Subway douchery

When I was not pregnant--which would be my entire adult life until about six months ago--I routinely gave up my seat on the subways for pregnant women. I did this not because I hoped someone would return the favor one day, but because my parents raised me properly and also because I have a Liz Lemon-like devotion to subway etiquette. I often wonder why I bother, though, because so many of my fellow riders so obviously do not give a shit about other people. Never has this become more obvious than in the last few weeks.

I do get offered seats on the subway, but I have to work for them. A friend had warned me about this. She explained that in order to get a seat, she would have to unbutton her coat, sigh heavily, and stare at the person sitting right in front of her--basically, publicly shaming them until they were forced to do the right thing, lest they look like a jerk.

And this is pretty much how it's worked out for me so far. Not that this even works every time, mind you.

Some people are genuinely so spaced out and/or absorbed in their reading that they truly do not notice; when they happen to glance up and notice me, they immediately offer me their seat. This has happened a few times; I've done it myself in the past. These are not the people I'm ranting about right now. I'm talking about people who are truly only out for themselves and couldn't give a flying fuck about any of their fellow riders.

Another friend related the story of a man who was sitting down on a crowded train car; he had a suitcase with him and evidently believed this entitled him to a seat, despite the fact that she was standing right in front of him with a nine months' pregnant belly. He looked up at her, took note of the situation, and decided to do nothing. The elderly woman sitting next to him proceeded to give him the side eye until it was time for her to get off the train. Before she exited the car, she turned to him, pointed her finger, and said in a thick Russian accent, "YOU--you are very bad man!"

I recently had a woman stick up for me on an uber-crowded 5 train during rush hour. We were standing next to each other; she saw my belly and took matters into her own hands, loudly asking a row of seated riders, "Will anyone please give this woman a seat?" The woman sitting in front of me immediately proffered her seat, explaining that she hadn't realized I was pregnant (I'm pretty big at this point, but I was wearing a baggy shirt so I'll give her the benefit of the doubt). Anyway, I thanked both women. The woman who got the seat for me explained that she knew what it was like, having been there herself.

Unfortunately, these subway saints are outnumbered about 25 to one by dicks who don't care. (And I pretty much mean that literally: 99.99% of the people who have given me seats have been female. One woman gave up her seat for me, despite the fact that a perfectly able-bodied man--oh, and an overtly religious one, for whatever that's worth--was sitting there reading the paper, without a care in the world. I gave him the side eye on her behalf once I sat down. Guys, come the fuck ON.)

Now, it's not like I have a broken leg, or I'm 90 years old. But standing on a crowded subway when you have a big belly and an aching back frankly sucks. Giving up your seat for a preggo lady may not seem fair, but trust me, she will be grateful. She will thank you profusely. And you won't have to walk around with the knowledge that you pretty much suck.

Shadoobie-doobie-doo

You know what else scares me about childbirth? I mean, besides the pain, and also suddenly being responsible for another human being?

Making a shadoobie* while I'm trying to push the baby out. Apparently this happens. A lot.

I have already warned my husband; he shrugged and said it would be no big deal.

You guys, I don't even fart in front of him. We've been together for years and it's literally never happened once (okay, I may have squeaked one out accidentally a time or two, but we both pretend he didn't hear it). So I'm not psyched about making a poo in front of him.

But I guess that will be the least of my worries. I hear that it can actually get pretty Human Centipede in terms of overall grossness, blood, poo, etc.

I'm reading all this literature about how women have been conditioned to be afraid of childbirth, and we shouldn't be, and we wouldn't need all this medical intervention if we would just let our bodies do their thing.

But how can I not be scared?

You poo! Right in front of everyone, for crying out loud!

*With apologies to Chelsea Handler for stealing that word from her.

So I had a really scary incident this weekend.

I was in the front seat of a car, on the passenger side; my husband and I were catching a ride home with a friend after a night out. My friend was driving; my husband was in the back seat.

At an intersection, a bunch of cars were slowing down because the light had just turned red. I thought my friend was going just a tad too fast and hoped he would brake in time not to hit the car in front of us. He didn't. The impact was extremely minor--we all felt it, but the guy driving the car in front of us didn't even bother pulling over, and as he drove off, I looked at his bumper and didn't see any obvious damage--but I was propelled forward enough that I felt the seatbelt dig into my belly. (I'm very glad I was wearing my seatbelt, anyway. The accident coulda been way worse if I hadn't.)

I felt fine, and I wasn't bleeding that I could tell, but I was pretty rattled. I called the on-call physician in my OB/GYN's office, and she told me I'd better go to labor and delivery and get myself checked out, just to make sure the placenta didn't tear.

