Until today, I’ve never felt compelled to write a disclaimer on a Zenestex post. It’s not that any of the language in this post is uncharted territory for my site. It’s not. But my fear is that poor, innocent, unsuspecting, expectant mothers will find this article on a search engine while seeking pregnancy advice. It’s here. And it’s good. But if you do not share our sense of humor, you’re gonna be an unhappy reader. And neither of us want that. If foul language, frank discussion about pregancy, and roughly 30 synonyms for women’s no-no parts will offend you, then STOP. DO NOT CONTINUE READING. Click that button on the upper left that points BACK. I’m only warning you once.
Good. Now, if you’re still reading and you get offended, then you’re just a dick who wants to be offended. Don’t be a dick.
See that? Two layers of Unsuspecting Googler Wards.
I met Layla this past fall when Li brought her into town for a visit. I’m absolutely not a baby person. In fact, I have an unnatural fear of babies. After two years, we’re totally cool. Until then, I’m always afraid I’ll drop them and break them like some invaluable piece of heirloom china. Even more than that, I’m terrified by their every move. They’re like little ostriches that ooze liquids from every orifice and just look for creepy ways to crawl into your personal space and yank on your facial features.
On Li’s visit, I developed an instant connection with Layla, which I definitely never anticipated. I had this bizarre urge. I wanted to hold her. Me? Holding a baby?! Cats and dogs living together! Mass hysteria! Don’t get me wrong, I’m still hopelessly awkward with Layla, but the difference is that I really don’t care. More than love her, I actually like her. Which is why I insisted on being Layla’s Little Uncle Bobby (my dad is Thee Uncle Bobby).
Here’s Li’s journey from when she found out she was preggerz through her climactic final battle between the forces of birthing and pooing.
By Ligia Cooper
They say that pregnancy is a beautiful time for women. It’s a time when we feel the most powerful. We’re creating life. It’s pure joy—almost euphoric. There is this “glow” that can be seen from a distance, as if angels are protecting us while this “magic” happens. Well, I’m here to tell you it’s all bullshit. Every little suggestion, comment, advice, etc. is a fucking lie. Here’s the real story.
First and foremost, I’m pregnant. Yes, my little cooter-poots, I am officially knocked-up. And no, I’m not the Virgin Mary. Little angels didn’t glide through my window on a cloud, and gently touch my stomach. No, I didn’t get a memo from Santa stating that a stork was going to show up at my door in August. Note to all you horizontal dancers out there: when desperate, saran wrap does not work. I repeat saran wrap does not work!! So, as shocking as it is, I’m about to be a mom. I know, I know, you gotta let that shit marinate for a minute. Trust me, I was in shock, too. But, I’m not about to sterilize a coat-hanger and play The Claw Arcade Game with my snatch. I’ve decided to embrace this experience. However, there is a downfall to being pregnant that they’ll never tell you about.
Morning Sickness is the fucking devil wrapped around the porcelain goddess. Let me break this down for you: You’re sick all the time! Imagine having the flu mixed with the stomach virus and occasional diarrhea (on a good day) for about 16 weeks STRAIGHT. Ahhh yes, are you getting the picture now? Not what you thought, aye? “Oh pregnancy is wonderful. You’re creating life. It’s magical. You should feel privileged and lucky to experience such a miracle blah blah blah!” You know what I tell those people? FUCK YOU ASSHOLES. You don’t know shit about morning sickness. I bet a man coined the term “morning sickness.” It sounds some dick tried to describe something that they know nothing about. So let me change it to Fetus Ruined Your Health Sickness. That sounds better, but for the sake of this article we’ll shorten it to FRYH Sickness.
FRYH Sickness happens when your little bundle of joy decides to become a communist and fuck up your day. I couldn’t lift my head out of the toilet for hours at a time. I just said screw it and made a pallet on the bathroom floor. Every few hours I was violently throwing up, like discovering Jose Cuervo at the ripe age of 21 (Editor’s note: 21 huh?). And this was an everyday/every-night occurrence. All I wanted to do was sleep and not have the bedroom spin in a million different directions. Even during the day, I would run into the bathroom stalls at work puking my brains out. I might as well have just packed a portable pallet with me.
