Monthly Archives: August 2013

It’s funny cause it’s true…






*Special shoutout to Sandy for the pregnant stick-figure idea.

First comes love, then comes (screaming, annoying) babies

It’s karma. That’s what it is.

I just wish I would have realized what comes around goes around before now.

Yes, now that I’m pregnant, my past is coming back to haunt me. A past that I’m ashamed to admit includes some rather immature and inconsiderate attitudes toward the youngest members of our society and their caretakers.

For example, while I always kindly offered my seat on public transportation to pregnant chicks, inside my head I was thinking “Come on, how hard can pregnancy be, lady? Drama queen.” Not to mention the extensive and borderline dangerous eye-rolling I used to do when I’d see those “Reserved for Preggos” handicapped spaces in the parking lot.

I was downright ruthless to the women who used those unnecessarily giant strollers (the Hummer of strollers as I not-so-fondly think of them) or worse yet, the dreaded double stroller. Every time these exhausted moms nonchalantly blocked the doors on the subway or blocked my way on the sidewalk, I’d loudly sigh, say “uh…excuse me” and mutter under my breath about how having children doesn’t make you more important than the rest of us, lady.

Upon seeing kids at the store who were either a. constantly nagging “Mom! Mom! Mom! Can I get this please? Pretty please? Mom! Mom! Are you listening to me? I want it. I want it NOW!” or b. having a weapons-grade level tantrum, I’d silently think to myself “My future kids will never be like that. I’m going to train them just like a puppy to obey my every command.”

Upon seeing an infant and her terrified parents board our airplane, my husband and I  were those people falling to our knees in the middle of the aisle, throwing up our hands and demanding “Why!?! Why, God, why?” as we wailed and pounded our chests in agony until take-off.

And while my husband and I love all the kids we personally know, such as our nieces, we were still those people who got annoyed when some brat we didn’t know started running amok in a restaurant because he was done with his “sketti” and wanted down from the table NOW because he had some very pressing toddler business to do that included touching everything with his sticky hands and banging on the window while singing at a loud volume.

And then…well, then that little pee stick changed color and loudly announced that karma is a bit…rough some times.

(Heh. See what I did there?)

It’s amazing how quickly your perspective can change. Ever since that fateful day, it’s like my husband and I are looking at everything with new eyes. For example, as it turns out, pregnancy is wicked hard. Like, super duper hard, you guys. Growing a human being from scratch is exhausting. I wouldn’t wish this kind of agony on my worst enemy (mostly because she already has, like, three kids and that is punishment enough). So, not only should you give up your seat, but you should also probably carry that pregnant woman around, Cleopatra-style, and feed her grapes while rubbing her feet and telling her how thin she looks.

And as for those frou-frou women with the giant strollers? I have had no less than 23 mothers tell me they are absolutely essential because when you leave the house the baby needs to take all of its belongings with it or else it, like, dies. Or craps right through its onesie. Whichever one is more inconvenient for you at the moment.

I have also been informed by these same mothers that swatting your kid with a newspaper in public, while not technically illegal, is generally frowned upon. As is shoving your kid’s face into their own diaper while yelling “No! Bad!”

Considering both our families live in the Midwest, that screaming child on the airplane who is too dumb to realize that if they would just yawn the pain would stop is going to be ours. Feel free to shoot us dirty looks and to loudly question the cruelty of a god that would allow this. Turnabout is fair play.

With pregnancy also comes compassion and now I suddenly see that those parents in the restaurant are stuck between a rock and a hard place. Because you can insist junior stay at the table, locked into his high chair, in which case he will likely have a meltdown, or you can let him down and let him run amok while you follow and try to minimize the damage as much as possible, but at least he’s not screaming. These parents deserve a free drink, not your contempt, because they are essentially being held hostage by a short maniac in overalls and are doing their best to deal with it.