Rather than risk turning around and going all the way back into Manhattan, to the Upper West Side, and getting into another accident, I just wanted to get the fuck out of the car as soon as possible and go somewhere closer. It was dark, it was raining, the roads were slick, and I wanted to go home, change clothes, make absolutely sure I wasn't bleeding, and then call a cab to a hospital in Brooklyn. So that's what I did.

After six hours--three hours of waiting, another three of ultrasounds, fetal monitoring, bloodwork and observation--I was told everything was fine and sent on my way. I was a wreck for much of the time, and on top of it all, I was starving, having basically skipped dinner (I'd planned to eat when I got home that night, but that didn't pan out) and I was also really thirsty.

The whole experience made me realize why some women don't want to give birth in hospitals. Don't worry, friends, I'm not going to be doing the home birth thing now. But the L&D ward sucked.   I spent much of the night shivering in a threadbare gown, on an excruciatingly uncomfortable mattress, freezing my ass off and being blinded by fluorescent lights, without anyone offering me anything to drink. It sucked quite a bit.

For all that, I'm still very glad I went in. It was worth it. My baby is okay.

Another thing that has changed in the last couple months: My boobs. I was never a flat-chested gal before, but now these things need their own zip code. They are no longer boobs; they're now jugs.

I’m officially a 38D. Now, I have some very busty lady friends who would probably scoff at my newfound jugs and say “That was my bra size in junior high!” and tell me to start whining when I have to do all my bra shopping at specialty stores, but this is new territory for me. And I for one do not care for it. I don’t like not being able to lift my arms over my head and then put them down by my sides without hitting my boobs on the way. I don’t like having cleavage in every shirt I own. I don’t like having to wear two sports bras in order to avoid getting black eyes when I work out.

The worst part is that I know it’s only going to get worse from here. I truly fear what will happen when my milk actually comes in. The other day I saw this poor woman with a baby, and it was clear that she had lost most of her baby weight but was still breastfeeding, because her rack was GIGANTIC and the rest of her was normal-sized. You would think this would be something to envy, since women have been told our whole lives that this is the ideal, but in reality she looked like an even more exaggerated Dolly Parton. I really hope I don’t look like that when the time comes.

My husband is totally on board with my new boobs, it goes without saying. I for one can’t wait for my old boobs to return.

I posted those first two entries several weeks ago, on a different blog (whose format I don’t like), and then work totally got crazy. Now that I’ve moved over here I hope to write more regularly. (Unfortunately I had to change the URL to "impreg" because "ipreg" was already taken!)

A few things have changed since my last post. I’m five and a half months pregnant now and I’m officially showing. This means that people have started giving me seats on the subway (yay!) but it also means I’ve started getting unsolicited advice from strangers.

I was warned by some of my ladyfriends that this would happen. So far none of it has been horribly offensive, but it’s a little annoying. For example, the other day, I had a business meeting, so I paired my cute new (well, secondhand), office-appropriate maternity dress with my dead-sexy red patent leather high heels. “Aren’t those shoes a little high for you to be wearing?” tsk-tsked some lady I’ve never seen before in my life.

Then, later that week, I went to the farmer’s market to pick up some veggies, since I was hosting a barbecue over the weekend and wanted to whip up some side dishes, including guacamole and jalapeno-lime cole slaw. So I brought a bunch of jalapenos up to the register at one of the stands. “Is it okay for you to eat such spicy foods?” the cashier asked. I wanted to say, “Is it okay for you to ask such nosy questions?”

But she did make me all paranoid for a split second, since no one has ever said one word to me about whether I should or shouldn’t eat spicy foods, and since I love Mexican, Thai and Indian and eat them all the time, I started wondering if I had already inadvertently fried my unborn child. Then I realized that there has never, ever been one documented case of a jalapeno pepper leading to a miscarriage, and I chilled out.

I know these people mean well. But I wish they’d shut the fuck up.

Amazingly, I’ve never gotten any comments when I’ve taken my baby bump out jogging (with my doctor’s blessing, of course! And I constantly monitor my heart rate). Then again, I’m always wearing headphones, so if they are making comments I can’t hear them. Maybe I should just constantly wear headphones for the next four months.

So what do me and Jamie Lee Curtis have in common?

We can't take a shit, apparently. Constipation is one of many truly glamorous symptoms of pregnancy that I had no idea I would get. I feel like the only one people talk about openly is morning sickness. Fortunately, I have not had a very severe case of this; I mostly just sit at my desk gagging for a few seconds, a couple times a day, and that's about it. But I feel like at this point I'd trade my mild nausea for one good old fashioned trip to the dump.

I have never been exactly normal on this front. I am a "feast or famine" kind of gal, to quote a funny friend of mine. But since I got pregnant, it has been really bad. And talk about NOT feeling sexy. I wanted to keep this particular symptom a secret from my husband, but one night when I was near tears because I was so miserable, I finally blurted it out. "I can't shit!" I wailed, holding my bloated stomach. He was sympathetic, but it was not a romantic moment.

