First Pregnancy - Seven Months

I’m starting this off by telling all of you that I AM NOT NOR WILL I EVER AGAIN BE PREGNANT.

I believe I’ve been lucky enough to get some newer readers who missed the whole ripping of my reproductive parts out so I’d like to begin with a no, I’m baby-free and if I somehow got pregnant, I’d probably end up on Oprah or end up being worshiped in an unfamiliar country.

What I’m doing here is re-living parts of my pregnancies.  I have a series going about the finding out, trimesters and then labors of each child and today I’m talking about the third trimester of my first born child.

For this reason alone, I had a breast reduction.

This is where the hunger began.  This is where my boobs grew to proportions no one knew existed.  I’ve always been a “healthy” girl and started my pregnancy a size six but a 36DDD.  My “girls” are what I’m known for.  They’re so nice, I’ve been asked if they were fake my whole life.

Then I hit the third trimester.  Suddenly, I can think about two things.  The ravenous hunger taking over my body and the massive discomfort of my boobs getting ready to feed this little guy.

Besides the boobs, which I’ll get back to, I remember one day looking down at my tummy and having the most massive panic attack of my life.  Being that I’m Bipolar, complete with a panic disorder yet refused my meds for the sake of my baby, I FREAKED OUT.

I looked down and saw my stomach.  I had a shitty pregnancy belly.  Both times.  Instead of being the cute, round little basketball tummy, I had the square flattened out tummy that make me hate the basketball tummy girls.  I imagine it was more wide and flat as payback for the wide (but not flat) the rest of me was getting.

At that moment, my heart stopped beating.  I was on my way to the bathroom, yet fell backwards onto the bed.  This was going to hurt.  There was no avoiding it, this child is so big, there is no way he’s coming out without it hurting.  Pain and I don’t get along.  At 28, I had never had a tattoo or piercing (ears included).  I did get my belly pierced one day but I don’t remember it because I was on a lot of drugs (I was 18, don’t judge).

I panicked for about a week and a half.  Actually, scratch that.  I panicked until I went into labor.  I panicked for about 9 weeks.

I also got a nice old crack to the ribs.  My son thrives on accuracy and timing.  From the womb to this day.  I knew what time of day it was based on where my little sundial faced.  The only problem was that when he turned, his cute little baby foot popped a swift kick to a rib that had about ten pounds of massive boob (38G at that point) and cracked a rib on my left side.

Little fucker.  Everyone kept saying how worth it it all was but when I said it, I made sure to add quotations.  I still say that they’re “worth it” at the young ages they’re at and figure I’ll find out when they a) get old enough to do the chores I don’t want to do and b) get a kick ass job that pays for my early retirement.

There’s more to the third trimester, because that’s where all the action is, but I’m slapping all that your way in the next installment.

I tell you what though, I hated pregnancy.  Love my kids, hated pregnancy.  This flashback is making the menopause a little less annoying.

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