Pregnancy Super Powers 101

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 🙂


Life, Limb, and Labia: Grooming while pregnant

I told my husband I was going to write a new blog post. He put on an interested smile and asked me the topic. I responded directly and without hesitation: shaving my vagina. He just shook his head and left the room. So this is my disclaimer: this post is going to be about my (mis)adventures when it comes to grooming while pregnant, especially as related to feminine care. It’s been a humorous part of this whole process, and as such I find it necessary to share with a whole host of strangers on the internet, so you’re welcome. It won’t be that bad, I promise, but if you are offended, here are my sincerest (slash not) apologies. Read on at your own peril!

I recently hit a new pregnancy milestone, and oh what a terrific (see definition number three; learned something new, eh?) one it is. I didn’t even know I had hit/far surpassed this milestone until I attempted to go through my standard shower routine (apparently I should shower more). Allow me to elaborate:

Around six or seven every morning, baby starts her daily womb-rampage around my uterus, so sleep becomes akin to trying to get Sydney Leathers to keep her clothes on, aka impossible. On this particular morning, I flopped out of bed, waddled my way to the bathroom, peed, brushed my teeth, and jumped in the shower where I immediately peed again (oh, you know you do it too; stop judging).

Post-pee, there I am in the shower working my way through the standard pregnant lady shower protocol in which one must attempt to slather and lather as many body parts as can still be reached without toppling to the ground or utilizing a loofa glued to a Nifty Nabber. I do the hair and belly, and then move on to my legs. While we are on the topic, let’s talk about how hairy your legs get during pregnancy: if Chewbacca were to develop male pattern baldness, we would be twins from the waist down, though I have never seen wookie parts, so I’m going to assume that might be a noteworthy distinctive difference. But I digress..

I successfully hacked back the bulk of the hair emanating from the parts of my legs within striking distance, and then moved north to the taming of the va-hoo-ha. Now, we aren’t talking anything fancy here: I’m not attempting to sculpt an English garden down there, I’m aiming for minimally socially acceptable should I be struck by a sudden breeze or find myself in that scene from The King and I where she herds the children in her petticoats. We don’t need anyone losing an eye, so really this is more a public safety concern than anything else.

Here’s where the full extent of the terrific milestone was realized: I CAN NO LONGER SEE MY VAGINA. AT ALL. And I mean nothing. It’s been more fully eclipsed by the mountain of breast and belly than Bonnie Tyler could ever have imagined. Total panic and chaos ensue in the shower as I frantically contort myself into every position possible searching for the elusive glimpse of my lady parts. Still nothing. Goose, we’re flying blind up here.

So now I’m faced with a precarious dilemma: do I forego the shaving and add it to the list of unsightly things Lonnie has to just deal with (Chewbacca male pattern baldness being the least of his worries), or do I risk life, limb, and labia to take a crack at it?

After serious thought, I was persuaded by the realization that at some point a doctor, my husband, and countless nurses will be forced to stare at my nether-regions for an extended period of time; I imagine birth is one of those things where you want the pilot to have as clear a runway as possible. Additionally, my baby will be emerging into this world through that fuzzy portal. I am assuming she will not be brandishing a machete nor lightsaber on her way out, so I should probably make it less force-field like.

Razor in hand (this is where I intensely regretted my decision to buy CVS brand razors), I decide to give it a go. I ended up utilizing the “Shaving by Braille” technique: you just feel your way around and hope for the best. (Internal dialogue went something like this: “That is either my bikini line or I forgot to take off my underwear…Nope, definitely bikini line.”)

When it was all said and done, my body parts were mostly intact and slightly more socially acceptable. But the big take away here is that shaving while pregnant is kind of like asking all your body parts to sign up for a rousing game of Russian Roulette: it’s only a matter of time before one of them takes that hit. My guess is it’s going to be an armpit; I’m probably overly confident with the pits since they are within my range of vision. It’s always the one you least expect! I’ll keep you apprised.