On Pregnancy, Pushing Giant Things out Your Vag, & why it’s Worth it

I read a post on one of my new favorite blogs, and I thought I’d copycat write a similar one as well, because I liked the idea oh so very much.

It is early December 2005. I’m urinating on a stick, because my boobs hurt, and I had to know if my eggo was prego. Of course I wasn’t! I was recovering from relapse number however-many-hundred-and two of the blasted ED, I had only been out of treatment for a few short months, and most importantly, I. WAS. NOT. OVULATING. I mean, I thought the math was simple:



Doing the nasty + Laying your eggs or whatever + spermy reaching your egg = PREGNANCY

I swear it didn’t work that way for me. So, here I am peeing on my stick, thinking, there’s no way you’re pregnant, calm down, this is just to confirm what you already know.

The box says you’re supposed to wait two minutes for the pee to sink in or ferment or do whatever it does, but it didn’t even take that long. My stick was gloating at me, leering at me, tittering YOU’RE PREGNANT YOU’RE PREGNANT YOU’RE PREGNANT MUAHAHAHAHAHA!
Apparently I don't know jack. I blanched, and my hand started shaking. I was pregnant. I was freaking pregnant. I was not supposed to be physically able to have a baby. (Didn’t you need your periods to have a baby?) (And yet.)

Brandon spoke first. Honey, we’re gonna have a baby. It was said quietly, almost reverently. The look I gave him was not very reverent. You did this to me, you bastard! And, with that, I shoved him out of the bathroom and started crying.

And thus began my pregnancy.

I assure you, my dear readers, I acclimated to the idea of a little spawn of me and my hubby, but it took a bit of time. I was scared of the normal things that normal mothers worry about, like will I be a good mom? Will I be able to keep him/her alive, like I am unable to do with my Ficus? Will he get all of mine and Brandon’s worst traits and look revolting? And will I care? But, on top of it all, I also had the damn eating disorder to worry about. What if I didn’t eat enough? And worse, what if I didn’t want to eat enough? What if my baby was somehow harmed or came out unfinished-like if I didn’t get enough nutrition for him?

But, I was committed to doing it – whatever IT was. I had not eaten normally or anything even close to it for, oh, six years or so. What if I was shallow enough to worry about my expanding waist more than the well-being of my child?

Luckily, it didn’t turn out that way. I felt a connection right away with Cade, and knew, even then, that I would protect his well-being with everything I had in me, no matter the cost to me or anybody else. So embark on eating and getting hella big I did.

And it wasn’t easy. But often, life isn’t. But you do it anyway, you know?

My pregnancy was not an easy one. I didn’t gain any weight at all until I was 25 weeks pregnant. In fact, at my 16 week mark I had lost 16 POUNDS since I had found out I was pregnant. Call it what you want: some of you I daresay are thinking that I didn’t eat enough for Cade, but I’ll shrug off your assumptions, because I know the truth. I know that I ate for the welfare of my son, because I would never do anything so selfish as to withhold food and life from him. So why the weight loss? I dunno. Maybe one of life’s cruel jokes? That the only time I was not trying to lose weight is when it was easiest to? Stupid, cruel irony.

Also, my muscles and organs were still recovering from my last relapse. My body was having a hard time dealing with the giant watermelon invading my temple. And then, at 32 weeks, I went into the ER for a little light painkiller, you know, just Morphine (by this point, Cade was so far into my back that he was moving ribs around back there. It’s like, oh sure, shack up wherever you want, kid. Why don’t you make yourself at home, rearrange furniture, do whatever you need, no problem. Brandon would have to try to massage pound my ribs into place every night as I screamed. I went to a physical therapist three times a week so they could tape my ribs into place. So, as I went to the hospital that night for some Morphine to ease the unrelenting, worst kind of pain, I also realized I was contracting. Frequently. And I was dilated to a three. And I was already 95% effaced.

And thus I was put on bed rest.

The doc gave me these giant steroid shots in my bum cheeks, so at 36 weeks he told me I could get up, walk around, squat or lunge like crazy, do whatever I wanted, because Cade would be okay if he came.

And then, quite stubbornly like the kid he is today, he just…refused.

Seriously people. My doc induced me at 39 weeks. I swear Cade did it just to be a pain. And my delivery was not a piece of cake. Everybody told me that once you had your epidural; it was kind of like bada-bing bada-bang and voila! A little baby! Yeah, no. There was much screamage and panting and telling the nurses to “shut the hell up.” (Yes, that is a direct quote.) I didn’t deliver Cade with an epidural, (long, sad, sad story) and I was literally thirty seconds from a c-section. They ended up having to pull Cade out of my vag with some salad prongs, (yes, that is indeed their scientific name) and his head came out looking like a can of Campbell’s Chicken Noodle Soup.

My doc (who I am in love with very fond of) told me that by judging my size told me that Cade would be four, maybe five pounds. Yeah, he was off. BY THREE POUNDS. My little fatty was almost eight pounds! Anorexia, take that, ya giant a-hole. My baby most certainly was not anorexic looking.

So, earlier than I anticipated, I am a mother. I am a mother of the most aggravating, exciting, adventurous, loving, snuggleable, sweet little piece of perfection. He will always be my man. My sweet, angelic baby man. Even on the days when I kind of turn a bit immature and fight with him over who gets the last piece of chocolate licorice, he’ll be my little sweetie. Even when he stops wanting to kiss me and kiss other girls instead, he’ll always be MINE. Mine mine mine.

And I am so blessed. So, Cade, two years down, and I hope so, so many more to come.

Happy birthday, buddy.