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What The Hell Is That?: Pregnancy Symptoms That No One Told Me About

31 Jan

My expectation of my own pregnancy. (Image courtesy of

I hate to write about pregnancy so often because it is a subject that even I find boring, but since I’m currently living it and this is my blog, I think I will write about it anyways!

Before I was in the unpaid business of cooking human body parts in my own bod, I had never taken the time to look up pregnancy symptoms. Because why would I? I saw that episode of Full House when Becky is pregnant with Nicky and Alex and makes Jesse go out to get her ALL the chips. That was all I needed to know about pregnancy: it made you want chips. I always want chips, so I had a good feeling I would be good at pregnancy. Thanks to not being stupid, I also knew that other symptoms include nausea, weight-gain, fatigue, swelling, good hair days, and chronic bitch-face aimed at those who stand as an obstacle between you and food. My friends and I have had conversations of what fat messes we would be when we eventually got knocked-up. I envisioned myself being bloated and projectile vomiting for 9 months. But my reality of pregnancy has been totally different than my expectation. Because I am rounding my 3rd trimester, and so far, this has been my pregnancy journey, in order of when they took place:

Cramps: Okay, I guess I had heard of this one. But I didn’t expect pregnancy cramps to feel the exact same as period cramps. EW GROSS, VAG BLOOD! SORRY, MEN!!!! Anyways, I don’t know what I expected pregnancy cramps to feel like, but the cramping started 4 days before my missed period. I didn’t pay much mind to them because I’m no stranger to mild cramps (I feel for anyone who has those fetal-position death cramps) before my time of the month. It wasn’t until I was sitting on my back porch drinking Bud Lights with some girlfriends one night, that I realized I had been cramping for 4 days and my period was still not in town for an annoying visit. I had downloaded one of those fertility apps on my phone for whatever weird reason (I say “weird” because I wasn’t actively trying to have a baby). I announced the revelation of my lack of period out loud as a, “Hahaha, you guys, I’m probably pregnant, that would be fucked up!” type situation. I pulled up the app and realized I was indeed, 4 days late. I took a test the next morning while cooking meatballs for the Pats game. It was September 11, 2016. It was the second most fucked news I have ever heard on September 11th ever (no, that is not a 9/11 joke, but a 9/11 fact. The fact that it was 9/11 just made me remember the date more clearly). Anyways, the cramping feels like period cramping and lasts for weeks for some women.

GIANT BEWBS: Oh man, so I knew that boobs got tender and boobs got bigger. But I didn’t know the bigger part was actually MASSIVE. I went out for a jog at 7 weeks and had to stop after a quarter mile because no sports bra was supportive enough to de-tenderize my boobs. About a week later (my husband swears it was over the course of a weekend), they blew the fuck up. I went from a C cup to a D practically overnight. I am actually bulging out of my bra as I type, but I refuse to go Double D right now. So many changes are occurring in my life for me to admit the change in my cup size again. I will wait for one more person to tell me they see my nipple through my shirt (yes, this has already happened) before I pull the trigger.  I wish I could say this was something that has happened to me only while pregnant, but I have received texts from my husband while out to dinners with friends that have read “fix your nipple”. I guess that is what marriage is about? Anyways, the sensitivity is relatively back to normal, for now. But they are still huge.

