Tuesday, June 18, 2013


I'm back! And guess what the friggin' heck?!

I'm pregnant! Woo-wee knocked up! Yep. It's true. Due in February. I don't feel much of anything yet, it's still very early. Except I want to take epic naps and also cry sometimes while I'm ironing. Wrinkles just make me so sad. And then I feel alone in all my sadness over wrinkles. And there's really nothing left to do BUT cry while ironing.

Just call me weepy and sleepy.

But let's not get ahead of ourselves. Before we talk about this blessed little bundle of DNA, let me first break it down for you.

Trying to get pregnant SUCKS.

No, I'm not kidding. And I didn't have to try very long. It is certifiable psychological torture, I'm certain of it. Between "green weeks" on my handy dandy vagina-activity-tracking app, peeing on chipper little smiley-face sticks, and the phantom symptoms that were really just gas, I had truly had enough of trying. Why does nobody tell you this?

I confess, I'm a little OCD about some things. Okay, a lot OCD about many things. So, when we decided to start a family, I took the job to a whole new level. At one point, man-of-my-dreams (let's call him MOD for short), aka my husband, actually said "I AM NOT A MACHINE!" Alright, so maybe I was being a little unreasonable. But, there was a lioness roaring from within my loins. I hate the word loins. Isn't it gross? Regardless, the bitch in my innards was really being quite demanding.

After my green weeks, when MOD was resting up and I was busy trying to control things which I had no control over, I would swear I felt things. Abnormal things. THERE WAS SHIT GOING ON IN MY LOINS! I started to call these abnormalities pregochondria. I was manifesting symptoms that were not there. Or, maybe I was just more in-tune with my body and more aware of things going on. Yeah, let's go with the second one so I'm not completely batshit crazy. But you know what it usually turned out to be? PMS and farts. That's it, folks.

The really charming part of the whole "trying" process was lying in bed, alone, post-BBST (that's boom-boom-snuggle-time, for you rookies). Husband in the other room watching some new episode of 48-Hours that I REALLY wanted to be watching. But instead I was just laying there, letting gravity and nature take their course. Alone. Cold. Sad. Okay I'm lying about the last three. I was really just laying there doing my kegels, thinking about what I was going to eat for breakfast tomorrow, and shooing the dogs away from my nether-regions. Oh don't act like your dogs have never sniffed your crotch post-sex before!

Despite a few months of this funnity shit and the disappointment that came along with a baron pregnancy test, we kept on keepin' on. And you know what? Shit got real.

We got home from work and I slinked away quietly to the bathroom while MOD was at the kitchen table, probably doing something sophisticated, but I can't remember. I peed on the stick, my hand, and over the top of the toilet seat and no sooner had I pulled the holy mess from between my thighs when a second pink line appeared. Seriously. It took like .4 seconds to appear. I hastily set it down and looked away for a moment and closed my eyes, like some idiotic pregnancy test peek-a-boo. I opened my eyes. "I SEE YOU!" the second pink line said. I seriously couldn't believe my freakin' eyes. While I tried to wash the piss off my hands, I couldn't stop staring at my own reflection in the mirror. I just stood there, grinning at myself. If I had thought about it, I should have fist-bumped myself. It may sound cliché, but this moment was something I dreamt about for YEARS.

Promptly forgetting all my grandiose plans to tell MOD when this day finally came, I came flying out of the bathroom and made a b-line (bee-line? be-line?) for the kitchen table. Except, I practically collided with MOD about 2 feet outside the bathroom door. The conversation which ensued cannot be adequately summed up, therefore, I present to you verbatim, the BIG REVEAL:

MOD: Were you poopin'?
Me: What? No I was not poopin'.
MOD: Yeah, you were poopin'. You have been in there a while.
Me: No! I wasn't poopin'. (Plops positive test in front of MOD on the dresser.)
MOD: What? You're not - - - you are? - - WHAT? WAIT - (takes glasses off, sets glasses down, picks glasses up, hovers them over the test, puts glasses on...)

Then some wonderful pleasantries ensued which made the entire moment so endearing and wonderful that I wouldn't have had it any other way. But just know this - if there ain't poop talk, it ain't a day in the Brooks household. Even if it's on the day you find out you're pregnant.

Whenever I get the urge to do any "light" pregnancy reading, I am promptly reminded why internet research is TERRIFYING in every way. I am relatively certain that if the internet and MOD had it their way, I'd live in a bubble my entire pregnancy. Except my bubble would also have enough room for a garden of peas and corn, because you can't FREAKING CONSUME ANYTHING delicious. Like Taco Bell. Or Dutch Brothers Raspberry Black Iced Tea (please, go have one in my honor). Or the molasses cookie I shoveled into my gullet this fine evening when MOD asked me if it had nitrate preservatives in it. For added flair, I quickly shoveled another bite into my mouth and threatened to give him a three-eyed baby if he didn't shut up about my FAVORITE COOKIES EVER. 

Aww look at me, so completely unaware of the horror story my body is about to become. Note the bare belly, because yeah bitches, I'm totally confident enough for a bare belly shot. Talk to me again in a few months, when I'm not-quite showing but I'm not-quite flat either. That'll be a hootenanny.