black, gross, nasty poo. 

She wobbled her little head toward me with her squinty little newborn eyes as if to say “it’s ok mommy, look! I did it too!”

The pain was gone. Love was everywhere.

Do you like scary movies?

Then you’ll love childbirth. 

It’s a lot like a horror movie except at the end, instead of there being less people left alive in the room, there’s one extra.  I thought some of you who’d read my previous posts might be curious how the whole pregnancy thing played out, so here you go. I probably don’t need to warn you that both parts of this are equally honest and graphic. Not like “boo hoo I can’t see my lady bits” graphic. Like horror movie graphic.

DISCLAIMER: THERE WILL BE BLOOD. AND GUTS. AND OTHER STUFF THAT’S PRETTY GROSS AND MAY CAUSE YOU TO ABSTAIN FROM CERTAIN GROWN UP ACTIVITIES IN THE FEAR THAT THE BELOW WILL HAPPEN TO YOU OR SOMEONE YOU DO GROWN UP ACTIVITIES WITH.

Cool with that sort of thing? Fantastico. Read on.

Part I: “knock knock..who’s there?..cervix…cervix who?...your friggin cervix, and I’m here to take a long friggin time before I do my job and open up”

I was supposed to be induced the night of April 5^th, 2011 one day after my due date. Because I’m the type that over-reads/prepares/freaks out, I called my doctor in a panic convinced that the induction chemicals would somehow split my delicate womanly guts into pieces. I imagined them exploding and rupturing like an overfilled meat balloon or something… I don’t know. In an attempt to calm my nerves, my doctor decided to move my induction out a week and give Kensie a chance to come out on her own. Shortly after my appt. with the doctor I called both my mother and husband hysterical that I would have to endure another week of pregnancy.  I was pretty sure at the time it would kill me. 

I called the doctor and begged her to reconsider. She wouldn’t. “This is what you wanted” she said (#WTFwasithinking). I decided I needed to take matters into my own hands and coax this little nugget out. I filled up a bottle with milk and held it up to my loins convinced that she would smell the milk like a hungry raccoon and come after it. Ok, I’m kidding, I didn’t do that, but I thought about it, only with tater tots because let’s face it… they’re delicious. Seriously though, I walked the mall, I bounced on an exercise ball, put hot rags on my hoots, rubbed my acupressure points, etc etc etc. I was on a mission. The only thing I didn’t do was drink castor oil because I was afraid it would cause me to poop on the table while pushing. (#TragicIrony). It wasn’t until I was in line to order extra spicy chipotle tacos I that I felt the first twitch of something going on down there. And by twitch, I mean gut wrenching contraction that caused me to take a seat. I powered through those tacos anyway, death row style. (#HugeMistake)

I had contractions off and on for a few hours that evening, unsure if they were the real thing (#horrendouspain). By midnight I crawled on my hands and knees to the bed where Tyler was sleeping and politely asked him to stay awake with me in case the pain killed me. I was feeling a bit dramatic. Tyler was apparently feeling tired, so he went back to sleep. I immediately got into the bathtub and downloaded a contraction timer app on my phone cursing my husband’s name. He eventually came in, and when he realized I wasn’t wolf crying, he went into to total husband scatter brained freak out mode, and soon enough we were rushing to the hospital.

Next thing I knew I was in a hospital room leaning up against the wall trying not to hurl, preparing to make a big mistake. A kind nurse (#ManHandsMcGee) knocked on the door and asked nicely for me to lay down so she could “check my progress”. For those of you at home, this usually means a person will gently put their hand inside you… (#nonotapinkyorafingeraHANDaFRIGGINHAND!!!!) to check and see if your cervix is opening up. You will be anywhere from 0-10cm. A baby can’t come out until you’re 10, and if you’re not opening up at all, generally they send you home from the hospital to labor alone longer before you come back. My mistake was desperately begging Ms. McGee not to send me home. SO… when she checked me she kindly used her digits to quicken up my progress and take me from 1cm to 3cm. In case you’re wondering, it WAS NOT AN AWESOME FEELING. With some paperwork, and a nice gush of blood and mucus plug (#WTFisthatdisgustingclumpofsnotthatjustcameoutofme?!), I was admitted and moved to another room. Over the next few hours other kind nurses would repeat the same procedure until I was 5cm and ready for an epidural (#giveittomeNOW) and eventually Pitosin.  Again, if this is new to you, an epidural is basically a team of tiny magic angels that fly into your spine and take all the pain away. That is, until they decide to quit doing their job, but more on that later. Pitosin is this crazy chemical that helps your body get it in gear and opens up that cervix so a human head and shoulders can breeeeze right on through. 