All I kept telling myself was that I wanted a god damned refund. There was no way that this was morning sickness. This was way worse than that. This was morning sickness on fucking steroids aka FRYH Sickness!
Goodbye Fat Pockets
I remember growing up as a young girl, kneeling at the side of my bed and praying to God for tig ol’ bitties. “Dear God, I know that making fun of that girl with crazy eyes in art class was wrong and I’m sorry. I promise I won’t be mean anymore if you give me big boobies. Toilet paper doesn’t work in the rain. Plllllease!! Oh, and bless all the starving children in Africa. Amen.”
Fast forward to today and I’m about to throw these low hanging bitches over my shoulder like a continental soldier. I wish I could revisit that fucking prayer and take it all back. Mosquito bites are the way to go, I don’t care what men say. Oh my perfect perky fat pockets, how I miss thee. Those fun-sized pillows have now evolved to watermelon sized torpedoes. Sure, to the untrained eye they look quite plump and hooterific. However, these new plus-sized editions are painfully unpleasant.
For all you men out there, let’s break it down like this: I’m going to strap on my rhinestone encrusted stilettos and then donkey-kick your soldier’s satchel into your esophagus. Get the picture of the pain I’m talking about? Great! So, next time, you think it’s a cute idea to try to jiggle or shake our swollen lady lumps, think about those shoes, assholes. And this glorious pain does not go away. Sleeping, showers, working out, bras, etc. It’s a constant struggle and borderline tear jerker. And unlike FRYH Sickness, it only gets worse the further along our pregnancy get.
Who is this Bitch?
Sometimes I stare at my newly fat ass body in the mirror and ask myself, who is this bitch? I’m a different person. I’m not talking about my body (because we all know that Playboy physique went down the drain). What I’m talking about is this person, this psycho. How can someone go from happy and loving at 11:15 PM all the way to pissed-off and crying by 11:16 PM? What in the hell is going on with my hormones? I can’t control these things.
I feel like I’m a walking time bomb, for no reason, too. The littlest things set me off. I bitched for an hour about the toilet paper not facing outward. And I’m thinking to myself that I know this is crazy but at the same time I’m furious. Because realistically, it’s not that hard to put a damn roll of toilet paper on the fucking hook and have it roll from the outside. That’s how the TP gods meant for Charmin to roll!
Case in point, what about eating my ice cream! Why in the hell would PJ eat my ice cream?! Who does that? Are you out of your mind! Eat your own goddamn ice cream and leave mine alone! That was my Phish Food, you inconsiderate dick! And to make things even more psycho, I’m standing over the trash can, staring at my empty tub of ice cream, CRYING! As if this psychotic breakdown couldn’t get any more wacko, I made him go back to the store and buy me another tub of ice cream. Oooh, but that’s not all, while he was at the grocery store, I conveniently made his bed for him. ON THE COUCH. Yep, that’s right. I made him sleep on the couch.
My poor baby daddy, he deserves a standing ovation for putting up with this craziness. We even went to the doctor to get an understanding about why I was borderline psychotic. Turns out that my killer mood swings and frantic outbursts of toddler tears are caused by the hormonal imbalance due to my pregnancy. In layman’s terms, for 10 months I was going to be a deranged lunatic until I shit out my offspring. That’s just fucking super! Who’s ready to join my club?
Don’t Go Chasing Waterfalls
Here’s a word of advice to all you non-preggz out there: Never stand in the way of a pregnant woman who has to tinkle. We will knock you down, step over you, drop a bag of groceries (with eggs) just to sit on that golden seat. We will move mountains to get to that toilet and hover (when in public). There is nothing better than peeing. You let out the deepest, most authentic sigh of relief. But when you gotta go, you gotta go! My little mini-me rests comfortably on my bladder, causing immediate bursts of piss. And there is no holding this urge. If you’re on the highway, you better pull the fuck over or I will straight spray yellow all over your pretty little seat. And for the record, a pregnant piss echos. Yes, I said ECHOS. My personal waterfall kinda reminds me of an elephant pissing in the Sahara desert.
No Bump Touching
Ok, listen here assholes, if I don’t know you on some kind of personal level—if I don’t even know your favorite color--don’t touch my stomach. Don’t start making all cutesy noises and attempt to cop a feel on my growing tumor. It’s never ok to touch my bump. Don’t whisper to your clan of soccer team offspring “look she’s gonna have a baby!” I can hear your loud whispers. You’re only going to cause me to go into super bitch overdrive.