Weight Loss: You hear in fairy tales stories of those bitch women who maintain their weight during pregnancy. You know the type: quinoa is their Jesus, they bath in coconut oil eucalyptus leaves, and feel “uneven” if they miss a barre class. Well, I always *KNEW* I would gain too much weight during pregnancy and would not be one of those bitch women. This was a fact I had embraced as soon as I learned what a metabolism was. But I was wrong. I lost weight in my first trimester – and it was not from projectile vomiting, as I had previously expected. I am a person who loves food and drink and sitting down. While I still enjoy sitting down with all of the eagerness of a child learning some new shit, I have almost completely given up going out to eat while pregnant. And my worst fear, no drinking (they say you can do a glass of wine once in awhile, which I have done a couple of times. JUDGE ME-  a shot of wine mixed with seltzer water, but honestly, where is the fun in uncorking a bottle, just to re-cork it because you can’t finish?). My avoidance of going to dinners and drinking is what caused me to lose weight during the first trimester. I do begrudgingly still go to the gym, but only out of boredom. So I guess that helps? I just started to “pop”, but not enough that anyone would ever give up their seat for me on the Red Line. OH, WAIT, NO ONE DOES THAT EVEN IF YOU’RE A PREGNANT, CRIPPLED, CHILD HOLDING A BABY WITH NO LIMBS. Well, that’s a stretch, since we shouldn’t be rewarding children for being pregnant by giving them our seats, but my point is: no one gets up for pregnant women on the T except for other women between ages 25 and 50. I was pregnant and got up for another pregnant lady because no one else made a move (people pretend to be absorbed in their phones to avoid accountability), and at that point I decided to forfeit the T until this baby is out of me. So anyways, that was a tangent. No maternity clothes yet, I can still wear my jeans, but as my husband told me this weekend, “You can see your vagina in those jeans, kind’ve”. Thank God for leggings, but I have always known this.

Depression: Aw, this is kind of a sad one! I had always heard of the baby blues, but it doesn’t just come post-partum. Depression during pregnancy has been my least favorite part of the 9 months (can we just say 10 months? 9 months is a LIE!). I am ordinarily an extroverted girl who likes to go out and fill up my days with thangs to do. Not so much when I’m pregnant. I dread every social gathering I get invited to because it’s hard to remove myself from my house sometimes and partake in conversation that feels forced, only because I don’t want to be there (although I still appreciate the invites, it’s me, not you).

I think people have this preconceived notion that you find out you’re pregnant and you automatically get all maternal, and have this glow, and are sick for a little bit but then you’re just giddy while you wait for the baby. It doesn’t always work like that, and it kind of triggers the expectation of “being a good mom” from the moment of conception. No one wants to hear about the bad aspects of pregnancy, because if you complain they associate it with you being “ungrateful”, which is utterly ridiculous (did you read my blog about the Vermont super-mom? If not, scroll down!). If you are anything less than excited, some people will for whatever dumb ass reason think that there is a small part of you that isn’t excited for the baby. Which, in my case at least, is absolute bullshit. You can hate being pregnant and feel depressed from wacky hormones, and still be excited for your baby. I mean, your hormones really are totally out of whack, so can we anticipate some old fashioned depression, or is it just to be viewed as the adorable preggo woman having a quick mood swing? The mood swing can be a 2 minute ordeal because we ran out of Ben & Jerry’s, but a little bit of depression can be a day spent on the couch, or feeling extremely overwhelmed by the thought of raising another human. I mean, for someone who spent her lunch break eating chocolate chip cookies and laughing at memes, child-rearing can be pretty intimidating to say the least.

OH, and the maternal chip that is on auto-pilot – NOPE! As a matter of fact, not only do I still not feel maternal, but I have experienced somewhat of a sense of mourning for my pre-maternal self even though I haven’t lost her yet (if that makes sense). It’s a lot to process such a huge life change. Marriage is one thing: some view it as a huge life event to process, and yeah, to some degree, but you stick your husband in a closet for being annoying and it’s funny. You do that to a child for being annoying and it’s abuse. Wait…what?

Anyways, You don’t just find out about the alien inside of you, and want to spoon feed it and pet it and warn it about Bill Cosby. It’s not always an instant connection. It does help when you feel the baby moving around. But it can definitely take some time to feel like it’s real. It doesn’t help when other moms are saying “JUST WAIT!” like total psychos when they find out your expecting. I know, most of them are kidding around and probably don’t even realize they are doing it, but as I mentioned in a past post, I think some people like to project a little bit of their own misery onto other people. And I will probably get shit for this (LOLz), but I think some moms like to talk about how much their lives suck worse than yours because one of their kids is a shit, or their marriage sucks. Like, okay, cool, thanks for the advice, but I think this is your issue, not mine?