After the epidural I was peachy keen.  I was peeing into a tube/bag and I couldn’t feel it. That was pretty cool. The only way I could tell I was contracting was by watching this little monitor beside my bed with numbers that went uuupppp and doooowwwn (#fun!). They put the pitosin in my IV. Shortly thereafter, my nurse, and eventually a team of nurses, started really freaking out that Kensie’s heart rate was dropping with each contraction (#notfun!). Real life horror movie terror set in. This little love of my life was inside me, raging to get out, and I was TERRIFIED my body would do something to hurt her before she got the chance. This fear was heightened by the fact that we both had a fever, and when the doctor tried to break my water, there wasn’t any water there to break. Apparently in the midst of taking that calming bath, downloading the contraction timer, and imagining myself on an episode of “snapped”, I’d missed my water breaking (#epicbathtubfail). 

 At around 2 in the afternoon (we’d been at the hospital around 12 hours at this point) I asked my sister, stepdad, mom and husband to leave the room so I could rest for the big event. They went to get lunch. Shortly thereafter I felt a gush on my legs. 

Thought one: what the french? 

Thought two: crap I totally peed the bed. My catheter must have come out. 

Thought three: the nurse said there’s a little balloon thing on the end that keeps it in though. 

Thought four: Did I just fidget and rip out the balloon with my kidney tube attached to it? Is it like hanging out of me like a snake? Sick.

Thought five:  Well this is embarrassing.

Thought six: Call Mom. Find your cell phone and call mom.

Mom came to the room and lifted up my sheet to realize that I hadn’t peed the bed. I’d bloodied the bed. There was apparently  A LOT of blood (#awesomelygross). This continued over and over throughout the day (#likethemoviecarrie). More and more and more and more blood loss. I was really scared. That was, until my epidural wore off and I was in so much pain I couldn’t feel any emotion (#Godpleasekillme). The contraction monitor said I was in the high 90’s. I’m pretty sure that’s a solid “A” on the pain grading scale.

(A pause to salute all women throughout the years who have birthed children without pain meds. I got only a brief tastelet of your pain, and I wish I could send you all flowers. Mom, I’m sorry I have a head. And shoulders. And that you had to feel them.)

Eventually a nice lady came in and dosed the crap out me and and the pain went away. I was so numb that when the doctor came in and announced that it was time to push, I couldn’t move my legs. They were full of cement. I had to sit and wait another 45 minutes for the meds to wear off before I could push. It was the longest 45 minutes of my life…

Nancy Drew and the case of the missing....

Warning. Stuff gets real in this post. If you are easily embarrassed, or talking about my lady parts makes you uncomfortable, you should probably stop reading.

Oh, that doesn’t freak you out? God bless you, and read on.

There are a lot of things that happen throughout the first 30 weeks of a pregnancy that serve to challenge your view of yourself as a woman. Before being “with child”, I would wake up in the morning and look in the mirror. I’d make a pee pee, then stand in front of the mirror again, turn to the side, and usually suck in my tummy.  Sometimes I’d weigh myself before AND after the peeing, just cuz it gave me an early morning sense of accomplishment. I’d usually then resolve to try and eat a smaller lunch that day. Overall though, I was pretty happy with what I saw.

These days that morning glance in the mirror reveals that nearly everything that used to curve IN curves OUT. Ironically, while I’m doing what could be argued as the most feminine thing possible, never have I felt so unattractive and manly.

Since not everyone who reads this blog has experienced the beauty and wonder of the life giving miracle, and since frankly, I would have enjoyed a better heads up on some of the joys that it entails, I’d like to chronicle some of my bodily changes to give you a better understanding of my current self image problem.

