Mother, Unprepared

Getting pregnant isn’t as easy as every Teen Mom episode would lead you to believe. At least, it wasn’t for me. My husband Andy and I had to work pretty hard at it. Unlike my younger sister, who got pregnant more by positive thinking than by actual boning.

After nine months of basal body temperatures and ovulation predictor kits, I had developed a more intimate relationship with my cervix than my husband did. When that test finally read positive, I vowed to enjoy every second, because this was what we wanted. This is what we had timed, unromantic sex for.

I read What to Expect When You're Expecting and prepared myself for the bloated, nauseous snowman I would and did become. I didn’t complain when I spent more of my lunch hour vomiting than eating. I pretended not to notice the look of recognition followed by pity by the cashier at Little Casesar’s as Crazy Bread was the only thing I could stomach the entire first trimester. I prepared myself for the sleepless nights and baby poo fountains. I was ready to be a Mom.

I knew becoming a Mom would be rewarding. My breasts finally had a purpose; my lifelong tardiness finally had a reason. And, thanks to my son's sprint from the womb, I finally knew what it felt like to be ripped in half…and then set on fire. This wasn’t the hypnobirthing, lavender-scented marathon of a labor I had prepared for. (My nephew had been born after twelve long hours and that was considered a fast first labor. Shouldn’t I, at least, have had time to shower and pluck my eyebrows? Paparazzi, you know.)

Only the fear of starring in next week’s episode of I Had My Baby In The Crapper pushed me out of the door and in the direction of the hospital. Seven minutes, multiple contractions and a prayer reminiscent of the first time I got drunk made up the most agonizing car ride of my life. The nurses later told us they knew shit was about to go down when my wheelchair, pushed by my frantic hubby, rounded the corner on two wheels. Or maybe it was my raspy and breathless screams for an epidural that tipped them off.

We had lived in North Carolina for years without uttering a single “y’all” so when Andy’s counting fell into the Southern drawl of the head nurse, I mustered all the composure possible of a person on the verge of being split in half to tell him “You are from New York. The number is ten, not tin!” before another contraction left me begging the nurse to make it stop. Please, dear God, just make it stop!

After only five hours of labor, with no time for pain medication, and my son David being squeezed out of his human tube of toothpaste of a mother, the mixture of relief, awe and exhaustion crippled me. I could barely muster a smile when Andy responded to the doctor’s observation of how quick the next labor would be with “Uh uh, we’re just friends from now on. A sturdy handshake before bed will do us just fine.” I did, however, find the energy to laugh when Andy joked “Hey, Dr. T., you stitched in your initials!”

There are some things that no book, blog, or been there, done that parent can prepare you for. I fought murderous rage towards the nurse on our first pediatrician’s trip. She measured and handled him like he was just another child. Didn’t she know that this baby, with the most adorable pouty lips and button nose, was the most beautiful thing to ever tear out of a vagina? Have some respect.

I resisted my primal urge to rip my precious angel from the arms of this devil woman who dare make him howl by sticking his heel to check his billirubin level. I answered her millions of questions as best I could on so little sleep. “How old is he?” was met with “Four days” when I could’ve sworn that my bowlegged, gunslinger gait was an obvious recent-birthing badge of courage.

Even as my new rock hard, porn star breasts left two wet, growing circles on my chest, the nurse placed a Carnation Good Start Formula container in front of me. “Pardon me but what part of lactating in front of you would lead you to believe I wanted to give my baby formula? Now, please, get back in bed with whatever formula-selling Carnation representative gifted you this lovely starter pack.”

I didn’t expect to transform into a guard dog so instantly. If my son breathed too loudly or too quietly, I heard him. If he even thought about pooping, I was ready, diaper in hand and fear of bodily fluids tossed aside. One tiny whimper of hunger and my tits were out with a speed that rivaled Ricky Bobby.

I didn’t expect my newly acquired Mommy sense to tingle and tell me to scoop David up just in time for his vomit to fill the hood of my sweatshirt. Even more impressive is how I managed to disrobe and comfort him without a drop hitting the floor. Hearing “Nicely done, Mommy” from Andy was my parenting equivalent of a winning lottery ticket. The hoodie was washed and is now worn with pride.

I wasn't prepared for my inability to watch an episode of Law & Order:SVU for three months because the description began with "Baby found..." Thankfully, the baby led detectives to the serial-inseminating John Stamos. Such a relief, now I can sleep soundly.

I wasn't prepared for a new daily compulsion to mop the floors to be paired with a complete lack of respect for the bathtub until the mildew started spelling out requests a la Charlotte's Web. Did every grilled cheese and peanut butter sandwich have to fall sticky side down? And I never noticed just how much my cats shed. Shouldn’t they be bald by now?

I wasn't prepared for the defeat I felt when my son would only accept a dinner of applesauce and animal crackers. I wasn’t prepared for the constant comparisons and competitions that motherhood brought, and the unbelievable insecurity that you might not be doing everything imaginable for your child.

And nothing could have prepared me for the inescapable urge to kiss every available inch of skin on my baby boy, to find myself swooning in his presence, to hang on every word or grunt or peep that comes from his tiny mouth, to find myself instructing “More” when he kisses me then “Just one more” after that, or to miss him when he was just beyond that nursery wall. I remember asking my sister what it felt like, what it would be like and her failure to explain, insisting she could never do it justice. And she was right, it is indescribable and not something you can ever truly prepare for.