So yeah, a little bit of depression has definitely been my worst symptom, because who likes to be sad for basically no reason at all? I had a moment in Ikea a few months ago. It was a Friday night, I was in the Organizational Boxes section of the store, and Darude’s Sandstorm was playing, and I thought to myself, “I am bringing a child into this”. It was a sobering moment. I’ve had a few, but I can usually combat it by making myself get up and doing something (cooking, gym, reactivating my blog to complain to you guys). But sometimes I just want to lay around and be melancholy and listen to that one Genesis (what?). It’s not a symptom I was expecting during pregnancy but yeah, I Googled it after experiencing it, and it happens.

Nesting: I had heard of nesting – that crazy itch to clean and organize every thing in your house to make it baby-happy. I guess I had heard of all the symptoms I’m listing, so maybe I should rename this blog, but nah. What no one told is that nesting can last through your entire pregnancy (I thought it was just in the home stretch). I have been driving my husband to the brink of insanity with projects. We have already (with the help of friends) renovated two rooms in our house, the guest room and the nursery. What my husband doesn’t know is that we are going to rip up the disgusting linoleum in the bathroom next 😉

Forgetfulness: Ah, yes, I need to rename this blog. I knew about “Pregnancy Brain” long before I was inseminated. But man, this shit is REAL. I forget everything! I have locked myself out of my car twice, my house once, forgotten my lunch bag, forgotten important documents I need to bring to my doctor’s appointments, and oh!, as I type this I am remembering my FMLA paperwork is sitting at Crown Colony and I said I’d pick it up 3 weeks ago. Whoops! My brain feels fried, which completely negates this sobriety. I thought my brain power would increase without all of those booze toxins, but nope! I can’t even concentrate long enough to read a chapter in a book. It’s wild how dumb I am.

SO! The moral of this bloggy, is that every pregnancy is different, and some women like to paint their bellies to look like watermelons and happy turd emojis, and SOME women want to punch those women then watch 6 hours of the Property Brothers while they eat toast. Don’t be judgy, Judgy!


You’ll Understand When You Have Kids One Day

27 Jan

“You’ll understand when you have kids one day”: A phrase that as a female with no kids (well, until May), has made me cringe deeply for most of my 20’s. At least since women I know started getting pregnant on purpose. I think that the only time it is acceptable to say this to another female is when you are saying it to your own child in response to, “but why, Mom?!”. A follow up to telling your kid “NO”, basically. Otherwise, what else are you trying to say? Any other time that I have heard a woman say this to someone, even in a light situation, it is just condescending bullshit meant to imply that what she is doing as a mother is more important than what a childless woman is doing. Or that the childless woman couldn’t possibly understand, because she doesn’t have children. Don’t get me wrong, there are some things I feel I shouldn’t speak on because my child is still cozy in the uterus where there is no peer pressure or meth, but that doesn’t mean I’m a complete moron either. Sounds harsh, and by no means am I negating the significance of being a mother, we don’t need to debate whether being a parent is a tough job, but think about it any time you have heard someone say it and give me any example of when it wasn’t even just mildly passive aggressive in a good-natured way.

I won’t get into the fact that some women have fertility issues, as I want to keep this light. But I do want to express my reasoning for being annoyed with this ridiculous statement we sometimes hear. For one thing, although I am kidless, I have been around kids enough to know that they are tiring. Have you ever played Barbies and gotten ANY say in the story line?! It’s exhausting to play make-believe with zero input while sober. I’d play with my niece when she was much smaller and I was always the Wicked Witch Barbie who was trying to steal Malibu Barbie’s husband by forcing her to dress like a slob (that wasn’t exactly what my niece verbalized to me, but that was the take-away as for why I was always the single one with mismatched heels). Or my personal favorite story line, “Make The Witch knock on the door to Barbie’s camper, then run away to your cave!”. For each time we repeated the scene, I took a year off the age I would get my tubes tied, until I was in the negative. Raising kids ain’t easy, no doubt about it. And I’m only talking about the Barbie age! Nevermind the high school, in some cases middle school, years when drugs and handies are introduced!