The cast in order of appearance:

Pancakes belong at the IHOP, not on my chest

As a young lady, one of the most exciting prospects of growing up was someday having a sizable chest like my step-sister. She was 4 years older than me, pretty, and always got a lot of attention from the boys. I would pray almost daily for my chest to grow. Unfortunately for me, when God heard “chest” he mistook that for “mustache” and for years I was left wanting.

(As a side note to any adolescents reading this post:  don’t go for the facial hair bleach in the green box.  Just pluck it, wax it or shave it, and save yourself the horror of looking like Colonel Sanders at the 7^th grade dance.)

I digress. The point I’m trying to make here is that God clearly saved all my pre-teen prayers for the miraculous day when the little spermy fought it’s way into my egg and life was created in my lady womb. Almost immediately my chest started to grow.  I mean GROW. To give you some perspective, I went from buying the “miraculous push-up” in a 34B to a hideous flesh colored 38DD full coverage unpadded bra at Target within a matter of weeks. You might be thinking “oh yeh Beth, cuz big boobs AREN’T sexy, pooooorrrr you”.

No, not these.

Unfortunately, my lady hormones forgot to pass the memo to my nipples that they shouldn’t grow as well. What were once happy little perky gals who pointed straight forward to greet me in the mirror when I removed the miracle bra, embarrassed of their massive growth, now hang their faces in shame.  

These Flintstone Feet can make your bed rock

I’m not a foot person. I’ve never really understood those guys you hear about that like to lick feet or whatever, but I DO enjoy looking down at mine when there’s a fresh coat of pink paint on them. Sometimes a French pedi. Sometimes bright red if I’m feeling SAUCY. I also always enjoyed going out wearing open toed shoes or, in my current profession, switching to a pair of flip flops once I get safely inside the building every day.

These days, my feet are so fat that red polish makes them look more like cocktail weenies dipped in sauce than sexy lady toes. It’s gotten to the point where I can’t bend forward far enough to reach them, and they’re in such disrepair that I’m pretty much  mortified to expose them to my little guy at the nail place down the street. Sadly, my feet spend most of their waking hours hanging out inside of huge reaking Ugg boots. It’s no way to live, really.

From the rear I look like a thanksgiving feast

Complete with mashed potato booty, and a back full of rolls. What used to be tight like the top of the turkey looks more like the gravy. I’d like to thank the friggin 3 way mirrors and fantastic lighting in the Target dressing room for that realization.

Target dressing room: 1

My self esteem: 0

The KO punch

Today ladies and gentleman was the surprise that topped all of the previous gifts the prego fairy had blessed me with. Just as I thought I couldn’t feel any LESS like a woman it happened. As I looked down through the murky water of my bubble bath I realized something of great importance:

I can no longer see my vagina. 

I’ll give you a second to process that. 

No, it's ok really, just take your time.

Due to my engorged midsection, I am no longer able to SEE MY LADY PARTS WITHOUT AID OF A MIRROR. Not that I have any question as the whether they’re there. My bladder is doing a piss-poor job of holding urine these days (pardon the pun) which means I get up and go at least 10 times I day. Judging from what I can feel on the other side of the paper everything is still in place, but there’s just something comfortable about being able to look down and SEE it. 

If you’re a guy reading this you’re probably thinking “if I were your husband I’d make sure it was there… harrf harrf harrf (insert stupid thoughtless man joke here)”.

Yeh, ha. You’ve clearly never been pregnant or married to a pregnant woman. That’s how I got in this mess and I have roughly ZERO desire to re-live it. In the meantime,  I’ll be keeping the mirror close at hand and praying for brighter days.

Dear Vag,

Miss you! See you next summer,

Love,
Manatee

You are what you eat.

Ever heard that phrase?  

In that case I must have eaten a pile of crazy hormone laced lard sandwiches.

For two.

There is a fierce, rabid hunger lion in my stomach just waiting to attack anything that smells remotely like bread, potatoes or cheese. He hangs out with his friend the “crazy pregnant rage tiger” inside me just waiting on somebody to open the cage.

There are lots of girls out there who will tell you that there was no perceptible difference in their appetite once getting knocked up. They are probably the same girls on “I didn’t know I was pregnant”.  I’d like to punch those girls in the face.

