Blog Archive

Thursday, August 6, 2015

The Indignities of (very late) Pregnancy: These stretch marks are very, very angry and they scare me a little

Welcome to what will likely be the final installment of "The Indignities of Pregnancy" ... because I won't be pregnant for much longer, and if all goes according to plan, after this I will NEVER BE PREGNANT AGAIN!


I am now full term with baby #2. Over 38 weeks. He could come at any time.

With baby #1, I made it all the way to delivery without any significant stretch marks. I only had one little one, which appeared right on top of my belly button (my belly button is pierced, so the hole where the piercing exits my navel gave the stretch mark a foothold). The little stretch mark set up camp in the final few weeks of that pregnancy, but he never had much chance to establish himself before Audrey was born and the cops came and told him to move on.

This time around, that little stretch mark came back ... and he brought some friends he recruited. Once again, that stupid exit-hole of my navel piercing provided Mr. Stretch Mark and his pals a place to establish their camp. And they did.

There are now three of them living there in that camp. The camp started out small and neat, with the three of them living in small individual tents. They were clean, they were quiet, and they generally stayed out of everyone's way, so I didn't have much problem with them. We left each other alone and everything was fine.

But then all of a sudden in the last couple of weeks, something seems to have happened to the stretch mark camp.

It's gotten ... rowdier.

They've started drinking more. They took down their tents and hung up a bunch of tarps instead, making a sort of stretch mark hobo shantytown. They even got another small family to join their camp, albeit on the other side of the train tracks (my belly button). The new family is pretty respectful, though I'm certainly not happy about their arrival.

As for the original three marks, they're belligerent. They're drunk 24/7 and their camp is littered with empty beer cans and bottles of Military Special vodka -- $8 for a half gallon. They don't talk -- they shout. They interpret everything I say as some kind of insult or personal attack, and they accuse me of talking shit about their little sister. One of them tried to throw a punch, but missed and fell into the campfire instead.

It's getting ugly down there, is what I'm trying to say. And the cops have done nothing to shut this down.

Now, I will freely admit that I am one lucky duck to still only have three big stretch marks. But DAMN, they are assholes.

I've started dousing their camp in 100% Shea butter and Aquaphor ointment several times a day, but this only seems to infuriate them more (for the record, I have been slathering on the 100% Shea butter daily throughout my entire pregnancy). I have two major fears here: one, that they will successfully recruit more psychotic lowlifes to join their camp over the next week or so. It could happen.

And two, the fear that most keeps me up at night: that once their camp is finally raided by the cops and they're sent on their way, that the campground itself will be utterly trashed. And by this, I mean the dreaded puckered navel.

Like this.

I hate that I am worried about this. I should happily accept any and all changes that my body needs to make in order to grow and birth my beautiful children. I should embrace whatever form my belly button takes once this is all over, because whatever it ends up costing me is a small price to pay for the privilege of carrying two successful pregnancies to term.

But ... I'm worried about it.

Because it sucks sitting here helpless, eating healthy and working out and controlling my weight gain and moisturizing-moisturizing-moisturizing and still seeing these asshole dickhead stretch marks taking dumps and then setting their dumps on fire on my lovely abdomen.

Why do I call this an indignity?

Because it looks like shit. My cute, round, adorable 9-months-pregnant belly looks like shit. Even Audrey had to agree with that: as I was getting dressed the other day, she pointed at the stretch mark encampment and said "Mommy ... big poopoo mess."


Ice cold, Audrey. Ice cold.

I didn't want to even include a picture in this post, but I feel like I ought to, for the sake of full disclosure:

This is in rather favorable lighting that doesn't quite capture exactly how RED and ANGRY the stretch mark hobo camp looks most of the time. 
Honestly, they look like wounds. Actual injuries.
It's brutal.

But you know what? There ain't a damn thing I can do about it except what I've already been doing, so I'm not going to worry about it anymore. It's out of my hands. If Mr. Stretch Mark and his lunatic squad want to burn everything down and salt the earth so nothing shall ever grow there again, that's just how it goes.

And you know what else? 

Once this is all over ... I'm still gonna wear a f***ing bikini.

No comments:

Post a Comment