So yeah, I get it. I just spent a paragraph trying to convey how difficult it is for me to even play Barbies with a kid for 45 minutes, let alone every fucking day until they grow out of the Barbie stage. But just because one bitch is playing the most boring game of Barbies with Fruit Loops in her hair and a mountain of laundry to tackle, doesn’t mean we don’t have another bitch getting reamed with impossible deadlines at a stressful job day-in and day-out, who gets stuck on the T for an hour on the way home to make the day that much more aggrivating. I mean, we even have some crazy bitches who do both, the mom’ing and working (that will be my sorry ass in August – great!). But having been the tired working female who has worked hard to create a life she wanted for herself BEFORE having children, SHUT. UP. Part of adulting is being tired, with kids or not. Unless you’re rich. And even then the least of your problems is dodging a prescription drug situash, which is a pretty bad problem!

One thing I love is complaining. And I hate when people try to take my complaint card away. That is EXACTLY what is going on when women say that I will understand when I have kids some day. That statement is a direct attack on my right to complain. Just because you’re tired from being a mom, doesn’t mean I’m not tired. And while we are on the subject, just because you’re older than me doesn’t mean I’m not tired. You just tire more easily (kidding, I tire pretty easily for being under 30), but I digress. For real, just because you love something that you made in your own belly a whole lot (I admit now, it’s impressive), doesn’t mean that us kidless Wicked Witches are out there living unfulfilling, unimportant lives. Think before you say it, and if saying it is your way of venting away your misery, then add it to the Barbie storyline. Just don’t expect a Malibu Barbie role.

Me. Image courtesy of

Me. Image courtesy of

Aging Ain’t A Thang

25 Jan

I am not afraid of turning 30. Birthdays have never bothered me (says the 29 year old). This is not because growing old doesn’t scare me. In fact, one of my worst nightmares is being the victim of an elder abuse crime. Imagine being old and feeble and all your friends are dead and some trash-bag home health aide with bad eyebrows and a shitty manicure with dumb designs tries to slap you around in your own home? At that point, I would pray to be taken out via pillow smothering in my sleep, Randle Patrick McMurphy style. Thanks, Chief!

I am 100% positive that this outlook will change when I am 39 going on 40, but for now, I am apparently still young enough to give no fucks about aging. Why waste your youth bitching about your future? It’s not even there yet, and there is enough to complain about in the present as is.

I know that many of my peers do not share the same attitude. Everyone has their own reasons for getting depressed about turning 30. Maybe they already have kids and feel they didn’t cram enough guiltless whoring or drug use into their 20’s. Maybe they don’t have kids, but did too much of both of those things and wish they could re-do their 20’s with a lot less drug-induced serotonin loss/whoring. I, on the other hand, have woken up with enough hangovers to be content with how things have gone so far. I have had a good time, and I actually think the good times get better with age. The older I get the more I stop doing shit I don’t want to do.

Example: Remember the early 20’s, when you are so excited to finally be independent and free and venture out into the city with friends to check out some of the clubs? Well, as a “normal” 20-something, I did this and realized pretty quickly that I didn’t like the club scene. Not only did I hate almost breaking my ankle a number of times while drunkenly attempting Fanuel Hall cobblestone in heels, I also hated standing in lines in freezing weather, paying a cover charge to be participate in fast-paced awkward body movement (“dancing”) in a crowded area where 1 in 3 people within 3 feet is likely a sex offender, holding my pee in bathroom lines, peeing in those bathrooms, waiting at the bar for a drink, ahhh, the list goes on!

