Set Up the Guest Bedroom, Here Comes Cousin John.

So it's been over two years since my last post. After giving the big wet french kiss of life to this dormant blog, my very first topic will be the inevitable physical result of my first pregnancy. Now how's that for a re-birth?!

Here's the story:

This morning I was rummaging around in my underwear drawer for that one piece of clothing I swore I'd never own. That's right: The Granny Panties.

You know you're officially out-of-the-running when you actually prefer Granny Panties to any other kind of undergarment. Those black lacy ones, the tiger-print thong, and yes, even that semi-transparant pair with the lacing up the back all get pushed aside in search of the ultimate undies. To my husband's utter dismay, these days, they've got to be big, they've got to be butt-ugly and they've got to be caucasian-colored. (I won't say 'flesh-colored', since there are about a million different colors of flesh in the world - these ones are made to match the flesh of a pasty-white person with a vitamin D deficiency, IE me.)

So when was the moment that I started to prefer Granny Panties over the more attractive - and most certainly more uncomfortable - kind? I remember it precisely: it was in the exact same week that Cousin John came to stay.

Cousin John and I are not exactly related, but we are stuck together for eternity. You see, Cousin John is my hemorrhoid, the prize souvenir of my first pregnancy. My husband and I decided to personify it by giving it a friendly name, which for some reason made me think the excruciating pain would be easier to bear. Only problem was, Cousin John was not friendly. He was a pain in the ass.

Cousin John always arrived unexpectedly and had the worst possible timing. He never called beforehand, used up all the toilet paper and overstayed his welcome on at least three separate occasions. My husband not only had to compete with him for my attention, but he also managed to remain celibate for the duration of Cousin John's stay, for which I am eternally grateful. I tried to confront Cousin John with the problem, and eventually he did go away, but before long he'd turn up again via the back door, peeking his head round the corner and going 'Heeee-eeeere's Johnny!'

Another reason why we named my hemorrhoid was so that we could discuss it freely around other people without making it painfully known why I had been sitting on a child's inner-tube all evening. It would sound something like this:
Husband: 'How's Cousin John doing?'
Me: 'He wants to dig a new hole in my backyard.'
Husband: 'Hmm. That's not good.'
Me: 'I know, I told him I already had one.'
Husband: 'What's he going to do with all the dirt?'
Me: 'Probably make more piles...'

So only my husband and I could comprehend the encrypted meaning behind these conversations about Cousin John. No one had to know about my embarrassing visitor and when people asked why I moaned so much and scrunched my face up and turned bright red every time I tried to sit down, I just told them I was sure I was about to go into labor. That usually shut them up.

It's been over two years since Cousin John last showed up, but he left his mark on my very existence. Although I'm pretty sure he's gone for good, I have to rule out even the slightest possibility of his unwelcome return. I will eat the fiber, I will drink the water and I will don the Granny Panties once again. Today, and forever more, I'm left with a drawer full of unmentionables that I will never wear and an sudden craving for laxatives.

Why Pregnant Women Rock (or: The Definitive Guide for Husbands Who Want to Stay Married After Pregnancy)

Pregnancy is a state of being that most women, and their husbands, wish they never knew existed after going through it. They forget that it's actually a magical time when hormones go haywire, bodily fluids flow freely and skin wants to stretch more than silly putty, when it just isn't supposed to.

The fact is, (and husbands, don't you forget it): pregnant women rock. I've read in books that this is the time when you should feel extremely feminine. Let's be honest, nothing in the world could be feminine about a large waddling female in maternity clothes, with a paunch the size of a retired 49-er and an ass the size of Rhode Island. The poor pregnant woman is forced to wear t-shirts with slogans that say 'My husband did this to me' or 'Baby on Board' and are still expected to have a smile on their face most of the time. 

Incidentally, how dare they refer to maternity clothes as 'fashion', when nothing could be farther from the truth? I suppose pregnant women of the 21st century should just shut up and be thankful they aren't living in the 50's. Dr. Benjamin Spock advised in his book 'The Common Sense Book of Baby and Child Care' (1946), as soon as they started to show any signs of being 'with child', pregnant women were urged to don an oversized smock, which doubled as a family-size tent for vacations. Mind you, although they had to cover the fact that their hourglass figures were quickly going to pot, smoking cigarettes or drinking martini's was still certainly acceptable social behavior, according to Dr. Spock. But in those days, that was just 'common sense', I guess...

When a woman is pregnant, and showing it, her belly is public property. It's the law. Maybe some women are flattered by all the attention, but the truth is, strangers are probably only smiling at her because she's fatter than they are.

Pregnant women have to endure the most bizarre, uncomfortable, and yes, dare I say it, painful, changes in their bodies, and there's not a thing they can do about it. Trying to convince them that certain conditions are 'common' is not consoling. Until I got pregnant, I was convinced only truck drivers got hemorrhoids. The only thing that can console me now is the knowledge that mine are most likely prettier.

Being funny is the only way I knew how to cope with any moments of pain or discomfort during pregnancy, which was pretty much all the time. But you should've seen me give birth, I could've charged money for that performance! During the final stages of labor, the nurse placed a mirror between my legs so I could see the baby 'crowning', (intended as some sort of incentive to get me to push harder, I can only assume). I took one look at that ghastly reflection and all I could say between panting was: 'Well, now I know I'll never become a lesbian'! 

Every pregnant woman develops a love-hate relationship with her toilet at a certain point in the pregnancy, usually starting around 14 minutes after the sperm has actually fertilized the egg. Pregnant women will get to know their toilet fresheners better than their in-laws by the time the first trimester is over. By 7 months, her bladder will be roughly the size of a lychee, and the baby's favorite pass-time will be to either use it like a little punching bag or practice tap-dancing on it. Essentially, this means the pregnant woman has a much more fulfilling and intimate relationship with her toilet than with her husband. 

As the pregnant woman's girth increases, her mobility decreases (along with other trivial things, like her brain cell count, memory and sense of humor). Things like getting up, sitting down, rolling over in bed or reaching for the remote control can only be accomplished by a pregnant woman when accompanied by this audibly uncomfortable grunting sound: 'Aaaarruuuuuugh...!'. During this time, husbands are most likely busying themselves with putting cribs together and fiddling with night lights, but they need to be extra alert when they hear the pregnant woman make the 'Aaaarruuuuuugh...!' sound. That is when they should leap into action and suggest one of the three possibilities: 

1) offer the pregnant woman some assistance in finding the remote control and reassure her she is not fat, she's just retaining water

2) offer the pregnant woman some chocolate

3) offer the pregnant woman to carry the baby for the remaining three months (WARNING: the husband will probably find this a humorous suggestion, but the pregnant woman may have already lost her sense of humor.)

So why do pregnant women rock, exactly? Despite all of this, a pregnant woman can still manage to get up every day, be a good wife and/or mother and/or girlfriend and then at one point actually give birth to a human being in an agonizingly long session of excruciating pain and exhilaration during a process they don't call 'labor' for nothing. And for that brief moment, when she's convinced the child she's bearing is the anti-Christ and her husband is none other than the Upper Demonic Master, and she just is not going to be able to pull it off, suddenly it happens: she's successfully traded pregnancy for another little miracle. 

And if you ask me, that's a damn good trade.