Baby Mama Did A Bad, Bad Thing

Sidenote to "someone who used to care," and who sent the delightful hatemail regarding my whorish decision to post my baby registry online: Yes, my cyber-begging is indeed quite loathsome. Particularly the way I personally force each and every reader to spend their hard-earned money on baby supplies, usually at gunpoint. I totally did not post the registry because people repeatedly asked me to, or so my far-flung family would have an easy way to access it. No, I posted it because I feel entitled to get everything my greedy, selfish heart desires. Clearly, I cannot fool you, dear former reader, as you completely nailed both my motivations AND my financial situation based on the 500 words or so that I write each week. Your ability to document every single dollar I've spent during my pregnancy on extravagant handbags (I USED A COUPON, YOU MORON) and kitchen remodels (HOME EQUITY LOAN, YOU DUMBASS), is very impressive and also a little creepy. And while I am not usually the type who emails emotionally-fragile pregnant strangers to call them names, I DO feel close enough to you to confidently call you a raging, bitter asshole.

Love, Spoiled Materialistic Pig Brat Girl.

P.S. Email again and I'm posting your address. Kisses!

P.P.S. Although I doubt you will since you feel too strongly about my lack of character and concern for starving blog readers in Africa to read the site anymore. Which, hooray! Less asshole, more bandwidth.

I got a LOT of email after yesterday's post, and only some of it was hatemail and/or penis enlargement pill-related.

(Ironically, several messages were, in fact, from readers who wanted to send the babalah a little something, even though I totally was NOT holding a gun to their heads and demanding payment for the hours of timesuck my stupid archives provide. One email was from Bethiclaus, who KNITTED HIM A BLANKET HER OWN SELF, and it made me cry, because y'all! Are too damn sweet. With the knitting. And the caring.)

Anyway. Most of my email yesterday came from other pregnant readers who wanted to confess their sins. And so we confessed together.

We confessed all the horrible things we've done or said, and the even more horrible things we've THOUGHT about doing or saying. We confessed to hating other pregnant girls who only write about the joy and the glowing and who seem to love every minute of their stretch-mark-free pregnancy. (Confession: my belly pictures are stretch-mark free because YOU CANNOT SEE MY ASS OR THIGHS. There. Now you know.)

And we debated whether our crazy pregnant behavior would warrant a coach or a business-class ticket to hell. I don't know if it made anybody else feel better, but it sure as hell helped me.

Well, temporarily, anyway. Until I woke up for the fourth time at 4 a.m. after getting kicked in the ribs AGAIN and then starting thinking about breastfeeding twenty times a night for months on end and dammit, now I have to pee, only when I go to pee, the baby's head is squooshing my bladder in such a way that peeing requires some complex acrobatics involving leg-stretching and bending and OKAY, I'M WIDE AWAKE NOW AND READY TO OBSESS OVER WHAT I WILL DO WHEN I DISCOVER AN EMPTY CONDOM WRAPPER IN MY 14-YEAR-OLD'S ROOM LIKE HULK HOGAN DID ON HIS SHOW AND WHY AM I WATCHING THAT SHOW IN THE FIRST PLACE.

ALSO CELEBRITY FIT CLUB, WHICH I BET YOU FOUR FRILLION DOLLARS WAS ORIGINALLY CALLED CELEBRITY FAT CAMP.

Anyway. I'm all freaked out and jiggy again today. So clearly, it's time for another round of Seekrit Pregnancy Confessions.

Here is a limited list of sins, bad things and crimes against humanity and my pregnant readers and I copped to yesterday over email. I'm protecting everyone's identity, and will not be identifying who thought or did or said what. Including myself, because damn, I already told you about the ass stretch marks, what more do you want from me?

THE GIRLFRIEND'S GUIDE TO (A BATSHIT INSANE BUT ULTIMATELY NORMAL) PREGNANCY

We've called our husband "the biggest asshole on the planet" in the diaper aisle of the supermarket.

We've told him "we'll have sex when I feel pretty again."

We've considered offering a blow job in return for painting the baby's room.

We've thought about kicking the cat for the sheer hell of it.

We've refrained from kicking the cat, but shoved it off the bed instead.

We've begged to be held.

We've kicked our partner away after five minutes of holding because it's too damn hot.

We've called our unborn babies brats.

We've threatened divorce.

Repeatedly.

We've wondered aloud if this whole baby thing was a colossal mistake.

We've compiled a list of our partner's features that we secretly hope the baby doesn't inherit.

We've been disappointed when the ultrasound revealed a girl or a boy because we wanted the other.

We've found that guilt trips are really the best and only way to get what we want.

We've screamed "YOU DID THIS TO ME" and we're not even in labor yet.

We're really worried that our babies will be ugly.

And who likes an ugly baby? Who?

We're worried that there's something wrong with our babies and it's all because of what we ate/drank/did/thought during pregnancy.

We're worried we won't love our babies.

We're worried our babies won't love us.

We're worried our boobs won't work.

We're worried we'll poop during labor and that our partner will see us poop during labor.

We're scared to death of postpartum depression.

When asked how we feel, we always say that we feel great, no matter how fucking miserable we are.

We've cried.

Over nothing.

Over everything.

And we've eaten a combined total of 438 pints of Ben & Jerry's.