My weight gain started immediately. A trip to the doctor around 12 weeks revealed that I’d gained 17 lbs instead of the suggested 3-5 for the first trimester.  Oops. At this point I clearly wasn’t fitting in my skinny jeans and went to my favorite store to buy a new pair.

Having never explored sizes beyond the single digits, I made the mistake of asking the 90 pounder behind the counter what the biggest possible size was:

“um, I think like a 12” (accompanied by a look of judgement).

I immediately felt the need to tell her it’s because I’m pregnant, and I wasn’t sure how big I would get, and I really like the jeans, so I just wanted to know what the biggest size was… just in case.

To which she replied, “eww, do you really think you’ll get THAT big?”

Me: “um, I don’t know I mean…I guess it could depend on the baby and…”

Her: “because you could like try the elliptical or something.”

And…. she unlocked the tiger cage.

You know in the hulk how he turns all green and is like “hulk smash ahhh” and just destroys stuff? In that moment I wanted to rip the cash register out of the counter, smash it through a display case, take her by the hair, throw her into a wall, rip something with my teeth and SCREAM: “ahhhhahahahahaa who’s laughing now, ahhhhahahahaahahahahahaahoih;oewiulsjdhlhghuohg!!”

Here’s the funny thing about the pregnant rage tiger: it’s like a camelion.  As quickly as the rage was there, it was gone, and the rage tiger turned into a fluffy little kitten. (meow). One single tear dripped silently from my eye and I RAN out of the store sobbing.

Luckily (maybe not so much for him, ha) my husband was waiting outside the store for me.

Me: “I wanted pants… (sob sob…) but I’m fat… and… (sob sob …) I’ll never be pretty again… and (sob sob…) what if.. what if I have to throw all my clothes away because I’m huge forever… (and sob sob…) what if the baby doesn’t think I’m pretty (sob sob…) and that girl... she said I should work out… but I feel so tired… I’m so tired… soooo tired (sob sob sob).”

My husband (calmly, one hand on each of my cheeks staring me straight in the eyes): “Sweetie. You’re not fat. You’re pregnant, and you’re beautiful. You will bring a little person into this world who will love you as much as I do - no matter what.  Wanna go get a smoothie?”

Did I mention how crazy in love I am with the zoo keeper?

and they lived happily ever after...

As a little girl I loved several things:  Bologne and Cheese, “How the Grinch Stole Christmas”, rainbow colored plastic accessories, my teddy bear named “Loopy”, and like most other little girls, the occasional Disney movie style fairytale.

Since most fairy tales don’t come with sequels to explain what “happily ever after” means, I was mostly left to my own imagination. This led to a highly romanticized version of events that should probably be avoided for future generations, including my daughter.

Now that my Prince has found me via Match.com, swept me away in his black Nissan Altima, and made me his princess, I think I might have a little insight into the elusive fairy tale epilogue.

Well little girls, please grab your favorite carpet square and sit quietly in a circle, because this princess would love to give you a taste of what “happily ever after” really means:

 :)

When a prince and princess love each other very much, they get married and live together in a beautiful castle. Life in the castle is wonderful. Each morning the princess wakes to the glorious rays of the sun to be surrounded by her animal friends who whisk her out of bed (with their shrill “feed me”, “water me”, and “let me out to pee” meows and barks). To her delight, throughout the day she finds her prince, thinking only of her, has left her several lovely gifts:

Gift #1: little yellow droplets all over the throne.

There is nothing more exciting as you rush to the bathroom after hours of holding your sleep pee (especially when there’s a little princess in your belly) than finding the end result of your prince’s shaky shake drying method all over the seat. If your prince is like mine, he will try to convince you that he did NOT pee on the seat, and rather the “water pressure” in the toilet must have kicked up the little droplets as it swirled toward the hole. Do NOT believe this. After several months of Magnum PI style investigation, I have witnessed firsthand my husband stumbling to the bathroom half awake, to lean one arm against the wall, finish his business, and let the dragon flail. I’m fairly sure the dragon’s poor aim, and not the innocent toilet water is to blame.

Gift #2: an empty toilet paper roll, where a full one once lived.

