Alright Ladies, it's a little late, and that means I am on my 2nd... or 3rd glass of wine; to be honest I hope you are too, because we have a lot to talk about. I wasn't sure how I was going to approach this first "moms" post. There are a lot of expectations for mothers that are deemed reasonable by society; however, in our defense, when has society ever been reasonable to begin with? It's 11:00 pm and all I can find myself reminiscing on are the times I was berated or bombarded with questions regarding every aspect of my pregnancy, delivery, and recovery. But for now, I will focus on the 10 months that seems to last a lifetime -- and the intrusion it brings with it. 

      To be honest, I shouldn't take this as a surprise. The invasion of privacy that is. From the moment I laid on the stiff table with my legs in metal stirrups -- like I was something that was created to be ridden -- I knew that my identity as a private individual had been utterly lost. Come to think of it, why are those tables so uncomfortable? I mean, I am literally creating a human being inside of me; you would think they could provide pillows that weren't equivalent to the Motel 6 that houses prostitutes and drug mules. (No disrespect if that is your profession of choice, remember we are totally inclusive here.)

      But Lord knows I am both paying and suffering enough to get a 5-star treatment as if I were at the Ritz-Carlton or at least a Hilton; and yet, the reality of the papier-mache bedding, coupled with the ass sweat that is undoubtedly soaking through the lining, is just offensive. (Don't question me on the sweat. When you know that Reburtta, a German woman whose fingers are as delicate as your grandmother's ribbed and callous garden carrots, is coming to stretch your cervix... the nerves and puddling river of worry are to be expected.)

      We suffer through this reality for an unreasonable amount of time. People are so delusional to assume that it only takes 9 months to create life. Nobody seems to resonate with the actuality that this torture lasts for much longer; including the process that we endure in order to "seal the deal". Getting pregnant transforms sex from a tipsy-turvey romp, to a perfectly timed and executed scientific experiment. If you claim that you were totally about it, and fully into the desire and desperation to be repeatedly crammed like a thanksgiving turkey every time you engaged in intercourse with the hope of a double - line pee stick as a result, well baby you're a liar. Or you're blessed. Either way, you are the enigma.  

      The truth is, we lose a part of ourselves the moment we realize we are pregnant. Life becomes a responsibility and obligation that we have never experienced before. We inherit a consciousness where every thought and decision we make has to rely on the the well-being of another. What we eat, drink (or don't drink), say, and even partake in, is divergent and sumptuary. Or to put it bluntly, mundane and monotonous. (All these mean different and boring by the way. Consider studying some SAT words). 

      I won't lie to you, I shamelessly indulged in far too many McDonald's cheeseburgers my second trimester, and did so knowing that the precious being that resided within me was soaking up all of the chemicals, and possible horse meat, that are the ingredients. However, I was never guilty. Babies crawl on the floor for the first year of their life, finding anything and everything that seems worthy of inserting in their tiny yet ferocious mouths. That means they will, at some point, most certainly consume: dirt, dog food, plastic, and probably their own shit. I think the cheeseburgers that I stacked with fries and extra pickles are the least of my worries. 

      And yet, the internet is consumed with instruction and restriction deeming what is appropriate or suitable for us to do when we are with child. I can't be the only one who read the articles.

      "Organic Recipes to Ensure your Child's Healthy Development"

      "What Dates do for Labor and How They can Strengthen your Vagina"

      "How eating Fast Food can result in a Miscarriage"

      "Wine is Satan"

      But, if you're here now, sitting on your couch re-watching every season of "The Office" for the 6th time because you have succumb to your walrus ways of fatness and hunger, just know that it's okay for you to eat that third ice cream sandwich. Sure, it may be laced with preservatives and poison that is doomed to result in your child's imminent demise; but it satisfies and rejuvenates you. 

      Listen, don't let anything or anyone tell you differently. I broke all the rules, and my child is happy, healthy, and has an abnormally large head. (Which I absolutely credit to his colossal brain that will secure the future generation with progress and opportunity). ((And yes, for all of those asking me repeatedly, I am aware of how big it is. I felt every. single. inch. But really, thank you for re-kindling my PTSD.))

      You should be awarded for the times you rolled out of bed like a handicap armadillo on the brink of death, held your breath to tie a shoe lace, or suppressed your over-active bladder for longer than fifteen minutes... even though a tiny cough made you leak... just a little.

You are doing great baby. Keep thriving. 

      And for all of my readers who like to tell mothers what they should and shouldn't do based on this month's New York Times' bestseller you ordered on Amazon Prime, I have some tips for you.

Pay attention:

1. Shut the hell up. Conserve your diarrhea for when it's needed in a moment of constipation instead of letting it pour out of your mouth.  

2. Mind your own business.  

3. Eat your gluten and preservative free meal in peace.  

4. Pray your child isn't as critical as you when he/she grows up. 

5. Eat an Oreo in public. There's no need to retreat to the bathroom in a moment of self-shaming and pretense. 

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Read it or Leave it, 

Taylor 

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