Other delightful symptoms: the bloating. My god, the bloating. I wake up looking fairly normal, and then by the end of the day my stomach is so bloated and distended that I look like one of those poor malnourished children in the Unicef ads. (Yeah, I already know I'm an awful human being for making that comparison.) I was so bloated at the end of one work day that a woman offered me her seat on the subway. I am only 13 weeks! I'm really not showing yet. It was just the bloat. (I was both humiliated and grateful for the seat.)

Then there's the acne. Guys, I never had zits this bad, not even when I was a freaking teenager. Between the constipation, bloating and ravaged skin, I am a triple threat of sexiness right now. My husband still finds me irresistible, bless him. But I am ready for the cute baby bump phase and not the tired, grouchy, bloated, zitty-but-not-shitty part to pass. What on earth do celebrities do when they are going through this phase? Just hide out in their mansions? Somebody must know the answer to this.

I Preg

Hi there. Welcome to “I Preg,” my--you guessed it--pregnancy blog.

By the way, I’m well aware that the world doesn’t need another preggo chick inanely rambling on about her pregnancy. But I figured I’d start a blog anyway. For one thing, I happen to be pregnant, and I happen to like to write. But the real reason I wanted to start this is because I couldn’t really find any pregnancy writing online that resonates with me. While I am thrilled and excited to be having a baby, I am also kind of sarcastic (I named my blog after this, for example), and I just can’t relate to a lot of the ooey-gooey mommy stuff.

Whenever I google stuff about pregnancy, I seem to stumble upon two types of websites: What to Expect When You’re Expecting--or as I like to call it, “All the Reasons Your Baby Could Die--In Fact, Your Baby is Probably Dead Right Now.” And then there are the message boards. Oh, how I loathe message boards. There’s the whole flaming thing, which I never understood. But also, with pregnancy message boards, they seem to stoke your worst fears, even though they are often filled with totally bogus information (“My doctor said you can have a miscarriage from drinking two cups of coffee a day”).

Either that, or, if you’re like me, you just can’t relate to many of the women who post on them. I have lurked on many of these message boards, looking for like-minded broads, and while I’m sure they’re all perfectly nice women--and I truly wish them the best in their pregnancies and beyond--the posters seem to be the kind of chicks who name their kids things like Bradyn or Jadyn and already have their nurseries decorated before they’ve gotten past their first trimester. And really, there’s nothing wrong with that. It just ain’t my style.

Pregnancy books are even worse. I already mentioned how I feel about the detestable “What to Expect.” And then there are the psycho “you’re a terrible mother unless you breastfeed your child until he/she starts preschool/make their own baby food/spit your food in their mouths/quit your job and devote your entire life to slavishly indulging your child’s every whim”-type books.

One book that was recommended to me was “The Girlfriends’ Guide to Pregnancy.” This book is slightly better than most, but it’s still not quite right. For starters, it was written in 1995; I’m reading a really old edition and it’s probably been updated since then, but some of the information is hilariously outdated. She frequently extols the virtues of stirrup pants, for example.

Some aspects of the book are refreshing--such as her take on natural childbirth (which is basically, “You’re not going to get a trophy for turning down an Epidural, so why torture yourself?”) and exercise (which is basically “fuck it”). She also reveals lots of information that I had never read anywhere else--and while it’s terrifying, it is good to be prepared in advance (one example: you basically have to wear diapers for a couple days after giving birth because of all the shit that comes out of you. Like I said: gross, but good to know).

But there are other things about it that kind of bother me. She happens to be the wife of a really rich and successful music executive--and while I think this is unintentional on her part, her writing seems really targeted to women who have the financial option of staying home with her kids. There are also some passages that just struck me as being slightly sexist and regressive, not least of all her assumption that your OB/GYN is going to be a man. (Again, I’m reading an older version, so maybe she updated this stuff in later editions.)

Apparently she wrote her book because she didn’t feel like there was any pregnancy literature that resonated with her. I do think her book is an improvement over much of what’s out there, but for me, it’s still just not quite right. So this is where I’m going to vent my experience, and hopefully someone out there will read it and like it.

Some more about me, if you’re interested: I’m in my late 30s, happily married, I work as an editor for a trade magazine, and I live in Brooklyn. I’m 13 weeks pregnant. This is my second try after having a miscarriage earlier this year (more on that in a future entry). Above all: I’m psyched to be pregnant, I really am. It just may not show on my face all the time. Like I said, I’m a bit of a smartass; I’m just not the rah-rah type. If that sounds like you, I hope you will enjoy reading this.