Oh, what a treat. Clearly the prince’s 45 minute session locked in the bathroom last night did not leave him time to make the 20 second jaunt down the hall to grab a full roll. Apparently THAT time was better spent perusing the “hometown hotties” article in his new Maxim. That’s fine, I mean I personally feel there’s no better way to start your day than a seated shaky shake dance followed by the thighs together shuffle to the toilet paper closet. It really sets the tone for the day.

Gift #3: the remnants of his shaving stubble upon the vanity!

Glorious! Such a thoughtful gift! Luckily in our castle, the prince and princess have separate vanities so that the princess doesn’t gag every time she needs to wash her hands, or put on makeup in the morning. This princess also doesn’t clean her prince’s shower for fear of finding the remnants of his “manscaping”. That *might* set me over the edge.

Gift #4: Empty cans or glasses of ale, left throughout the castle.

This precious gift can be found after the prince has some of his friends over. Any princess who’s been to a bachelor pad or fraternity house is well aware that princes lack the awareness that empty beer cans belong in the trash can, not on the floor/tv stand/coffee table/back of the toilet/etc. Unfortunately, they also apparently lack the ability to throw them away. After the prince and his brother had a fun night of video game playing and beer drinking, I opened the door to the man cave and swore by the scent that I’d opened a friggin’ time portal to a frat party afterhours.

Gift #5: Magazines that do not belong in a princess’s castle

We have a guest bathroom. In that guest bathroom there is a magazine rack that typically holds our “classier” subscriptions like “Wine Spectator”,“Town and Country”, “Business Week”, etc. (I don’t know why they’re in there. It’s not like I think someone is going to come over to my house and make the kind of transaction in my guest bathroom that would necessitate a magazine to read. Nonetheless, I like to keep them in there.) What I don’t love is finding my husband’s wrinkled/crinkled/waterlogged Maxim hiding among its more educated friends. Believe me, I love that girl from “how I met your mother”, but the last thing the manatee needs right now is to stumble upon a magazine with the girl scantily clad on the cover alongside a headline that reads “no fail - no strings sex with your ex”. Eww. I’m pretty sure “happily ever after” means no more curiously flipping through the pages of THAT mag. That activity was reserved for your time as a maiden, waiting on your friends to finish their business with their boyfriends at the fraternity house, while avoiding the stare of a creepy love starved drunk dude.

Gift #6: The scent of a prince

Ahhh, my favorite gift. This is the gift that first gave this princess the assurance I lived with a prince. It was a Tuesday morning shortly after we moved in together. My prince had made a delicious pot of chili the night before. We enjoyed the chili, then giggling, snuggled into bed together. OUR bed, yaaay! I spent the rest of the night tossing and turning in the 1x1 foot square of bed space that was left over after the prince made himself comfortable. When the alarm went off I decided that I should go pee pee and take a nice relaxing bath to relieve the muscle pain of being curled up fetal style all night. Roughly 20 minutes later I heard my husband rise from the dead and hop in the shower. “Hurray!” I thought. “I can get out of the tub and stretch out in the bed all by myself!”. So I got out of the tub, dried off quickly, ran and jumped face first horizontally into our comfy queen sized bed. My face landed on his side.

There are a couple facts I’d like you to take note of here:

1.       My husband had eaten chili the night before

2.       He’d been left alone in the bed for several minutes before I arrived

3.       I flopped onto the bed FACE DOWN landing roughly where he had been laying

Now, for those of you princesses who have lived a “happily ever after”, you might be aware of what came next. I, being new to the fairytale had no warning of what I was about to experience:

A scent so powerful, I was fairly certain Satan himself had hosted a rotten onion eating contest and emerged from the pits of hell to release his toxic fumes into our sheets. It was so potent I immediately teared up and started gagging. Really GAGGING. The worst part was that the scent also rendered me momentarily paralyzed, so I was left to lay there motionless, praying for God to let me survive.

Nothing I have EVER produced (even with the help of my little princess) could hold a candle… err a match… to that abomination.

 So, to the other princesses of the land, I would recommend having Clorox wipes/trash bags ready, extra rolls hidden behind the bathroom curtains, and a VERY carefully restricted diet for your prince. Also be weary of his dragon. It has the magic power to turn you from fair maiden into bitter manatee.

congrats!!! you're having a...

hemorrhoid.

