I am pregnant therefore I have superpowers. No, really, I do. It’s probably the coolest thing about being pregnant, especially since aside from the whole growing a human thing, there’s not much else to place in the Cool Category. I have many items to place in the Icky, Swollen, Expensive, Embarrassing, and Terrifying categories, but Cool consists primarily of “growing a human.” So add superpowers to that list and call it complete.
Superpower Numero Uno: Spidey Senses
One of the first superpowers I acquired by virtue of successfully harvesting sperm was a super sniffer rivaling that of an Israeli airport dog. Seriously, want to stop the flow of drugs into the United States from Mexico? Stop using sub-par German Shepherds and hire pregnant women to sniff around those tail pipes. Problem solved. Anecdotal evidence is as follows:
Around three months into our pregnancy, at a time when staying up past 7pm was a wild night, Lonnie and I cultivated a little ritual. He would sportingly trek up the stairs with me, read a chapter out loud to me from some crazy pregnancy book until I began drool-snoring, then creep back downstairs to watch endless episodes of Futurama until it was the bedtime for real adults. One night, being of the petite and svelte figure that he is, Lonnie decided to make a quesadilla. Normal people make quesadillas the lazy way: take a tortilla, throw it in the microwave (no plate needed; after receiving radiation on par with that of Fukushima, the tortilla becomes its own plate) toss some processed cheese-ish product on top, and wait 30 seconds. Lonnie, however, having a refined quesadilla palate (read: this is the same man who once took a piece of pizza, wrapped it in a tortilla, and squirted in Ranch dressing to make a “pizza burrito”), insists on using the oven to make his ‘dillas. So he did.
Just as it was nearing baked awesomeness, my spidey senses (while drool-snore-sleeping) detected that ‘dilla. Instead of registering as an “oh, Lonnie must be using the oven to make a snack”, the message came blaring through to my hormonal body as a Grade 10 Air Quality Index Emergency to which I responded by jumping out of bed, grabbing my poor, unsuspecting pooch by the butt, and screaming for everyone to get out of the house immediately. Safely outside, I was certain I had just saved my budding little family from imminent doom until my confused husband, quesadilla in mouth, opens the front door to find out why I had rushed outside while carrying our dog upside down (or, butt-side up). My new super power clearly needed some fine-tuning.
Super Power Numero Dos: The Hand on Belly Power
This power is one that gets stronger as you get fatter, kinda like my inability to avoid Double-Stuff Oreos. This power must be exercised carefully, as it can easily be used to fulfill some hormonally driven mal-intent (or general laziness).
Here’s the situation: Your husband bought expensive walkie-talkies from Best Buy because he thought they would be really cool to use while caravaning from DC to Texas. You remind him about the modern invention of cell phones with Bluetooth and implore him to return the walkies seeing as they cost more than an average trip to Costco (I don’t care if you just went in for eggs, you are leaving with twelve catalouples and a flatscreen that hangs on the side of the bathtub). He argues back that Best Buy has a thirty day return policy, even if the box is open, so voila! Use them for the trip and they go back upon arrival in Texas.
Thirty days (predictably) comes and goes, and the walkies are still sitting on the kitchen counter. Urgh. Fighting the “told-you-so” urge with every fiber in your being, you take matters into your own hands, grab the 1960s version of the cellphone your husband insisted on having, and walk into Best Buy. The customer service agent politely explains the policy, to which you nod woefully in understanding… but then, you take your hand, and ever-so-lightly rest it on that big ol’ belly of yours, and MAGIC! You walk out of the store, refund in hand and walkie-talkie-less once more, just as the 21st century intended.
You may be tempted to whip out this power and use it for evil (like when you really don’t want to wait your turn in line at the DMV), but you must resist! Or give in only occasionally (okay, I tried it at the DMV and those people could have given a rat’s patootie. I swear they have been genetically modified to be free of normal human emotions, like compassion or happiness).
Last, but not least, I leave you with the Power of “Lightening Crotch”
This one sounds awesome, but is actually friggin’ awful. I saw this on a blog and thought as I approached my due date, electrical rays were going to shoot from my loins. Furthermore, If I were able to learn to control this crotch lightning I could do cool tricks like zap Lonnie when he won’t get out of bed the fourth time his alarm clock goes off (If I had heard “Timba” one more time this morning, I would have resolved to buy a stun gun in case my lightning crotch malfunctioned or was otherwise insufficient).
Call it my poor reading skillz, but it turns out “lightning” is a far different thing than “lightening”. What I thought was going to be the world’s coolest pregnancy superpower actually super-sucks. Lightening crotch, come to find out, is a term for when the baby drops down into your pelvis and proceeds to punch you in the vagina whenever she feels like torturing you, including in the middle of introducing yourself to your neighbors. Judging by their responses to the faces I must have been making as my baby went all Mossad on my cervix, we will not be invited to the next block party.
So there you have it. Pregnancy superpowers 101. We are just a few weeks away from D-Day! Won’t that be a fun experience… we are planning a natural birth, so prepare yourselves for the blog post that will follow that life event 🙂