Pregnancy isn't pretty. Motherhood isn't either.

 Spent some time today reminiscing about some of the information given to me as a newly pregnant, first time mother.

• "Use lotion with vitamin E/coconut oil/other random thing every night so you don't get stretch marks."

I heard this a lot with my first pregnancy.  The truth is that you either will or won't get stretch marks... And it's pretty much out of your hands.  I remember slathering my belly in oil every night, frantic not to add to my fatty fat stretch marks.  In the end, it didn't work.  I got a few more.  Oh, well.  My husband doesn't even notice them, and that's all that really matters in the end. 

• "Pregnancy is wonderful and amazing and just a beautiful experience!"

Everyone who told me this?  They lied.  I'm convinced that they lied through their teeth.  Either that or they really did have amazing pregnancies, in which case... I hate them.  I hate them with the fire of a million stinging needles.  Pregnancy can be beautiful, from what I hear.  In my case, the reality was that it sucked.  It was painful.  Everything ached, or had a shooting pain, or twinged.  I hated the feeling of my clothes against my skin.  Water made me sick (and guess what you're supposed to drink a lot of when you're pregnant?).  I was always cramping.  And bleeding.  And tired.  And cranky.  And bitchy.  And prone to crying.  I was huge.  I had reflux that made it impossible to sleep.  I couldn't sleep because I was too busy being cranky.  I couldn't sleep because I was too busy researching all the ins and outs of pregnancy and all the fun things you buy for kids that you never actually use.  I enjoyed the kicks, the flutters, the hiccups, the ultrasounds, and the fact that it didn't matter if people saw my belly.  That's pretty much it.  I was a miserable, horrible, cranky, bitchy mess.  The fact that I wasn't divorced by the end of it is kind of a miracle. 

• "Pregnancy gives you a 'glow.'"

It's called acne, and I don't appreciate it. 

• "People are so nice and helpful when you're pregnant!"

This can be true.  I can't count how many times a stranger helped me with packages at the post office or helped walk me to my car when my hip would give out.  There was a lady who ran all the way to the front desk at the hospital to get me a wheelchair when I was visiting my mother and only made it halfway to her room before my hip gave out and I couldn't walk anymore.

But, there are also those strangers who come up and just touch your belly without asking about your personal space requirements.  There's the unsolicited advice.  There's the judgmental looks.  There's the pointed glances at your hand to see if there's a ring there.  There's the intrusive questions.  There's the overshare of information (I'm SO guilty of this one).  Sometimes strangers don't really want to hear about how your vagina tore with your third child... especially when they're obviously going to give birth themselves at some point. 

• "Don't worry.  You'll forget all about how hard your labor and pregnancy were when you hold that baby in your arms."

Liar.  I waited all that time for that amnesia moment and it never happened.  Two years later... I still haven't forgotten.  LIAR! 



With that said, let's take a look at motherhood, also known as "After Pregnancy."  That's not all glamorous either.  Here's a passage from my old blog (which shall remain anonymous, as people are subscribed to that who are as yet unaware of my current predicament):

July 9, 2012

Separation anxiety.  It's heartwarming, heartbreaking, and utter wall-climbing misery.

I haven't been able to put my child down in his own bed for a week.  I know there are many moms out there thinking (and please hear this like a fabulous gay man says it, because that's the voice in my head... No, it doesn't make sense, and I totally don't care), "Panda, if you would just properly sleep train your child, he would sleep in his own crib every night.  Co-sleeping is bad, mmkay?" but my answer to that is... nonexistent.  Okay.  I'll get back to you when I figure out something witty.

I co-sleep.  That is, I bedshare.  All these words for parenting techniques drive me crazy.  Technicalities, blah blah blah.  My baby sleeps attached to my boob.  That is what I do.  And let me tell you; I never even considered it while I was pregnant, and long before I had a cute parasite attached to the side of my uterus.  I even thought, from my lofty pre-child days, "How lame that they can't even deal with crying long enough for their child to fall asleep in their own, wonderful, decorated crib in a beautiful nursery."

I'm ashamed to even think about it.

Okay, back on subject; separation anxiety.  Ugh!  He will not only cry in the middle of smiling at a stranger because ohnowhere'sMommy! and Lord knows he would totally fail at finding Waldo on the best of days, but he refuses to sleep without being held by either one of us.  He wakes up, scrunching his cute little nose, grunting, whining, fussing, not sure what to do with any of his limbs, and circling his one arm in this demented little baby way like maybe at some point it'll suddenly become awesome which of course it won't and he just keeps circling it over and over until he cries hysterically because nothing is happening.  It's great to watch, actually.  If you were a terrible parent.  Which I'm not.

Of course this all happens about 5 minutes after I put him down for the night.  It doesn't matter if it's the first time or the tenth time.  He just wants boobs nuzzled against his face.  That's all there is to it.  Manboobs are a poor second choice, but still a choice.  Pacifiers are gruntingly accepted if his belly has decided there is no vacancy.  And Mom is glued to an adorable little boobsucker all night.

Good news:  He's cute when he finally wakes up in the morning, all toe-grabby and cooing.

Bad news:  I have to wait until morning to see his cute side.

During the day it's all anxious whining, wanting to be held (nothing new here, really), wanting Mommy to whip out the magic boobs of wonder and light, wanting Daddy to play nonstop, wanting Doggie to give him attention, talking to the ceiling fan, crying angrily when the ceiling fan doesn't talk back, fussing when he's tired because obviously sleeping isn't going to help him which is why he never wants to fall asleep and babies know freaking everything didn't you know that, and other obnoxious baby things.

I love it.

Most of the time.

Okay; pretty much all the time.  Because face it; when will they ever want us this much ever again in their lives?  I mean.  Besides when they're flat broke.

And yet here I am, doing it again.  And you know what? ... It's awesome.