Some people are about that life, I mean, we all have those Facebook friends who are nightlife promoters that at first make us feel like losers who don’t go anywhere cool, but later into our 20’s make us feel bad for them because they are now career nightlife promoters. Right?

I decided pretty early on that I am more content in a low-key bar or going out to dinner with a few friends or -my favorite- sitting on my back porch with a couple of girlfriends drinking wine and listening to music. Anything that involves overthinking your ride situation just feels stressful to me. Any place I can’t wear flats and needs to be relentlessly promoted with free-entry offers is probably going to give me anxiety at this point. Does anyone ever really enjoy frequenting an establishment that houses a mechanical bull, unless they are a member of a Bachelorette party visiting Tennessee? Or were we always secretly just gals that wanted to seem more fun, but would have preferred to stay on the party bus when everyone else was being dropped off at the first bar on the list? And yes, if the bus driver didn’t remind me of Ted Bundy, and the bathroom wasn’t out of order (ALWAYS, it was always out of order!), I would have hung back.

I am totally down with being as basic as ever. Such a sucker for Paint Night (especially when the painting class being offered is elephant themed). Early 20’s < Late 20’s. Let’s hope we get even more content in our 30’s. Here’s to not doing things we don’t want to do!

Being a Pregnant Bitch & Other Things That Weren’t On My Bucket List But…Here We Are.

24 Jan

From the moment I decided I wanted to have my husband’s babies (age 7, before we ever knew the other existed), I knew that when that time came, I would be this cool-ass pregnant wife. I would be like “Yeah, babe, go out and don’t worry about me. I’ll be home painting cutesy excerpts from depressing children’s books on wooden pallets. Don’t check-in for seven hours, I want you to have a night out to relax”. M’kay. It’s kind of like how I thought that when we first started dating I would be this chill-ass girlfriend. “Chill-ass” in a way that I would never make him take 17 pictures of me from different angles then scream-cry about being obese, hold past arguments over his head, or throw southwestern omelettes against the wall in mini fits of rage over minor inconveniences. Well, I am wrong a lot and just as I was less of a chill-ass girl friend and more of a “maybe she’s stable today at least” situation, I am also a bitchy pregnant wife.

Someone recently sent me a comedian’s skit about being the resentful pregnant wife and man, is that me. Every time my husband mentions the possibility of potentially going out (beats around the bush trying to gage my reaction, basically, kind of sort of, out of fear, then backs down and retreats is more like it), the resentment slowly creeps up. The feeling starts in my detoxed liver and weaves through my watered down blood and chills my lukewarm heart. Then I overthink about it and that’s always the best approach when dealing with your own insanity, right? I revisit it 3 minutes later, then it’s like, BOOM… “Oh, okay, you’re going out? That’s cool. Out with friends. To the bar. Friday night. MUST BE NICE. I’d like to do that. Thought we’d stay in and look at the registry again. Watch a new Dateline mystery. That’s cool. We can do that another night before we’re both dead. If you hate me and prefer your friends to me, that’s cool. JUST DATE THEM. It’s cool. Things are cool and things MUST BE NICE. TO JUST INSEMINATE YOUR WIFE WITH YOUR SATAN SPERM AND THEN LEAVE HER TO WATCH NETFLIX FOR 9 MONTHS WHILE YOU GO OUT ONCE A MONTH LIKE SOME KIND OF DEGENERATE IDIOT. DON’T LOOK AT ME. DON’T YOU LOOK AT ME. STOP LOOKING. WE ARE ALL GOING TO DIE IN THIS HOUSE RIGHT NOW. I’M ABOUT TO LIGHT THIS HOUSE ON FIRE AND I AM VERBALIZING IT AS AN ACTUAL CRY FOR HELP SO MAYBE YOU SHOULD GET 9-1-1 ON THE HORN!!!!!!”

Just kidding……..


