True (pregnancy) Stories

True Story: So I went to Target to shop for baby shower gifts for a friend. I’m standing in the baby section, surrounded by 800 billion different products, and I start BAWLING because I don’t know the purpose of ANY of these contraptions. Like, there are these dispensers for stuff, and little ovens for certain types of bottles and wipes, and these kits with these attachments, for what I cannot even imagine, and special dishwasher baskets and hand washing baskets and these crazy devices where I guess you can pump certain stuff out, or keep other stuff in (and fresh! Don’t forget fresh!) and special designs for every single thing! I know what baby powder is, I know how to get the right size diapers, and I know what onesies are. Beyond that, I got bupkis.

True Story: Overnight my boobs, once a cute duo of Volkswagen Beetles, are now a couple of Cadillac touring sedans. I don’t care who you are, or what size your airbags were before that sperm drilled into your egg, nobody likes to be forced to rent a cargo van when they are used to driving a compact car. And I keep hearing that this is just the beginning. Which freaks me out. A lot.

True Story: Before you decide on a baby name, I’ve discovered that it’s incredibly helpful to yell out said name very loudly, followed by a pretend offense the forthcoming child will surely commit, and see how it feels. If I feel embarrassed to yell out “Neil Steele, did you smear peanut butter on the TV?” (Which incidentally, I would feel embarrassed to yell out, due to the rhyming), then it’s just not going to be a good fit. I also found it to be highly amusing to be downstairs, folding laundry, and yelling fake names at fake kids for fake naughtiness. Total stress reducer!

True Story: The grocery store is the worst place ever. I thought if I could just avoid the meat and fish departments, I’d be fine, but that doesn’t seem to be the case. And do you know why? Because. People don’t brush their teeth. And they don’t shower, and they don’t put on deodorant and they just don’t care. And being pregnant magnifies all of these scents about 6,000 times. I cannot help but glare unabashedly at these people and make low growling noises. If the offender is particularly disgusting, I say “gross” out loud when I walk past. I figure it’s nicer than punching them right in the face. Plus, this way I don’t have to touch them.

True Story: Our neighbors and good friends have 2 cats and a dog, a black lab I’m in love with named Luke. I stopped by the other day, entering, as usual, through the side door. And I must have turned an ugly shade of green because my friend immediately asked me what was wrong. I wanted to yell at the top of my lungs, “OH MY GOD!” Where is the litter box and why haven’t you cleaned it EVER???” Of course, I wouldn’t normally say anything like that, because it’s rude. However, as I am quickly learning, I no longer have a “Don’t say that out loud Erin” filter. And that lack of filter, coupled with an overwhelming sensitivity to smells, did in fact make me say “Jesus, woman. Where the F is the litter box? It smells like ass in here!” And I said this in the kitchen, and the litter box, which had been emptied and freshened just a day or two before, was in the basement and on the complete opposite side of the house. As so I learned that litter boxes, no matter how clean or how far away, are so pungent that you could swear a cat just took a shit on your upper lip.

True Story: I was almost asleep, thinking about the delivery room at the hospital (OK, mentally decorating the delivery room at the hospital) when I suddenly realized that I am to give birth at a Catholic Hospital. So I roused Seth from his near sleep and asked “Seth, am I not allowed to swear at the hospital? Because that is not going to work for me.” Seth is of the opinion that if you’re giving birth, you get kind of a free pass for swearing, but I’m worried. I don’t know what I’ll likely yell out, but I can tell you that I’m no stranger to the phrases “Jesus Christ” and “God Dammit”. They, along with a plethora of other ‘non-taking-the-Lord’s-name in vain but shouldn’t be yelled in public’ expressions are kind of part of my everyday vernacular. I guess the best I can do is hope those nurses don’t dole out Hail Mary’s and stuff while I'm in labor.