There are some things I know for certain: The sky is blue, the grass is green, and young hip sexy people don't bust out the make-up mirror in the bathtub to reveal that the little sore spot on their bum they've been trying to avoid is a hemorrhoid. How can I confirm that's what I have? Well a fantastic 5 minutes on google image search with the filter off did the trick. A 5 minutes of my life I will never get back (and some images I will never get out of my head no matter how many gruesome horror flicks I watch) confirmed the sad sad truth.

Apparently these are pretty common, particularly in the throws of pregnancy when an already craptastic large intestine refuses to do it's job and eliminate your poo poo properly. This leads to a bathroom experience that must be meant to prepare you for the great birthing event, because it leaves you red faced in a puddle of your own tears in horror on the bathroom floor. The biggest "f*** you" insult sphincter and friends throw at you is that when you glance into the bowl expecting to see a poo the size of texas, you're let down by the little rock hard egg sized turd smiling back at you.

Great. And I have to push out an 8 pounder.

To get through this horror I've named the hemorrhoid. I lovingly call him "hemi". From what I've learned "hemi" will be with me for quite some time. He'll be a lonely little guy until after my daughter joins the world, at which point he'll be surrounded by several friends. I'm warm and fuzzy in anticipation.

The happy smiley rainbow side of this story is that as I flash back to the days as a child spent with my grandparents, I remember my grandmother yelling "Wendell bring me my Metamucil and Preparation H" from her corner bedroom. I know this is significant because my grandparents were certainly adults. I've had several "coming of age" events in my life - getting a driver's license, surviving my 21st birthday party, buying a house, getting married, etc. etc., but surely THIS event is the one that seals the deal. I'm a real grown up.

Maybe in like 5 years when I can drink again and the bartender cards me, rather than flashing him my license as proof of age, I'll just bend over and let him meet "hemi".

Mom Undies.

I'm pregnant. Duh.

I'm also a girl. Duh.

As a female I tend to try from time to time to be reasonably desirable to the opposite sex. That's how I got all knocked and shiz. Duh.

Let's talk about last Saturday. The day I stopped climbing sexy mountain and fell over the cliff into the abyss of mom-like asexual nerdom.

I'm at target checking out the after Christmas deals on wrapping paper (it's 75% off, ok, and it's wrapping paper?!).

Always the thrifty clearance shopper, I decide to check out the deals in other departments. This leads me to the p.j. section. Being that the Manatee must either wear her husbands shirts to bed or sleep in her natural state, I thought it might be nice to find a comfy" XXL matching set to snuggle into.

Just then, like a bear to raw picnic meat, I was drawn to a wall I had never seen. It was a wall...
of underpants.

Cotton underpants.

In multi-packs.

At first I laughed at the happy models on the bags in their high waisted mom undies. "Silly models, don't you realize those undies go up past your belly button? Haha... ha... ha." Then I picked up a pack. "These patterns are kinda cute" I thought. Next it was "7 pairs for $6?, I mean its NOT like I'm ever gonna want these after I have this baby and shed the Manatee pounds. I can just burn them all in a huge voodoo fire or Tyler can use them to dry the car.... or cover it". Then I .... tossed them quickly in the cart.

If you are a girl reading this entry, you understand why this is a turning point.
As a young, reasonably attractive woman you do not buy cotton underpants in the MULTI-PACK. You might occasionally go for the 5 for $25 deals, but that's different.
You typically shop for small, sexy underpants in synthetic fabrics or silk, most with little to no coverage. Most of the time, there is no real point in wearing these underwear, and in fact you don't plan to wear them long anyway, should they serve their intended purpose.

Not these. I could have wrapped myself in the luxurious cotton cocoon of these giant underpants and stayed there forever. And. I. Couldn't. Have. Cared. Less.

Until I was forced the flop them onto the conveyor at the register... or the BELT OF SHAME as I like to think of it.

Any girl who's bought pads, tampons, condoms, pregnancy tests, etc. can relate. There's a feeling of shame that comes along with this, especially if the person checking you out at the register happens to be an 18 boy who looks at your mom undies and smirks as he places them in the sack.

That's right "Brandon", momma's wearing GIANT cotton underpants. Put that in your bank for later.

XOXO,

Manatee