Don’t point your fingers at me like I’m an animal exhibit at the zoo. I’m quite sure your children would love to be educated on sex a few years early, so keep pointing! I had unprotected sex and now I have a baby sitting on top of my vagina caused by a penis from a boy.
Don’t strike up a conversation with me about my birth plan because you think we share a common bond. Bitch, you act like we shared Lunchables back in the 3rd grade. I don’t know you. Stop talking to me!
And last but not least, don’t put your hands on stomach and rub it like a fucking genie is going to pop out of my cunt and grant you 3 magical wishes. You’re going to feel like shit when I look you dead in the face and tell you I’M NOT FUCKING PREGNANT, SO BACK OFF BITCH! True story.
Roast Beef And Curtains
Days leading up to my due date, I became more and more nervous. I placed a mirror on the floor, got naked and stared. I couldn’t believe it. A tiny human was about to come out of that little hole! How it that possible? This little shit is going to stretch out my vagina!
My heart began to beat faster and then I was hit with a full blown panic attack. Tears poured down my face. I couldn’t catch my breath. I just kept screaming, “My flowerpot is ruined!” After I calmed myself down, I made an appointment with my doctor to calm my nerves and discuss my birth plan.
I laid on exam room table, vagina out and feet in stirrups, with the doctor between my legs. And we casually talked as he was hand-deep in my no-no part, feeling around for my mini me. I told him about my panic attacks and nerves. He looked at me and asked, “What are your biggest fears about child birth?”
I had two worries about child birth and I call them my boogey men: Roast Beef and Curtains. He looked at me like I was fucking nuts. He said, “Ms. Cooper, can you explain roast beef and curtains?”
“How can you not know what that is?” I said, “Roast Beef is what your vagina looks like when you’re 80 years old. You know, it looks all brown, shredded, and tangled, like roast beef. It’s almost the same thing as Curtains. Except Curtains are when you have saggy lips. They hang down low. Like curtains. So low that you could (and I sang) …Can You Tie Them in a Knot? Can You Tie Them in a Bow? Can You Throw Them Over Your Shoulder Like a Continental Soldier? That low, Dr. Moore!”
After about 10 minutes of laughing from the doctor and the nurse (I wasn’t laughing. I was dead silent with a straight face) he regained his composure and said that Roast Beef and Curtains were hereditary. But from the looks of my vag, I was pretty safe.
Can you believe that shit?! Well, “pretty safe” isn’t fucking satisfactory enough for me. In the middle of our consultation, I called my mom on speaker phone. I told her I that I had a serious question for her and I needed her to tell me the truth. I said, “Madre, has your flowerpot been transformed into Roast Beef or Curtains?”
Of course she knew what I was talking about, that’s my mom. She said, “Ligia, I’ve had 3 children and my vagina still looks like it did when I was 18.”
I could hardly contain myself. I told her I had to go and that I would explain later. After I hung up the phone Dr. Moore and the nurse began laughing again. I hopped off the exam table, still in paper gown, did the Robot, and shouted “No Roast Beef or Curtains here, bitches!”
Bitchez Always Be Late
As most of you know, my due date was August 18th, 2011. One week before my due date, everyone inundated me with myths about how to induce my own labor. I was over being pregnant. I was fucking GINORMOUS and sleep something I was severely lacking.
I was ready to see my feet again! I was ready to see my vagina again—shit, I didn’t see my buddy for 6 months! I was ready to get up from the couch without calling for help. I was ready to wear the same fucking shoes again. Yes, I wore mix-matched shoes all the time! I was ready to get my porn star back on with my baby maker! So, bring it. Bring on the baby inducing shit, I’m ready!
August 13th: Start walking. Walking increases your chances of your water breaking. So, walking I did. I must have made my own trail of tears. And nothing. No flood gates opening from a cracked flowerpot. Not one fucking drop.
August 14th: Castrol Oil. Castrol Oil will cause you to start contracting, just by drinking a tablespoon full of it. Since when have I ever done anything half-assed? I drank the whole damn bottle! For the next two days, I was sitting on the toilet shitting up a storm. I couldn’t walk more than a couple of feet without sharting myself.
