7 months postpartum I can say with great confidence that the craziest thing a person can do is grow a child inside of them. There is really nothing about that experience from start to finish that feels even the least bit logical. FIRST of all, how in the hell are you supposed to believe that mixing a little bit of this over here and a little bit of that over there creates an entirely new human being? Especially if you only have the word of an overpriced, asshole pregnancy test?
Secondly, the first time you feel the baby kick you is so surreal you’re pretty sure you dreamt the whole things and might have just been on acid for a few months (or hours, with acid you can never tell). As the baby gets bigger and tries to straight-up murder you by manipulating your internal organs to its own benefit you again say to yourself: WHY did I do this? This is insane! How is the human body “built for this.” If it were, it just seems like it wouldn’t be so entirely unpleasant.
Then of course labor. If you haven’t been through it, there is no way to describe the pain, horror, and intense loneliness of contractions. Unless you and a friend are going through them at the same time there’s pretty much no way you can garner enough sympathy from ANYONE, ANYWHERE to feel better. Also, you’re convinced that you’re dying. You are the small percentage of women who will literally go into shock and die from the pain of this monster trying to free itself of your flesh prison…(yes I just said went there.)
All things considered, it’s insane that anyone would go through the whole thing more than once, but people do. Today I found myself longing to get married and have multiple babies (one at a time) immediately. Yet there was something nagging at the back of my mind, a brief memory of how I felt waddling around like a cow vowing to never ever have sex again. So I went into my pictures folder.
A week before my due date, I was so fucking pissed off and upset I decided to take full nude pictures of myself pregnant to document the horror that befalls a woman when she’s sperminated, as a reminder to myself to stay celibate…and not abuse cake privileges. Don’t get me wrong here, my son is the best thing I’ve ever done in my entire life, and if someone told me now I’d have to repeat that year like it was groundhog’s day for the next 100 years I’d do it…but since I’m not in a stupid 90’s movie I wanted something to veer me away from that particular fate.
So I opened the hidden folder of my bad-self and almost threw up. Not gonna lie here, I gained an extraordinary amount of weight when I was pregnant. Having dealt with food issues since I was about 16, the thrill of eating my fucking face off 24 hours a day for nine months really appealed to me and I took full advantage of guilt-free carb ransackery. I think I gained like 65 lbs and checked into the hospital at a cranky, leaky 182. Which is what the pictures accurately documented. A GODDAMN BALLOON OF CRANKY, LEAKY FLESH PRISON.
I can hardly remember any of that now, a mere 6-7 months later. Except for a couple of small marks near where I got my bellybutton pierced I look exactly the same. No stretch marks, no saggy skin, no hip displacement, no inside out cooter like all the message boards told me would happen. It’s like I’m brand new, except more awesome because my kid is fucking adorable.
I don’t really know where this is going, but if I get pregnant again I’ll need a full time sponsor to call whenever I think Betty Crocker wants to just “hang out and talk.” Don’t you lie to me again, skank. You KNOW I can’t just have one!
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