I’m no waxing virgin. I’ve done everything from eyebrows to bikini to brazilian for years now and frankly, I don’t find it to be that bad. The lady I go to came highly recommended by a few people and she’s great…which makes a big difference. Not only is she skilled and quick, but we chit-chat the whole time I’m laying there in a slightly compromising position while she spreads hot wax on my nether-regions and rips my pubic hair out. While not at the top of my list of fun things to do, waxing doesn’t normally scare me. It does today though. You see, I’ve apparently been doing SUCH a good job practicing my Hypnobirthing relaxation techniques that some intruder came into my bedroom, acquired a pair of steel-toed boots and kicked me, repeatedly, in the crotch. I had no idea this was happening (since I was so relaxed and all) and wasn’t aware of the damage that had been done until the next morning when I could barely get out of bed and hobble to the bathroom. It was the kind of pain where you expect blood, bruising and swelling, only upon closer inspection (not that close, really, I’m 35 weeks pregnant after all), everything looked fine. Obviously a more likely scenario is that my body is like, “Oh, yeah, I remember this. Let me go ahead and stretch those ligaments and open up that pelvis ahead of time for ya.” More likely, yes, but not NEAR as much fun to tell people. Or perhaps there’s a head sitting in my pelvis and pressing down on my cervix. A girl can dream. So while the pain is a little better than it was a few days ago, I fear the pain that is still there might make this upcoming bikini wax a little nightmarish. It really doesn’t matter though, because I’m apparently growing a rainforest down under and I can’t accept it any longer.
I went out this past weekend and spent what I consider to be a ridiculous amount of money on nursing attire. I needed nursing bras, a few nursing tanks and wanted some nursing pajamas for the hospital, around the house and basically the next year of my life. This stuff, rarely, if ever, goes on sale so I was forced to pay full-price, except for the pj’s, which were buy 1 get 1 free. For some reason, the last time around, I decided I didn’t need nursing bras or breast pads or any of that fancy-schmancy nursing attire. And I didn’t for a few days. Until my milk came in. I was perfectly fine in the hospital fighting the cups of my bra down so I could feed A. Once I got home I pretty much went braless and it took me days, DAYS, to discover that when A nursed on one side I was, quite literally, spewing milk from the other side. I could not for the life of me figure out why my shirt and boppy were wet…and why my child’s clothes were wet. The story I love to tell is my 20-something sister sitting on the couch with me while I’m nursing…I have no shirt on and no bra (I lack some of the basic ins and outs of modesty people…especially around my family) and I’m squirting milk out of one boob. My poor sister…I’m pretty sure I scarred her for life. (She also sanitized the pieces of my breast pump for me. The hilarious images of her boiling my breast pump parts in the kitchen and removing them from the water with tongs still makes me smile.) Thankfully she had enough decency to say, “Um, can I get you a towel or something?” I was too busy laughing to answer her. I found it incredibly funny at the time, and still do. I had tears rolling down my face I thought it was so funny. I still didn’t get it though. I remember looking down as the photographer was leaving after A’s newborn portraits and seeing a wet spot about the size of a nickel on my shirt. I was like, “What the hell is that?” She was 2 weeks old at this point and I STILL hadn’t figured out my boobs were leaking. I wasn’t totally ignorant either. I took a class and read several books specific to breastfeeding. For some reason though, I figured the rules didn’t apply to me. I don’t remember when I finally decided I needed some nursing bras and breast pads, but it took waaaaaay too long for me to come to that conclusion. I’m set this time around though. Except for one thing…
The Hubs got onto me last night because all my new, ‘spensive nursing attire is still sitting in the shopping bags. I can’t bring myself to take the tags off, wash it and toss a few things into a bag for the hospital. I don’t mean to be difficult, I just have this mental block and every time I think about doing something like packing a freaking hospital bag, I convince myself I still have plenty of time. It’s a defense mechanism and the real reason is that I’m afraid to pack a bag with nursing clothes, a baby blanket, a stuffed animal for Baby C and her coming home outfit; all this stuff that indicates I ACTUALLY EXPECT to bring home a living, breathing baby. It’s so weird, but I’ve promised him I would at least wash the new clothes today so we’ll see if I make any progress. A and I spent several hours yesterday afternoon with my mom. Both my parents and my in-laws wanted to purchase something substantial for Baby C. My in-laws bought the new glider (wonder when it’s going to be ready?) so that left a new breast pump or a new diaper bag for my parents to purchase. I don’t need a new diaper bag. I have an INSANELY expensive one that I adore but I WANTED a new one for this baby. I found a gorgeous new one yesterday that my mom happily purchased for me. I’m excited about it but it’s still sitting in my bedroom. Haven’t even taken it out of its beautiful bag and dust cover. I just can’t. Not yet. The pricey diaper bags have ALWAYS been my thing. I used to joke with the Hubs that if I ever decided I wanted to have kids, he was going to have to agree to a $1500 diaper bag. He thought I was joking. No he didn’t, he knew I was serious. I didn’t spend quite that much the first time around, and my mom only spent a fraction of that, but there’s something about making such a large, luxurious, intentional for Baby C purchase that has me a little freaked out. Hubs told me last night he doesn’t think I’ve actually wrapped my head around the idea that we’re HAVING ANOTHER BABY. I think he’s right, but I’m not sure how to fix it. I’m going through all the motions, I’m excited about meeting her, preparing for labor and delivery and finishing up her nursery, yet, I’m not sure I’ve actually grasped that we’re leaving our home with 1 little girl and coming home with 2 little girls. And my latest irrational, pregnancy-induced, hormonal fear? That Baby C will be born a “he” instead of a “she”. Pretty sure the Hubs wants out at this point. He can’t take the crazy much longer.
So, if you hear screaming from deep within the heart of Texas in the next hour…no worries, it’s just a much too vain pregnant lady getting her lady bits waxed in an attempt not to appear as a freak show for all the nurses and doctors that will see her most treasured body parts over the coming weeks. And blah, blah, blah, they’re professionals that see it everyday, they don’t care…yeah, I know. I’ve heard it all. But I like to think they too can at least appreciate the effort.