It’s official. I am now too big to shave. It is now impossible to deftly manoeuvre around a slippery tub, sharp razor and soft bits in hand.
I can’t comfortably reach down to tend to my legs; leaning to one side is perilous enough on dry land, never mind the shower. I can no longer see my girl bits to groom them, so I rely on feel to de-fuzz. I actually use a battery-operated trimmer to give the ol’ girl a nice fade, but that takes time, a mirror, and the ability to bend. As I mentioned, I’m unable to do the latter, so I just sort of aim the trimmer in the general direction of the nether regions and hope that I don’t lop anything off. Imagine trying to skin a peach with a knife while blindfolded and you’ll kind of understand what I’m working with, here.
Pre-pregnancy, and up to about a month ago, I was always pretty well-groomed. Clean pits, smooth legs, and nicely landscaped. Now the boy and I have an agreement: he gets one hair-free thing at a time, not all three at once. Meaning, I will shave my pits today (the easiest), my legs the day after tomorrow – or the next, and maybe I’ll get to the good stuff by the weekend. At this size (damn fibroids), it takes too long to do a full sweep while I shower.
I’ve had waxing suggested to me more than once, but since I can’t see my bird, I can’t be vigilant about ingrowns. And to be honest, getting my legs waxed just sounds like an unnecessary expense and torture. I had my underarms done once, years ago at my friend Jenn’s tanning salon. Actually, make that underARM. One. She started with the right side, and when she yanked the hair out it hurt so bad that I broke out in a sweat on the left side of my body. I refused to let her near me to finish the other one.
Pretty soon all of my self-grooming is going to be relegated to the upper regions. I guess I’m just going to have to enlist the boy to finish up down below.
I wonder how much this guy charges for his services?
The pregnant lady wants what she wants.
Throughout different times in my pregnancy, I’ve craved different things.
In the very early stages, I wanted all kinds of dairy (yogurt and milk – chocolate milk in particular, and process cheese slices. Do those even count?). I developed an affinity for condiments on everything I ate, especially ketchup – something I wasn’t very fond of prior to becoming pregnant. There was also a hankering for meat. Beef and pork were the flesh of choice; I was never a huge chicken fan before, and something about the smell and taste of it completely turns me off now.
I have always had a well-developed sweet tooth, and pregnancy has only served to heighten this. I eat a candy bar about twice a week, usually a Twix or Wunderbar, and in the absence of chocolate, a personal-sized mini-tub of Hagen Dazs dulce de leche does the trick. Read more
Although I grow larger by the day, I’m at a stage where I can still get into about 50 per cent of my pre-pregnancy clothes. I don’t have a lot of “maternity” clothing, per se; I’ve opted for buying loose, blousy tops with room to accommodate peanut, as well as tights galore (mostly black) in size large.
All of my underwear still fits. And when I say “still fits” I mean that I can still wear the tiny boyshorts and bikini panties I had pre-peanut, I just spend most of the time digging them out of my ever-expanding bottom. I don’t know about men’s skivvies, but women’s underwear is ridiculously expensive. I would imagine that due to the extra fabric, maternity underwear is only more so, hence the reason I haven’t splurged on any yet.
My mother bought some lovely new underwear for me as a gift when I came out of the hospital. I’m currently sporting my first-ever pair of all-lace panties. They’re lovely, and comfy, and come all the way up and over my belly, and stop somewhere near my ribcage, just under my boobs.
I look like a lace-covered exercise ball. So hot.
Kind of like these. But higher. And white. And lacy. It’s the laciness that makes them so sexy.
I’ve never been what you’d call a busty girl. In fact, I’ve never even had a “bust.”
All my life, I’ve been a barely-there A-cup, and for the most part, I’ve truly enjoyed my membership in the itty-bitty titty committee. Sure, there were some things that I could never hope to wear – even with the support of push-up bras, chicken cutlets and other devices used to create the illusion of a gravity-defying bosom, but I just always chose to wear things that highlighted my other assets. Like my sexy – dare I say enviable? – collarbones. My long neck and my tiny waist. My long legs. And a really great ass.
(Clearly, humility is not among my other assets. 😀 )
I have owned the same four bras for the last ten-plus years. How is this even possible? you may wonder. Easy. With such a small chest, there often isn’t a need to wear one, so my bras (and my boobs) have maintained their shape. As my pregnancy has progressed, I still haven’t worn one, but not because of the aforementioned aversion to them. For the first time in the history of man, my bras don’t fit. Not only that, I have cleavage.
Full disclosure: I’m lying down, but I’ve rotated the photo to show that there’s definite cleave-ing. I think this is the first time my left and right breasts have ever met each other.
After I took this photo, I sent it to the boy via text message. I won’t re-print his full response, but when he called later, he did say the words, “very nice” and “wow.” I think there even have been a “thank you, Lord,” and possibly some weeping.
It’s the Canadian Thanksgiving weekend. So many things to be grateful for. At the top of my list this year, is my little girl. I had dinner with the in-laws out in Milton today, and as I got ready, I played this song on iTunes.
It’s called Aïcha (love the spelling). Originally performed by Algerian artist Cheb Kaled (and, apparently, one of his most popular songs), I prefer the salsa-infused version by Africando. I loved this song from the moment I heard it some years ago; never would it have occurred to me that I would one day come to give my daughter the same name. When her father and I were tossing about names, this song didn’t even cross my mind. A happy coincidence.
And now we call upon Mr. Jon Bon Jovi to commemorate the occasion. Pay particularly close attention to the chorus.
Mother’s little helper ain’t what it used to be.
Any relief I get from taking codeine and morphine is superseded by the guilt about the real or perceived damage I’m inflicting on my little one.
But I’m simply in too much pain to function, think, or even breathe. The halfway mark is approaching, and I don’t want to spend the next 20 weeks on narcotics. For the most part I try to hold off for as long as possible before I pop a pill, but I’m this ( – ) close to admitting myself back into hospital so I can get a dose of morphine to lower the volume on the pain from nerve-jangling throbbing to something a little less crazy-making.
When I’m playing superwoman (and opting out of downing a tab), my coping methods involve Lamaze-inspired breathing techniques and pacing. These don’t lessen the pain by any means, but they certainly distract.
There’s also the worry about the prolonged damage to my liver. Dr. Freedman assures me that it would take more than the occasional Tylenol 3 to ruin me, but it’s still a concern. No matter how beneficial these drugs are in the short term, the long-term implications weigh on my mind.