What Else You Find Out at the Ultrasound

I was really bad at having my first ultrasound. My large-headed baby was curled up like a shrimp. Alex had a look on his face like the heavens had opened up and everything he ever dreamed about paternity was coming true. He was nailing this. I felt nothing but pure unadulterated fear, and then the realization of my fear scared me even more.

“Does this mean I’m going to be a terrible mother?” I thought to myself as I laid there being poked by the ultrasound tech that bore way too close a resemblance to Fortune Feimster. I mean, when Ross and Rachel saw their little inch-long piece of life for the first time, she cried and there was that touching music in the background. All I kept thinking was, “my straightener is definitely still on and I wore this exact same outfit yesterday.” Are those the actions of a prepared parent? My smoke alarm randomly went off last night and I was so sure it was a ghost trying to contact me that I slept with my iPhone night light on. I hardly ever take my dog all the way out to go to the bathroom when it’s cold outside. I just let her poop on the balcony and act like I had no idea she was going to do that. I love bagel bites. I laugh every time I see a Sprinkles cupcake because it looks so much like a boob. Sometimes I actually order amaretto sours at bars as a serious drink that I’m going to consume, not to act ditzy and have guys show me better drinks. I like them. I think they taste like a good time. I used to give my middle school boyfriends framed versions of my family’s Christmas card as gifts. I’m an only child so they were always dramatic black and white pictures of me in our backyard. These are the things that were running through my head as I stared at the fruit of my loins wiggling around on the big screen TV in front of me.

I looked over at the tech like she was supposed to be filled with advice for me but she just said, “Well, there it is. Your typical human variety baby.” She was looking at the screen like it was a Sbarros menu or something. This wasn’t her first rodeo. All I kept saying was “this is so crazy,” which I knew she hated. She didn’t think this was crazy at all. She just wanted to take her lunch break. Wasn’t I supposed to feel some kind of unbreakable emotional connection? Wasn’t everything supposed to make perfect sense now? I was just more terrified than ever. There was going to be my own personal human in the world now and I was completely responsible for its rearing. This was like a high stakes Tamagotchi situation and I was awful at having a Tamagotchi. I always forgot to feed it and it always had those wiggly lines like it was starting to smell. I wasn’t really done rearing myself. I always told myself that I didn’t have to have it all figured out until I was 25. That seemed like an age where you should stop picking at your face and start watching the local news. I just thought I had more time. All of the girls I knew that had found themselves in this exact situation had been either really responsible or really cultured. I was neither of those things. My responsibility was constantly being disproven by car towings, overdrawn bank accounts, and academic blunders. I also can’t really say that I’m necessarily cultured. Greta Gerwig would never play me in a quirky independent film about unexpected motherhood. I always fast forward through the indie musical guests on Late Shows. I’ve never been inside a Madewell store. I had no idea who Moby was until they made a reference to him on SNL a couple weeks ago. I had to Google him. Three months ago my biggest concerns were whether or not I wanted to start a juice cleanse and if Girls was actually getting as nonsensical as I thought or just going way over my head.

When we got home, I was searching for a magnet to hang the ultrasound picture on the fridge, and there was only one left; the rest were being used by bills, my weekly calendar, save the dates, and Christmas cards. I realized maybe being scared was okay. Maybe being totally unprepared was okay. Maybe that was just being honest about it, because even if I already had a 401k, I bet I’d still be pretty insecure about the uncertainty of the whole thing. So, for now, I think I’m going to take comfort in my excitement and fear of the situation because that’s kind of the whole point, isn’t it? I don’t think anyone is ever completely confident in his or her parenting abilities. I’d even be willing to bet that when Tori Spelling was lying on that table staring at her 30^th kid wiggling around on the big screen in front of her, the most real and honest part of her was thinking, “Dammit, I think I left the garage door open. This is going to be a complete disaster.”

Thought Catalog

Thanks Thought Catalog for publishing my post. Go see it here! 