Here is the thing, I KNOW it is irrational to go into a jealous rage because I can’t close out the bar and he can (note that I haven’t closed out a bar in years even when I wasn’t pregnant). But my hormones make me not care very much. The other day I almost puked and/or shit myself on Quincy Ave after eating a cup of clam chowder at Grumpy White’s (to no fault of Grump’s!). Like, I had to pull my car over and sweat for a solid five minutes before I was okay to turn the engine back on. When I got home he was complaining about having “a little bit of heartburn”. I was still panting while I listened to his description, “symptoms sound like GERD, but I don’t know. I don’t really want to go to the doctor. I think milk makes it worse, weirdly”. I listen, eyes wide and wild. I just had a traumatic, physical episode that could have involved loss of a couple of bodily functions due to eating 8 ounces of chowder in front of The Potting Bench. If I hadn’t breathed into an old Taco Bell bag I found under my seat (from HIM), it would have happened. Does anyone know what that is like? No, because this only happens to toddlers and old people (aw, old people problems break my heart). Your heartburn is adorable though and I feel sorry for you.

Don’t feel too bad for my husband because he does get to leave the premises once in a while. Like, a few nights ago I sent him out to get whipped cream. Nice little drive to 7-11. Oh, and we went go to Lowes three times in one weekend quite often.

I’m never going to be as chill-ass as I’d hoped I’d be, and that’s okay. Or maybe it’s not. But my hormones don’t make me care very much right now.

For the record, I love my husband and would like, probably never murder him.


Meat Cleaver image courtesy of

The Child Isn’t Even Fully Developed & I’m Already Being Judged

20 Jan

I have always known that there are some craaaaazy judgy moms out there, and to them I must say this: YOU’RE THE WORST. My fetus isn’t even fully formed and I am already being judged. I am just shocked (no I’m not) that it’s happening pre-birth. I don’t care about anyone but myself so I really can’t fathom why anyone cares about me or my human creation whose farts can’t even be heard yet because they die in my uterus. Like, do people really care what other people do? I thought this was the 90’s (I’m still living in 1997)! When can we just say and do what we want?!

So, the other day I wrote a post about pregnancy being sometimes boring. I expected Facebook commenters to bitch me out, because that’s what would happen even if I wrote a blog on basket weaving (I have never weaved a basket), but I didn’t expect an attack from some randoms on my personal Facebook page because of a post that literally said, “I reactivated my blog because pregnancy is boring”. Some asshole mom from Vermont (it’s important to me that you know she is from Vermont) took offense to this and wrote a paragraph underneath my status and for some reason related my pregnancy boredom to boredom from sobriety. Her moron friend chimes in that she knows moms who have fun while sober (well, I would hope so). Told me I can have fun without wine (thanks, I was 14 once). I have zero idea why sobriety was brought up, other than me saying “I MISS BEERS” on Facebook once in awhile. Because, well, yeah, pregnancy CAN BE boring (for me). Watching other people drink CAN BE boring (for me). That doesn’t mean I completely hate being pregnant, and even if it did, there is nothing wrong with that. Some people can be grateful to be pregnant but also dislike it’s symptoms and what comes along with sharing your body with an alien being.

Naturally, I private messaged this girl to ask her, “what the fuck?”, because I was genuinely confused at how I could have offended her, and her response was even more polarizing on a female to female basis. She replied that she never felt the need to complain during her pregnancy because she CHOSE to have sex and she CHOSE to keep the baby and there are babies with Fetal Alcohol Syndrome so it’s not funny to even joke about wanting wine. She even juggled pregnancy with being the Maid of Honor in TWO weddings. She used the “MOH” acronym for “maid of honor” like she was the founder of Cosmo magazine or something. She concluded her response with her well wishes for me to mature before labor. Well, okay Mrs. Hot Shit MOH Mom of America, where do I submit my recommendation to have you become the first female pope?