This is especially true, in my opinion, because in a mere six months, those parents dealing with all that will be us. And while considering our past, we probably don’t deserve your mercy, I can only hope the rest of you are more understanding than we have been.

But if you’re not, that’s OK too. Rumor has it we’ll be too tired to even wear real pants in public, let alone care what you think.

It’ll all be worth it. Trust me.

It was on a Thursday afternoon. Or maybe it was a Wednesday morning. Sunday night?

Whatever. It doesn’t matter. All the days are running together now. Even my birthday, which was spent on the couch trying not to die, much like how I’ve spent every other day for the past two months.

Anyway, it was during yet another face-to-face conversation with Mr. Toilet that it hit me: Pregnancy sucks.

Oh yeah. You read me right. All that stuff about glowing and being a sacred vessel and a goddess and how beautiful pregnancy is? LIES! All of it!

No, let me tell you what pregnancy is really like, at least the first trimester, which is as far as I’ve gotten. It’s like being hungover and coming down with the flu and ebola simultaneously after a night of dealing with food poisoning, which you contracted after getting beat up by a bunch of meth-using ninja warriors who like to use heavy, blunt objects to hit people’s boobs and lower back.

And that’s just what happens to you physically.

Mentally, you have suddenly dropped 37 IQ points and have the same memory capacity as a dog whose owner just left. Has it been five minutes? Five hours? Five days!?! Who knows? You can’t even remember how the toaster works.

As for emotionally? Ha! Just make sure your loved ones are wearing a helmet when they are in close proximity to you because your emotional lizard brain has taken over and is bulldozing everything else in sight. One minute you’re on the floor sobbing because you decided, like an idiot, to watch that Internet video of the puppy who overcame Swimmers Syndrome, and the next you’re threatening to divorce your husband because he smells like salami and if you can’t have cold cuts THEN NO ONE CAN!

And those things aren’t even the worst part. Oh no. No, as horrible as those things are, the worst part is how everyone keeps telling you “But it’ll all be WORTH it. Trust me.” Which is why I would like to take a moment to address all the parents out there:

Dear all the parents out there,

I know you have good intentions. Just like an addict who has hit rock bottom, gone to rehab and come out the other side with a new outlook on life, your words are only meant to encourage and comfort me. To let me know that there is light at the end of the tunnel. You’ve been there and if you can do it, then I can do it.

But the problem is, I’m still at the beginning of the tunnel. The first trimester is pure fetus-making hell and the only thing my stupid, forgetful, emotionally charged brain can handle right now is simple instructions like:

1. Get can of ginger ale.

2. Lay on floor.

3. Try to drink ginger ale without getting up off floor.

Anything more complicated than that and my brain simply can’t process it.

So every time you too cheerfully tell me that it’s all worth it, complete with your 16 exclamation points, all I can picture is your six-month-old holding a gun to your head and forcing you to type. “Now tell her it’s a love like she’s never felt before…good…good…if we keep convincing women to reproduce, soon we will have enough soldiers for the baby army and we can finally TAKE OVER THE WORLD! Haha-evil baby laugh-haha”

Because right now, I honestly can’t picture any scenario where this kind of bodily abuse could possibly be worth anything. You know why? Because I don’t have a baby yet. I have constant farting. I don’t have a little creature that has my eyes and his mouth. I have a bloated stomach and middle of the night nosebleeds. I don’t even have a tiny, tiny adorable foot kicking my ribs yet, reminding me that I have a new life growing inside me. All I have is the inability to poop normally.

So while I appreciate the sentiment behind your “it’s worth it” sentiment, it doesn’t actually help to hear it. Not right now. The only thing that helps right now is pickle juice and making jokes about how much pregnancy sucks.

And I would greatly appreciate it if you all could remind me that I wrote this post six months from now when I am officially a full-fledge parent and I’m telling some other poor, pregnant  first-timer about how I know it seems bad right now but it’ll all be worth it.

Trust me.