Over the weekend while the Womb Raider was feasting on the milk cannons, I had a moment of reflection. I started to go back to where it all began, the moment of conception where my life would change forever.
I hadn’t really given too much thought to what this moment would be like, but there was a certain expectation of romance and connection, maybe a dove flying past the window or some other kind of celestial sign. Perhaps we should have made more of an effort, but to be honest, it wasn’t all that Mills & Boon. It was rather transactional (ok maybe a firework or two) and not given the attention it truly deserved. I say this considering it would be one of the last few times a roll in the sack would be at least comfortable, and not peppered with my paranoid comments like “Don’t look at it”, “I must look huge” and “Sorry, I can’t reach it anymore”. I wish someone had told us to make the most of this event.
Instead, it played out to the sound of the neighbours casually chatting in the driveway and the dogs barking. The only celestial signs were the stars in the trashy magazines littered on the floor. The romp ended with my husband looking at me and unromantically proclaiming “That ought to do it”.
Wow, I felt so special. The Husband duly patted himself on the back and spent the next few weeks walking with a certain kind of swagger. Of course, in that time we would discover that “it” did, in fact, do it. The Womb Raider was on her way to us and The Husband now insisted on being called The Sperminator.
Once I stocked up on the usual pregnancy books and began scouring the internet for “symptoms” of pregnancy, I began feverishly searching for any external sign that I was growing a tiny human. Some of them were expected, but others surprised me and I was curious as to when I would experience some of these things.
For the benefit of the uninitiated, I thought I would catalogue a few of them so that you don’t get the same shock that I did. Some of them are grotesque, embarrassing and downright nasty, and NOTHING like what I had expected.
These are the ones that nobody talks about, but I am pretty sure I am not alone in my experience. And if I am then I am about to completely humiliate myself.
1. The purple vagina. I’d read that my vertical smile might take on a bluish tinge once the pregnancy hormones kicked in, so I would occasionally go and sneak a peek to check and see if my pink bits had become purple bits. For ages I wasn’t able to tell any difference, until one day I had a look and recoiled in horror at the sight that lay before me.
Yes, it was purple. But not only that, my fanny had gained weight. I had a FAT v-jay-jay.
So fat, that I nicknamed it The Va-Giant. It was hideous. It was swollen, veiny, angry and resembled road kill. My cooch was altogether horrific, and I promised myself I would not look again unless I absolutely had to.
Unfortunately once you’ve seen it, you cannot un-see it, and I had trouble falling asleep for weeks. If it looked like this now, imagine what it’s going to be like once the Womb Raider has clawed its way out of me. I was in sweats with worry and was hoping I wouldn’t have to send my Va-Giant to boot camp in a few months time. At the very least I vowed to look into Vajazzling and Vaginoplasty just to weigh up my options. Dr. 90210 on Foxtel was a good starting point.
2. Wet ‘n Wild. Kaz Cooke in her book ‘Up The Duff’ refers to this added womanly wetness as “Ladies Lotion”. “I realise this is hardly dinner party conversation,” I read, “but you’ll be pleased to know that all those extra wet knickers are actually normal,”
Well, imagine wearing undies for 9 months that feel like you’ve dipped them in half set jelly and you are starting to get the picture. Ladies Lotion is being polite, my fanny had become a fountain and I was oozing litres of the stuff.
3. Constipation. One of the more common pregnancy afflictions, but one that can be a giant pain in the bum (literally). I spent far too many hours on the loo contorting my face into all manner of arrangements trying to do a poo. I’m talking the pop-a-vein-in-your-forehead kind of constipation, the sort that needs medical intervention.
Rather than tying a rope to the end of it and calling in external help to pull the sucker out, I drank litres of pear juice, prune juice, water and extra soluble fibre to help ease the concrete-hard poop causing me no end of agony.
If you are lucky like me, you will escape this without a haemorrhoid as a souvenir of your pain. If you are unlucky like a few of my friends, your arse will resemble a shrivelled bunch of grapes and may actually need to be nipped off by a doctor.
I don’t want to scare you off, but if you are thinking about becoming pregnant anytime soon you might want to reconsider. If I had known then what I know now, I may well have changed my mind.