Thought Catalog-Thinking You're Pregnant is The Scariest Thing in The World

An Open Letter To Pretentious Cocktails

Dear Pretentious Cocktails,

I always fancied myself more as a beer girl. You know, the kind of girl so unbelievably down to earth and chill that she could kick back a Natty Light and still own the room. That was totally me. My cheap, tasteless beer and I needed no one to define us. We were effortless in our simplicity and edgy in our bubbly roughness. I threw my head back and laughed at even the sight of your kind. My beer was Serena and you were Blaire. Sure, you had style and elegance, but we had gusto and personality. You were forced to cling to snobbery while we were set free by our self-acceptance. We weren’t necessarily classy but we had swag. When my Natty and I were together I was sure that everyone was saying, “that girl knows exactly who she is.” 

But as much as I hate to admit this to you, now that my body is being operated by the corrupt despotism of hormones, you’re all I think about. It's not really even alcohol that I miss, it's just the overwhelming need to feel something festive glide through a straw and into my body. Sometimes I wake up to myself screaming, “CLUB SODA WITH A DASH OF SIMPLE SYRUP, CRUSHED MINT AND A SPLASH OF ORGANICALLY INFUSED BLOOD ORANGE VODKA PLEASE!” I don’t even know myself anymore.  I’m consumed by the need to hold something in my hand called a “Stiletto” or a “Farmer’s Skinny Daughter.” I’d even take the “Farmer’s Chubby Daughter with A Clubbed Foot,” I really don’t care, as long as something is muddled. Sometimes I sit in bed in my favorite French bulldog pajama set and look at the Fleming’s drink menu online. I just want to feel close to you. I saw that they had a new drink called “50 Shades of Rose.” I giggled for a solid 10 minutes at its subtle cleverness. GOD THEY’RE GOOD. It’s kind of like Facebook stalking the guy you used to “talk to” but stopped because he started verbally hashtagging everything like a huge tool. He is now dating another girl with way better legs than you. You want what you can’t have. That’s exactly how I feel about a pretentious drink that involves lavender bitters or something. I’m Eve and a “tini” is my forbidden fruit. I just want to get dirty with it for a minute then toss it aside, just to know I can.

As a substitute, I’ve tried everything you can make with a Keurig. There’s so much boba in my system from drinking bubble tea that baby girl is probably playing marbles with her imaginary friends in the womb. I even tried ordering a round of wheatgrass shots, “on me,” to try to feel like I was a somebody again. “Oh, just order a virgin Daiquiri, or a virgin Bloody Mary (I can’t decide if this is ironic or just gross), or a virgin Long Island Iced Tea,” they say. Virgin cocktails… Is that some sick joke? Every drink is pale ale in comparison to you. They call them spirits for a reason, and I’m not feeling very spirited these days. I live my sober life vicariously through others now. I go to a bar or restaurant with someone and find myself ordering drinks for them just to see them imbibe. It’s like live beverage porn; I get my kicks by watching strangers drink something on the rocks. “With a twist” never sounded so sensual.

So this is what it’s come to. Sitting in the corner of a Starbucks and writing you this letter you’ll never read. The thought of my cheap beer has completely left me now only to be replaced by my mental affair with you. You win.

White Girl Problems,

Katherine

Boobie Blues

     When I was little, I always thought having large boobs would make me feel like Scarlett Johansen. I knew that I would be really good at having them. I’d take care of them, make them feel loved, take them on plenty of walks, and bathe them in La Mer to ensure that they were always at their best. We’d eat at only the best restaurants and take tons of zany photos together at the booths in the mall. Unfortunately, now that my fetus has given me the backhanded gift of giant knockers, I look more like Rosie O’ Donnell and I constantly complain about them.  They aren’t glamorous. I feel nothing like a mysterious burlesque dancer. My back always hurts and I want to donate portions of my mams to my more flat-chested friends so they’re less flat-chested and I don’t have to frequently wear ponchos.  

      I knew the situation was really starting to develop (no pun intended) when I was getting dressed one morning and noticed my “after Mexican food” bra was doing that thing where it cuts into the middle of the breast causing the upper division to pour over the cup, resulting in a four-boob disaster. This was only going to get worse. This was like breast genocide. My chest was going to join forces with my stomach and I was turning into a blob. I was going to look like this by the time I had this child…

     I clearly needed some new bras. I recruited my mom to come on this journey because this was her fault. It was her genes and she needed to make it up to me. We chose to do our shopping at Dillard’s because it was a place where the youth and the elderly intersect, like aisle 18 at CVS where they keep both condoms and Depends, so we knew they’d carry brands with some flare yet plenty of support. Victoria’s Secret would scoff. Aerie’s demi cups would run in fear. This also wasn’t as grim as Steinmart. It had to be a multi-aged department store. 

