When you take the time to reflect on the present, as I have upon the commencement of this blog, you inevitably begin to reminisce about the past as well. As such, I thought I’d take you on a journey back through time and bring you up to speed on some of the major moments of my pregnancy. Of course, there’s the first ultrasound, where it’s confirmed that you are, indeed, having a blob. And who could forget the first episode of peeing while vomiting? Good times. And then there’s pregnancy brain. Dear sweet pregnancy brain. Like the time my best friend sent me a toy for the baby and I couldn’t figure out why the company had decided to make the car so unnaturally long. (It was a limo.) But some moments are simply more monumental than others and, subsequently, warrant greater attention. Like the time you peed on a stick and got a big fat positive, for instance.
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Worries: pregnant women and moms alike are consumed by them. We worry about miscarrying in the first trimester; about the quad screens and anatomy scans of the second; and about delivering a healthy baby in the third, while remaining healthy ourselves. And don’t even get me started on the number of worries that plague new moms (Why is she not sleeping? Will she ever sleep? What do I need to do to get her to sleep? Oh thank goodness, her eyes are finally closed. OH MY GOD, IS SHE ALIVE?!?!). There is one universal cause for concern, however, that is often kept quiet, but no doubt leads to tremendous angst and widespread panic amongst the pregnant masses. And that deeply troublesome worry, the one that keeps us awake at night drenched in our own anxiety-filled sweat, is that our babies will be ugly.
Make no mistake, babies can, in fact, be unattractive, even though the general public might like you to believe otherwise. I cannot tell you how many times I’ve been told that all babies are beautiful. Oh really? Then what the hell is that thing staring back at me on my Facebook newsfeed that looks like it should be kept on retainer in the event that The Goonies ever needs to be remade? I feel like a baby again myself with the night terrors I’m about to experience in the wake of having to see that thing. Please, tell me again how all babies are beautiful while I’m curled up in the fetal position, rocking myself back and forth like an escaped mental patient, willing myself not to go back to sleep. Listen, at the end of the day, we all go through awkward stages (See: My Elementary School Unibrow) and, the truth is, ugly babies need love, too. Just keep Quasimodo off of my social media platforms and we’ll do just fine.
When I was pregnant, the concept of breastfeeding was not one that I was comfortable with. The “girls” had always been reserved for my husband and I was in no hurry to add another customer into the mix. Plus, the descriptions found in how-to blogs and articles made me cringe at every direction. “Tease his/her lower lip with your nipple.” “Let his/her tongue massage the areola.” Uh, yeah, no thanks. Was this my first interaction with my newborn or an episode of the Red Shoe Diaries? The whole thing seemed certifiably creepy. Not to mention the pre-pregnancy feeling I had gotten when witnessing others breastfeed in public. Yeah, ma’am, could you kindly put your sex organs away? I didn’t come for the live show.
Nevertheless, I had every intention on breastfeeding, simply because I was well-versed in the benefits it provided for both me and the baby. I knew it was the best way to provide her with the antibodies necessary to guard against infection and I knew that it lowered my chances for certain forms of cancer. Last, but certainly not least, I knew that the ladies looked phenomenal, and I didn’t hate the idea of those milk-filled fun bags hanging around for another year. After all, in the wake of the horrors of pregnancy and childbirth, my husband deserved some kind of reward, didn’t he? So breastfeeding remained firmly in my plans. I just wasn’t happy about it.
When I was first told during a late-pregnancy ultrasound that Brooke was breech and that I’d need a C-section were she to remain so, I actually found myself to be quite relieved. I was never one of those people who felt like they needed to go through the experience of “natural” childbirth in order to embrace my womanhood. In fact, I had been running from my second X chromosome for as long as I could remember. Honestly, who actually liked being a girl? I just didn’t understand. So when the news broke, I was surprisingly at ease, and the audible sigh of relief from my husband did not go unheard. It was the unmistakable sound of a man who was not going to lose his wife’s lady parts to the horrors of childbirth. Up until then, I got the distinct feeling that he saw my vajayjay as a virtual dead man walking, and now, she had just been given a last minute stay of execution. Justice had been served. So while others were putting bags of frozen peas at the top of their bellies in an attempt to encourage their little ones to move further south, I had that same bag of frozen peas perched happily above my fine china. I was sending a message to Brooke that was loud and clear (read: cold and uncomfortable): stay where you are.