I happen to think that people who don’t complain in life are ticking time bombs/probable sociopaths. I mean, what kind of psycho isn’t afraid to tell a hormonal person who has had ZERO pino since September 10th that she shouldn’t complain because it was her choice to have sex?! I reckon if I said that out loud to anyone, I would have to stick my dumb head in a lit oven. THE WORST. I understand there is a max limit to complaining, but overall, complaining is something I condone. It’s the reason we have friends in this agitating life. The one rule to complaining is that unless you have Ebola, you can only complain in a serious manner once a day. Complaining in a non-funny manner more than once a day turns into bitching and no one wants to hear your bitching.

Seriously, do people REALLY care about how other people feel about pregnancy unless you’re commiserating about it with a friend?! Because while I have been pregnant, and not pregnant, there is nothing I could care less about. I care more about basket weaving than whether or not anyone finds pregnancy boring. I would rather write a paragraph on basket weaving under someone’s status than a paragraph being a judgmental butthole. I mean it.

Pregnancy Is Bullshit

15 Jan

So, I am just going to pick up right where I left off over a year ago. I will blame my hiatus on having nothing left to goddamn say. I knew that I would someday, once again, have some crap to spew. Then one day, that day being today, for the same no good reason that Forrest Gump’s run began, I just felt like blogging. Here we go…

It was a hot and sweaty Sunday evening in August, and I was in a drunken stupor stumbling into my house from the 98 Degrees concert. All in all, the show was as I  expected it to be: Ryan Cabrera was desperately pleading with the largely late-20’s female audience to PM him on Instagram about meeting up in his suite after the show (he ignored my condescending PM, rude), and then a washed-up boy band that wasn’t *NSYNC tried to put on a performance whilst sporting bullet proof vests with nothing underneath. Again, it was exactly as you would expect: shitty. So, got home, I think (hope) my husband was home, and boom, here I am in January 2017, 5.7 months pregnant and Arnold Schwarzenegger has replaced Donald Trump on The Apprentice. So yeah, the night of 98 Degrees I think. Regardless of when it happened, it feels a little more immature relying on Plan B when you’re three years into your marriage, so that is how I got into this predicament. I never knew the song On the Way Down to be an aphrodisiac, but there was alcohol involved, and alas, here I am, waiting for that familiar feeling of an involuntary twitch that reminds me my unborn son, who does not yet have flesh, is moving around in my uterus. And that last sentence brings me to my first point:

Pregnancy is weird and not very fun at all.

I will preface this with the fact that I am very grateful to be pregnant. I know that some women struggle with infertility and then there are assholes like me who get knocked-up the first time the pull-out method remotely fails. I am aware of how lucky I am to be be carrying this baby boy and words can’t express how excited I am to meet him in a few months. But regardless of all that, pregnancy kind’ve sucks and it’s also very weird sometimes. Weird because there is a creature with saggy skin and a white film covering stealing all of your nutrients. Sucky because your body is not yours to beat up anymore. So many moms out there who have had terrible pregnancies will probably hate me right now for complaining because I have had the easiest pregnancy EVER. No vomiting. No bloating. No food aversions. No weird cravings. Oh, and one thing other moms really hate hearing is that I have not gained a single pound (but, we all know it’s coming). Seriously, the disdain in the voices of post-pregnant women, “You’re so tiny”, they remark through gritted teeth, white knuckling whatever object is in reach. Listen, my metabolism has sucked since 05, and I am not tiny as a non-pregnant person so I DESERVE THIS!

Anyways, my main complaint about pregnancy is how mother effing bored I am ALL THE TIME. Well-meaning women advise me to read a book (no concentration), get a hobby (drinking – errr….). I can’t do any of the physical things that I pretend to do when I check into the gym. Can’t ice skate for the first time in 16 years. Can’t take mushrooms in a sauna at the Y. It’s a sobering, dull time.

My second complaint about pregnancy is that whenever I make that first complaint about boredom, veteran moms give me an evil cackling sort of laugh and exclaim, “JUST WAIT!!!!!”, before their witchy faces melt off in a weird fit of rageful bitterness and they shrink back into their Subaru hatchbacks (probably). Which leads me to my next point…

Other parents love to be negative to expectant moms.