     I wasn’t really sure what size I was, so I just started grabbing the next size up from my quad-boob bra in some styles that didn’t horrify me too much. Between my mom and I, we probably had at least 40 bras slung over our arms. We were ready for anything. We were hoping for something that still encompassed the allure of a twenty-something-about-town, but we knew that it might be a job only underwire and a thick strap could conquer. As we sifted through another rack, I felt a tap on my shoulder. It was a tall, slender, boobless sales woman in her late seventies and she was giggling. “Sweetie,” she said condescendingly, “it looks like you have a lot of bras there.” Obviously.  “Are you sure you even know what size you are?” she said looking me up and down. “I’ve got a pretty good idea,” I answered dismissively, willing her to walk away. She suggested that I get measured. I opened my mouth to object, but before I could get my words out, my mom was already speaking for me. “THAT’S SUCH A GREAT IDEA!! WE HAVE NO IDEA WHAT WE ARE DOING!!!” she said like she wasn’t completely ruining my life. As we followed Bea Arthur back to the dressing room, I shot my mother a death look and whispered, “Is she going to fondle me?!” She assured me that she wasn’t and that there was a method that they used to guarantee you aren’t violated. I didn’t believe her. This was so my mom. She was the queen of “Oh, that’s not going to hurt at all!” before an incredibly painful medical procedure, so I was sure “Oh, she’s totally not going to touch your boobs!” really meant that I was going to be crying on the floor of a cold shower after this was over. 

     Immediately upon arrival to the dressing room, Bea began flipping through the bras and giggling again like, “oh these are definitely not going to work, you silly little thing.” I gave a needy look to mom, but she was talking on her cell phone and not caring at all about my desire to hold on to my self-worth. I turned back around and Bea had dramatically flown out of the room in search of her assistant. When she found her, I saw her whisper something to her and they both turned and looked at me, nodding in silent agreement. When she returned, she was holding two different styles; one was a very aggressive beige number with one of those clasps that has 12 hooks for people who sometimes get their mamos stuck in their socks. I can’t talk about the other one. I just can’t. She grabbed my shoulders and spun me around to the corner (molestation nook) and instructed me to remove my ill-fitting brassiere that I had arrived in. Then, in this weird turbo speed whirlwind, she put the new one on me. She never touched me. She just witnessed them and said “nipple” a lot, so it was pretty much just as bad. She informed me that I had been shopping for bras that were completely the wrong size and basically setting myself up for complete failure. I had to admit, home girl was right. Thanks to her recommendation, I was a new woman. I looked like a Designing Women cast member, but I felt pretty good. Bea brought me some more nursing home exclusives and I felt like we were really developing a level of comfort with one another like a scene out of Fried Green Tomatoes. Before I knew it, we were talking tons of shit on her assistant and conspiring against my distracted mother. 

     Bea really thought my mom should pay for the bras. I’d been through enough and she WAS the reason I was in this situation, right? We just really got each other. I also realized that she was never in this to feel me up; kind of like how doctors aren’t in the game to see your junk, just to cure you. She was like a doctor. She knew not to touch my belly and say anything about the miracle of life and I knew that offering her gum for her cig breath would be too obvious. I didn’t want to cheapen this and neither did she. Once someone sees full breast, a level of trust develops. I forgave her condescending attitude, I could be a major ass too when people were butchering my art. Bra shopping was her art and I needed to stay in my lane. I understood that now. 

      As I handed her my mom’s credit card and we had a good snicker about conning the old gal into her financial support, I realized it wasn’t my giant chest that was holding me back; it was my attitude towards it. With the right bra, I could flaunt these Dita Von Teese’s all over the place. It just took a little violation and some geriatric girl time to make me appreciate that. 

The Scariest Thing in The World

I used to think the most terrifying thing that could possibly happen to me was being haunted by a demon. When working at the cupcake shop that made me fat, one of the bakers told me that my manager had a demon that followed her around and messed with her all the time. She would come out of the bathroom to find a single cupcake in the middle of the tray squished, and the coffee pot in the kitchen would be giggling and saying “red rum” or something. I was pretty sure that was absolutely the most horrifying thing that could ever happen to someone.

