Don’t Call Me Mommy
I stubbed my toe the other day and started crying dramatically on the floor, which pretty much sums up how prepared I will be for a human child to be growing inside my absurdly small uterus.
As an aside, if you have any friends with kids right now during COVID, you should probably do a wellness check. Hell, check on your pregnant friends. Not only are they cooped up inside, they can’t drink either. It’s disgusting.
I texted my very pregnant girlfriend the other day for a status update. Not only did she tell me she had started contractions, but we continued our same text conversation about said contractions for... FOURTEEN DAYS.
Yes, you read that right.
Contractions.
14 days.
I cut myself with a butter knife tonight and told Ben I am in no way fit to do chores around the house this month. Meanwhile, my friend is casually eating spicy Cheetos through two weeks of contractions as an attempt to induce herself.
I’m sorry but am I a pansy-ass bitch or does this just sound medically exhausting? I would need at least 5 more years of intense therapy to get over this. At that point, just sign me up for a c-section/tummy-tuck/lobotomy and bring me one of those Styrofoam cups full of ice…you know...the cylindrical chewy kind momma likes. Don’t worry, I’ll add the vodka; much like how I used to hide the 151 in my childhood bathroom but this one I’ll have chilling over ice in my bed pan.
But in all seriousness, am I the only one petrified that the biggest win of my friend’s birth plan was that she “didn’t poop her pants?”
????!?!
I am sorry but when God gaveth me my female designation, I did not sign up for this fine print bullshit. Also, is this some kind of sick joke? I mean it has to be. Like, Eve ate an apple for Christ sake…. she didn’t perform genocide???
HOW DOES THIS PUNISHMENT FIT THE CRIME?!
In related news, can people PLEASE stop talking in detail about how their birth plans went horribly wrong? I mean seriously ladies - I was on a Zoom baby shower for a friend and had to drag my unhinged jaw off the floor from all the horrifying labor stories her fellow mom friends were telling us. Like excuse me, Karen, but nobody asked for you to discuss perineal tears and the extra stitches you endured. Also, if I was about to give birth any day, the absolute last thing I would want to hear is horror stories from other moms.
“Well, I almost bled out during my pregnancy and ended up flat-lining for a minute straight while I pooped all over the operating table… but I’m sure you’ll do great, honey.”
***Pauses to take shot***
PLEASE... LIE TO ME!
Lie to all your pregnant friends and friends trying to conceive - WE WANT TO BE IGNORANT!
Tell me your breasts got perkier and morning sickness is fake...like blue balls.
Tell me that you didn’t feel a thing and that the nurses give you a pina colada and avocado toast during labor.
Tell me your husband was super supportive and read all the baby books so he could coach you through the labor process instead of sitting in the corner ordering door dash for only himself because he “didn’t know you were allowed to eat.”
Tell me that postpartum depression is an urban legend… and that my baby is the only one leaving this place in a diaper.
TELL ME LITERALLY ANYTHING BUT THE TRUTH.
Don’t scare the shit out of me, (cause apparently shit’s already gonna happen).
Don’t offer unsolicited advice on breastfeeding; hearing about your chapped nipples was enough…
Don’t tell me our due date has bad juju because it’s the same birthday as your sister-in-law’s half brother's uncle who gave off weird sex-offender vibes.
And, most importantly, when I have kids, my name is still Lindsay.
Don’t call me mommy.
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