The Pregnant & Delusional Reluctant Mother: Wonder Woman

Calm down everyone.  I’m NOT pregnant!

However, Mac is the kind of kid that really really really makes you think a second child is a great idea.  He’s generally sweet and cuddly and predictable and patient.  As he approaches his first birthday, and I approach my 36th, I’m feeling a little rushed to decide how and when he’s going to have a brother or sister. . .

So I thought it might be fun for us all if I take the time to reminisce about all the garish things that occur during pregnancy.  This will hopefully stop me from making any rash decisions to get knocked up again and inevitably bearing hell-spawn (aka child number 2).  Because we know I definitely have it coming to me. . .

Let’s address stretch marks, shall we?  People talk about them like they are the plague.  I never really understood this.  I’m vain but not that vain.  What’s the big deal with a few stretch marks?

It was my absolute intention to NEVER have anyone see me even partially disrobed again after suffering the indignities involved with childbirth so I didn’t much care about what all that pasty flesh on my mid-section ultimately looked like after I finally evicted the kid.

However, Mac was making me look like a walrus-that-swallowed-an-elephant at an alarming rate and people definitely wanted to discuss the topic of stretch marks.  Even my Grandmother – well into her 90’s – offered up suggestions about reducing my “risk.”

As with all the other unsolicited pregnancy advice, I tried to redirect the discussion anytime it came up.

I considered telling people I rubbed something completely gross like maybe sheep’s blood? or tripe?  all over my belly every hour to stop the stretching, in an effort to render the advice-giver speechless.

Instead I smiled politely and thanked them for their advice.  Then I quietly retreated to my bedroom where I stripped down to a T-shirt and my knickers, flopped into my specially arranged pillow nest on the bed, and ate cake and watched Kardashian re-runs until I was snoring.

Towards the end, I could see there were some red lines near the lower outside edges of the extremely large flesh and fluid-filled blob that was keeping Mac safe and sound.  Still, it didn’t seem so bad.

I practically bragged to my Husband and Mother:  “I don’t know why people complain about stretch marks so much.  Mine are maybe 2 inches long.  Not even that many of them.  Maybe two or three on each side of my belly.”

Yeah.  I felt smug.

I was apparently a real super-stretchy-skinned wonder woman, let me tell you.

Mac arrived at nearly 9:00 PM so it was midnight until we got to our postpartum room.  However, at 6 the following morning, I was anxiously anticipating a very long, hot shower.  A shower in which I could finally see my toes again. . .

And in the stark hospital lighting I was definitely some kind of a wonder woman. . .

I was a woman wondering where the EFF all these gigantic stretch-marks came from?!

Seems the delusional and pregnant Reluctant Mother failed to take into account what happens when skin deflates and sags. . .Those teeny two-inch marks I was previously bragging about now looked more like 6 or 7 inch marks.  BLAH!!!!!!!

It was sad indeed, the skin on my lower abdomen resembled an extremely pale satellite photo of a large delta complete with these reddish-purple rivulets running every which way.

Despite my delusion and disgusting new paunch, you know what still felt wonderful?

Having that kid OUT FINALLY!

Wonder woman, indeed.