I was wrong.

Thinking you’re pregnant is way scarier than that. The second you realize your period is late, a million things come flooding through your head. For me, that moment came at 8:00 a.m. in my friend’s grandmother’s guest room after I had spent the weekend flaunting my carefree youth through Mumford and Son’s Gentleman of The Road “stopover” music festival. I’m still not exactly sure what woke me up, it was either my other friend scream-whispering directions to said grandmother’s house to the young man that was giving her a ride back, or it was God slapping the shit out of me. I think it was God. I rolled over and checked the date on my cell phone. Sure enough, I was 3 days late.

I lay there for a minute trying to think of every unmarried couple I knew that successfully raised babies while still holding on to some semblance of freedom. I could only think of Ross and Rachel. I wasn’t convinced that this was a realistic example of responsible parenting. This made me panic, so I did what any self-respecting girl would do. I ran into the front yard so I would not wake up my friends or interrupt the grandfather’s puzzle he was working on and tried to wish my period into my pants. As I sat on the front steps of this kind elderly couple’s sanctuary, I couldn’t help but feel a little dirty as I googled “how to make your period come.” This was so Marilyn Monroe when I’d always thought of myself as so Jackie O. The Internet proved to be a wealth of information. All I had to do was eat a lot of celery, some exotic fruits, drink some ginger tea, go for a long run, apply a hot compress to my lower abdomen, and settle comfortably into the deepest state of denial I could possibly ever enter. I could do that. This brought me some comfort.  My period would return on a ship made of celery and papaya and return everything to normal.

As I turned to walk inside, I caught a glimpse of myself in the glass door. Who was I kidding? This wasn’t Marilyn Monroe; this was Courtney Love. I had mascara smeared all over my face and a gerbil plantation forming in my hair off the side of my head. I was wearing a long Syracuse t-shirt that couldn’t have been mine and no pants. I was the picture of motherhood, if motherhood was like that movie Thirteen. I couldn’t deal with this yet. My period would come. I had just been “raging” too hard lately and it was blocking my reproductive cycle.

A few weeks passed and there was still no sign of Aunt Flow. Every time I turned on the TV or drove past a billboard, I always saw something to the effect of "ARE YOU PREGNANT AND TOTALLY UNPREPARED? IS YOUR UTERUS BEING OCCUPIED BY THE AFTERMATH OF YOUR IRRESPONSIBLE LUST? TEEN MOM ISN'T SO FUNNY NOW, IS IT, JUNO?" A glimpse of realistic clarity was starting to break through the deep fog of denial that I had been comfortably hiding behind for weeks. I could no longer blame my lack of menstruation on moving to Texas, stress, giving up carbs, reclaiming carbs, my excessive cell phone use, the couple of times I did hot yoga, reading Fifty Shades of Grey, or Miley Cyrus. I had to take a test. I had to find out for sure or this was going to become that show I Didn't Know I Was Pregnant. Except I did know I was pregnant. I just wasn't dealing with it. I decided it was best to pee on the stick in the guest bathroom as to not bring any bad juju to the master bathroom.  I needed to have more periods there. After I completed the pregnancy exam, I sat crisscross applesauce on the floor and stared at the stick until a faint pink plus sign appeared. It was so faint, actually, that I was sure it had malfunctioned. I grabbed the test and burst into the living room, “Alex, look at this” I said outraged as I tossed the urine christened test to my very calm and collected boyfriend, “how am I supposed to tell what this is?” We both agreed that there was only one way to determine if I was incubating our spawn. He would have to take the second test in the pack and see if it was clearer. While we waited for it to develop, I started frantically asking questions that I hoped would bring relief to my situation, such as: "Can I still pull off floppy hats if I'm a mother? Could I ever pull off floppy hats? Will this be more incentive for me to finish my degree? Is this a great excuse to learn the rules of football? Whatever happened to Ross' son Ben anyway? Can I pull off floppy hats more than ever?" He didn't answer. He was staring at the test in his hand. There it was. Clear as day. Negative as my Grandma. I was pregnant.

The interesting thing was that now that I knew, it wasn't so scary. In fact, there wasn't a doubt in our minds that we could do this. There was no doubt in our minds that we wanted to do this. Sure, the timing is off and I’d have to stop eating only microwavable foods, but as we sat there on the bathroom floor staring at the pink plus sign, I knew that everything was going to be okay. I also knew that cupcake demons were still the most terrifying thing in the world. But I hadn't googled the word “episiotomy” yet.