One of the strangest things about being pregnant is how excited (some) current parents seem to be to tell expectant moms how much misery they are in for. Like, there is a twinkle in their eyes when they tell me that I am going to get peed on by another human (which in itself is a weird thing to be giddy about telling another person). When I’m not being told about my acceptance into the Golden Showers of America club, everyone loves to tell me how bored I won’t be ever again because “kids are a lot”. Oh. I didn’t know that. I thought I could just buckle the baby onto an uncomfortable wooden chair, give it some trail mix and run errands until lunchtime. I think this phenomenon of being absurdly negative to new moms is just a made-up rite of passage that some veteran moms partake in to make themselves feel better by way of venting. But jeez, guys, I’m sober and miserable enough! Also, if you’re so miserable with all of your kids, then why do you have like 17 of them?


Wedding registries are fun. Babies registries are not. 

Not much else to say other than during my wedding registry I was skipping through Macy’s with the scanner and visions of all the brunches I would be hosting with my new serve-ware. A baby registry just consists of me walking through Babies R Us, reminding my husband to pretend to care about nipples that are not human nipples, but nipples that go on top of a bottle, and stopping every four feet to Google things like, “will this Graco 5000xp 10 speed kill my baby?”, and “is this diaper bag going to kill my soul?”. It’s less fun to pick out gifts when a fetus is depending on you.

Anyways, that’s what I have been up to. Human growing. Or maybe alien growing (check out that ultrasound). Maybe it will inspire some writing?


The truth is out there…

Your Infant Can Stand Like Everyone Else on this GD Train.

1 Dec

*Note: since posting this an hour or so ago, I have had two moms bitch in various comment sections. I don’t hate moms. I don’t hate infants. But I do hate you if you get offended by satire.

I just got a new job that has me commuting into Downtown Boston again. Regardless of my last job being an actual three minute drive, I honestly do not mind the new commute. I would take Red Line rage over work stress any day, and my new job situation has my stress level at zero percent. I also just love working in Boston. City life. Things happening, people going places, people forgetting basic things like how to walk, weird smells. Not anything against working locally, but driving by the sausage cart on Quincy Ave. in Braintree every day was beginning to make me want to buy a sausage from a cart. There is something to be said about sausage carts in Quintree versus sausage carts next to the Corner Mall. I guess.

Anyways, just because I love the new gig, and I choose to throw ‘bows with petite middle-aged Asian women with bags every morning as soon as the train doors open, (I’m not stereotyping, insignificant studies I’ve conducted in my mind over the years have proven that petite, middle-aged Asian women with bags are the most aggressive T passengers), doesn’t mean I don’t have further complaints about my commute. Just because I’m almost 30 now doesn’t make me any less of a whiny Millennial who still blogs. I came, I saw, I left, I’m back, and I have more stuff to complain about.

So like, SUV inspired strollers during rush hour. Why? Looking at you, MOMS. Rolling up into Park Street pushing what appears to be a fucking Smart Car with a baby sticking out of the windshield. But it’s not, it’s a carriage. What’s the thought process here? Are you taking your infant, and your infant’s bungalow, skating on the frog pond on this crisp Monday morning after a long holiday? Perhaps taking him to fill out an application at Starbucks so he can save up to buy himself some fresh Carters? If so, was it necessary to bring your baby around in that industrial-sized, 5×5, birth control mobile that is probably more effective in preventing pregnancy than a Nuvaring? Because there is currently nothing that turns me off from motherhood more than envisioning myself struggling on an escalator with one of those giant things, sweating as I hear that the next train to Alewife is arriving, and my baby starts making that strainy face babies make when they are shitting. Could you have just gone with the space-saving collapsible stroller? You tell me. In the meantime, your freeloading infant can stand like the rest of us schmucks.


Image Courtesy of

Okay, that’s it for now. No really, I’ve changed and I’m more mature since the last time I road public transport.

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