I realize this is not a popular opinion. I also realize there are many who will gasp with incredulity that I dared type the words and commit them to the permanent record of cyberspace. Like doing so will guarantee my unborn child will pop out with two heads. News flash – it won’t. The little bun in my oven will come into the world exactly the same way she would if I danced around fondly patting my belly with fairy dust shooting out my ass. She’ll be fine. Relax.
It isn’t that I’m ungrateful – I’m not. My second child will be every bit as precious and special to me as the first, but that does not mean I have to be happy about the process. I am almost 40 years old, and my body just isn’t handling the stress very well. My boobs are freakishly huge. I barfed for pretty much the first four months solid. I’m growing hairs in new and unwelcome places, and at 22 weeks, my feet are already expanding. Again. The first pregnancy, I went from a size 7.5 to an 8, because pregnancy loosens all those ligaments that hold your feet together. Something the new-baby-happy-police won’t tell you is that feet don’t shrink back. All my wonderful and fabulous mules, platforms, and FMP’s went homeless, and it looks like the process is about to repeat itself. That seriously pisses me off. I love my shoes.
As I sit alone in a hotel room tonight (Business trip, folks – I haven’t left my husband. Yet. But I will if he calls me hormonal one more freaking time), I’m stretched out with a pillow on my lap which cradles my beloved laptop, thinking about the next 18 weeks and what’s in store. Food cravings, cankles, weight gain, and stretch marks . . . and I find myself thinking back to earlier this year, and the 3-day drunk-o-rama in Vegas that set off this chain reaction.
It was our 8 year wedding anniversary, and I had the spicy idea to take my husband to see Zumanity (www.zumanity.com) the first night we arrived. If you’re unfamiliar with this wildly popular show, think Cirque du Soleil live-action porn for sophisticates, and you’re pretty much there. Needless to say, after the performance, and many, many drinks later, what happened in Vegas definitely did NOT stay in Vegas. I’ve decided to sue the city managers, because although the motto is catchy, it’s complete bullshit. I have proof. Because you know what folks? My beloved 4 year old daughter was the result of the FIRST Vegas drunk-o-rama. That’s two for two. I’ve decided my husband and I aren’t going back, ever. Not unless he’s undergone a procedure that requires him to sit for an entire weekend with a bag of frozen peas on his crotch.
Anyway, what’s done is done, and now I’m stuck dealing with the longest and most painful hangover of my life. The good news is that once I emerge on the other side of the aches, pains, vomiting, and the small matter of a whole little person busting out of my body. . . I’ll have a new bundle of ear-splitting, screaming joy to share my life, which will hopefully have my smarts and my husband’s good looks. Which isn’t anywhere near the worst thing that could happen. And considering I just had to retype the last sentence twice because the little monster keeps kicking the pillow under the laptop out of place, I think she agrees with me. JStay tuned . . . the next post will be an exclusive excerpt from Murdering Eve that you'll only find here!