Weight Watchers

            Sometime around August of last year, I decided I should probably get some kind of a part-time job. I was tired of the judgey looks my friends were giving me, not because I wanted to expand my resume or anything. I just wanted to be able to say things like “today is my day off” or “call you after work” or “that was a really hard shift.” I like to have real things to complain about so I seem relatable. I think there’s a pretty fine line between “relatable” bitching and just being a pain in everyone’s ass. I spend most of my life walking that tight line and I wanted to take a proactive step toward the more tolerable side.

I washed my hair and walked into a cupcake shop I had passed a bunch of times on my way to walk around Target while I talked on the phone. I filled out an application and they hired me! The bakery was owned by a pageant mom and a guy that looked like Anthony Weiner who also winked a lot so I figured I’d like it.  All was well in the world of my employment except for one enormous detail that I seemed to have overlooked in all the bliss I was feeling of becoming a respectable young adult with a career. Cupcakes make you super fat when you look at them for eight hours a day with no breaks. Basically all I did for the eight months I worked there was eat cupcakes. Even when I wasn’t at the shop I was eating them. I would hide in the bathroom at social get togethers and eat cupcakes and look at myself in the mirror and scream “LOOK AT YOUR THIGHS!! YOU ARE AN ANIMAL!!” but I couldn’t stop. I became that girl everyone hates. The one that would talk about how fat she was while smashing 1,000-calorie cupcakes into her mouth. Even the bakery manager would poke her head around the corner and passive aggressively whisper “umm just remember you’re only allowed to have ONE free cupcake a day and you’ve far exceeded that” before disappearing into the office to Google her boyfriend. One time a lady came into the shop and said “these are delicious! How are you girls so cute and tiny!” and I think I just deadpanned, “Look at me. I look like Rosanne. I probably have type 2 diabetes but I’m going to go ahead and eat another Mississippi Mud because I have no self worth anymore.” It was really bad. I was like two bites away from pajama jeans. Something had to give.

I went home that weekend and told my mom that I needed gastric bypass surgery and she said she didn’t think our insurance covered that but encouraged me to weigh. I had gained 25 pounds. She suggested I go to a Weight Watchers meeting with her the next day. I didn’t want to. It sounded like a lot of work but I did it anyway because my body was so full of cupcakes there was really nothing behind my eyes anymore. Also, I wouldn’t hate looking like a white girl version of Jennifer Hudson. When we walked in the door we were greeted by an older woman with kind eyes sitting behind a desk. She looked like what Betty Crocker would look like if she too had a blog about different ways to substitute Greek yogurt for sour cream. She made me weigh and wrote my weight down in a tiny book that I was supposed to bring every week. I thought that seemed abrasive. I followed my mother into a large room with rows and rows of bright green, plastic chairs facing a large dry erase board. I was the youngest person there by about 40 years so that made me happy. I’m better received by the elderly. I’m an old soul but I look like I’m 13 and they like that. Before I could make any friends, an energetic (but likeably skinny) man bounced into the room. “GOOD MORNING WATCHERS!” he basically screamed. He was so excited about weight loss. I was so into that. He went around the room and let everyone share something skinny and good that they did that week. After they spoke, he instructed the rest of the group to say “ooooohhh ahhhh” in approval. The couple in front of me was amped about this. They were wearing matching M&M t-shirts and she had M&M earrings and had just taken up daily bike riding. “I don’t know...” she whispered to her husband, “is it notable enough, Honey?” He looked shocked “Sweetie yes!” he said, resting a supportive hand on her knee “any step you take toward your weight loss, is a step in the right direction.” Doris had recently gone on a cruise with her husband and not gained any weight. She got to put a gold star sticker in her book. Marge had had a bad weight loss week and was so down on herself you would have thought she was liquefying Oreo’s and shooting them up behind a Mardel. She didn’t get a star, obviously, but we all let her know that if she stuck to the system she would make it around this dark corner. It was basically AA for chubbies except no one was fat at all, just old. So it was basically Bridge Club.