August 17th: Having sex will start labor. I know this is TMI, but I’m going there! I’m not trying to go all “sexy-time with candles and Brian McKnight” on your ass, just put your fucking chub in my hole. This is business. So, let’s make this shit quick and get our asses to the hospital! I’m ready to have this baby! Apparently, the whole “sex will make you go into labor” is a trick that men use to get some cooter before you have a baby. Because truth be told, after you give birth, you are going to have a severe hatred for your man’s mandingo.
August 18th (Laylas’ Due Date): After trying all these fucking retarded ass suggestions by my so-called “friends,” I knew today was the day. I paced my house back and forth, waiting for labor pains to start, water to break, something. And all I got was NOTHING! And the days grew longer, August 19th, August 20th, August 21st…I was sick of this.
At this point I was jumping up and down screaming at my stomach, “Get out of me, NOW!” Nope, she wasn’t budging, stubborn little shit. Finally the doctor said that if I don’t go into labor on my own by the 24th of August, then I was going in for an induction and she would be born on August 26th, 2011. Well, those of you who know me, know that Layla was born on August 26th, 2011 at 6:49pm.
Push like you’re Poo’in
August 25th 2011 at 5:00pm I checked into the Labor and Delivery Ward at Palmetto Health. Around 6:30pm the nurses hooked me up to all kinds of gadgets, monitors, and IV’s. The delivery nurse came in and said that they were going to insert medicine in my mystery cave and it would eventually break my water. That’s when labor would start.
I was thinking that the tampon-looking contraption would be in me for about 2hrs, then my water would break, then I’d push out my baby. Right? Wrong! We waited and waited for any sign of labor and nothing happened. Hours went by. Nothing. My family went home. PJ’s eyes glazed over. My anxiety spiked through the roof. Luckily, the lovely nurses gave me some drugs to calm my nerves and knock my ass out. PJ was asleep on his bed right next to me and I dozed off.
I suddenly woke up at 4 AM in a pool of green-tinted water. I sat up and yelled at PJ, “Babe, either my water just broke or I just pissed all over myself!”
In true baby-daddy fashion, PJ gets up, put his hat on backwards and yelled, “It’s go time!” He ran out the room to get the nurse. I immediately called my mom to tell her that my water just broke.
I lost track of time by then. Everything was happening so fast. The labor pains started increasing. And let me tell you, these pains are no fucking joke. I didn’t want anyone to console me, look at me, or speak to me! If they did, I went all Emily Rose on their ass.
Imagine passing kidney stones, but multiply that shit times infinity; that’s labor pains. I went through these pains for hours and I hadn’t even started pushing yet. But my vagin wasn’t big enough yet. Yes, my vagin hole had to stretch out to 10 centimeters wide. Fantastic, that’s the width of a watermelon!
Around 4pm, I was ready to start pushing. Everyone left the room except the nurse and the man who did this to me. The nurse looked at me and said, “when you’re ready I want you to push like you have to take a poo.”
I looked at the chick with straight confusion. “Wait a minute, wait a minute, wait a minute. Why was I not informed of this pushing thing before hand? I have to push from my booty hole? So, I might just shit myself in the process? Everyone is going to see my shit! I feel like I should take you out to a nice steak dinner before we get all up close and personal with my booty hole!”
Apparently, this is normal. Some women shit and some women don’t. And my odds were 50-50. So there I was, pushing from my do-do spot. I repeatedly screamed, “I will not shit myself and I’m not poo’in!” I pushed and screamed like that for 2.5 hours until, finally, Layla blessed the world with her presence.
When the doctor lifted her up all I heard was the song from the Lion King, when Rafiki presents Simba to the world for the first time. Meanwhile, I was drenched in sweat and stink-eyed the nurse. I asked her if I shit myself. She giggled and said, “NO!”
Woot Woot! Who’s the new mommy with no shit on her ass? That’s me!
Looking back at my 10 months of torture, it was all worth it. I had a blast. I got to blame everything on my hormones, eat whatever I wanted, and say whatever came to my mind. People treated me like a precious gem and I ate that shit up. It was an experience that I’ll never forget. My daughter is my world. There are no words for the love that I have for her. She is my absolute everything.
I plan on giving you love, nurturing, and just enough dysfunction to make you funny.