After everyone was done sharing, we all learned a recipe that was supposed to taste exactly like Red Lobster’s coconut shrimp. Just talking about Red Lobster made me feel safe. I loved it here. After the meeting was over the leader came up and shook my hand and said something like “it works if you work it.” I felt alive. I hated cupcakes in that moment. As I walked out of the brightly colored building and out to my car, I caught a glimpse of myself in the window of a fellow addict’s Lincoln Town Car I still looked pretty bloated, but there was a shimmer of hope in my eyes. I knew that soon, I too, would have my gold star. 

My Bowling Instructor

            I’ve never been good at sports. I’m not saying that in one of those ways where I act like I’m bad at sports but then if you asked me to play a game of tennis I’d show up in head-to-toe Lulu Lemon and hold my own really well. I’m also not saying it in one of those cool hipster ways where my lack of athletic ability can be compensated by my insane ability to do something artistic while looking  toned in gray skinny jeans without ever going to the gym. I’m just horrifically awful at pretty much anything athletic. In middle school, I told my gym teacher I was eternally on my period so he and I could sit on the stage of gymnasium, drink Dr. Pepper and talk about his marriage while the other kids ran laps.

As I got older my morbid lack of coordination became less of a bone of contention in my personal relationships. After a certain point you just learn how to avoid any situation where you’d have to do anything remotely physical. You forget what the humiliation of kickball feels like. You move on. At least that’s what I thought. Then my boyfriend suggested we going on a double date to the bowling alley.

I wasn’t even really nervous or worried. It had just been so long since I had used my arms, I kind of just forgot how they looked when they tried to do things. I mean bowling seems easy enough. Everybody can roll a ball down a slippery wooden hallway, right? Wrong.  I did my usual song and dance. The whole “I’m-so-quirky-and-adorable-that-no-matter-what-happens-im-just-gonna-giggle-my-way-through-this” act that I’ve clung to my whole self-deprecating life. It was kind of my trademark thing. I have always been convinced that if you giggle enough it makes the situation less embarrassing. It didn’t work. I was awful. I literally guttered every ball and you could cut the pity-laced tension in the alley with a knife. I could tell that everyone felt like they’d seen a special needs child get bullied in the hallway or something.  That night as I went to bed I vowed never to touch a bowling ball again.

Eventually that fateful night faded into my memory and I continued with my life, until I made the mistake of mentioning that I wasn’t that good at bowling to my mother over dinner one evening. I could tell she was overly concerned, as she usually was. I could see the wheels turning in her head, but I was in no way prepared for what was next.

She woke me up early the following Monday and announced that she had enrolled me in private bowling lessons. I was mortified but I showed up to the alley at 3pm sharp like I told. I picked a table and waited there pouting, until my instructor walked through the door. She was like an angel in wrangler jeans, Kswiss sneakers, and one of those tans that you can tell has been maintained for way too long. I knew right away this was going to be EXACTLY like Tuesdays with Morrie. She reached out her hand to meet me and as if someone from deep within was speaking for me, I locked eye contact with her and said, “Mold me.”

 By the end of that hour-long session, I was hooked. Granted I hadn’t knocked any pins down yet but I had learned pretty much everything I needed to know about my “coach.” She knew how to fly a plane, had like 60 college degrees, used to be a professional chef in Vegas, had a bunch of time shares, home colors her hair, lives in a mobile home just because she’s a free spirit, is dating like five guys at once that she met on Zoosk, and didn't want me to call after 9pm because she will be busy with one of her boyfriends. Did I mention she installed her own sauna in her mobile home? Usually I’d be annoyed that my bowling instructor was more interesting then me but I was pretty positive she was my spirit animal.

I made an appointment for everyday that week. The second day, she showed me how to hold my shoulders and swing my arm to ensure a straight delivery. She winked at me and told me it was her little secret that she was sharing with me.  The third day we drank green tea and talked about these diet pills she took that aren’t yet approved by the FDA. The fourth day she showed me how to “slide and swing.” The fifth day we talked about her divorce. By the end of the week I had my own ball, bag, shoes, slide sock (bet you don’t know what that is do you?) and I was signed up for her league.

Though I’m really not much better at bowling, I took some very important lessons away from my time with Coach. You know, like never invite two guys you’re dating to Buffalo Wild Wings to watch a Giants game at the same time and that every girl should know how to repair the drainage system in her shower.