I have never been a girly girl. But when I was 4, I wanted to be a ballerina.
I can hear you now. “Meg,” you’re thinking, “that might be the girliest profession in history. You could only be girlier by being a maxi pad.”
My memories from that time in my life are fuzzy, but I do recall my mom (as crafty then as she is today) painting my room pink, stenciling ballerina slippers on the walls and taking me down to the local dance studio for dance lessons. Tra-la, tra-la, a life of elegance and grace starts just down the street!
Turns out, the dance instructor (who is now represented in my memory as a faceless crusher of tiny toddler dreams) let us know that I wasn’t built to be a dancer. Imagine that, at 4 years old I was 3 feet of Campbell’s soup cheeks and sausage limbs…. and this lady had already pinned me. Cruel twist, it turns out that bitch was right: If ballerinas are built like swans, I’m built like a penguin.
I think this is about the time in my life, thanks one of my many emotionally charged and ‘rational’ reactions to adversity, that I began to reject all things that I thought were too girly. Gone was my love for ballerinas (though the bedroom paint job remained) and in its place I ushered in an entire childhood of acting like my older brother. My mom, bless her heart, tried hard to cram me into dresses (sewn by her craftyhands) and coerce me with feminine trappings.
In first grade, she made the perm happen:
In second grade, I defiantly made the mullet happen:
Fast forward through my formative and teen years (in a nutshell–BO, braces and angst), through much of my 20s (drinking too much, making otherwise questionable life decisions and thinking I knew it all) to the fall of 2007. I went to a tailgate party at my alma mater with a few friends and met a lovely fellow named TJ who nodded politely at me, made small talk, and then merrily left the party to do his own thing. I told our mutual friend to give him my number, and he didn’t call me. Since I was generally tired of getting bent out of shape over guys, I continued on my own merry way until we realized, thanks to FB (…about the only positive thing for which I can thank FB) that we lived in neighboring towns.
Fast forward again to July 2011 when we got married…
Fast forward again to our 1 year anniversary, and to me getting out of bed, taking a pregnancy test, and thundering up the stairs like an elephant (penguin?) to tackle TJ and share the good news.
And here we are today! I’m currently 8 weeks and 5 days, sick as a dog every day, tired like I’ve never been tired in my life and schlepping around super-sore boobs that are already maxing out the structural integrity of my sturdiest sports bras. I will spare you a photo at this point, because I feel like a bloated and sweaty sea creature that pees a lot, and no one wants to see that.
Since I’m a first-time mom, I ran out and bought a book: What To Expect When You’re Expecting. I have read it entirely, cover to cover, and found the content to be very informative, though perhaps a little heavy on the feels and bad jokes. A few thoughts:
- Pregnancy, in general, sucks. (Disclaimer: Babies are awesome. They are literally made of awesome)
- Anyone that tells you pregnancy is a beautiful breeze is blowing smoke right up your pregnant ass.
What’s my problem? Nothing at all with the actual content in this book or its layout; my issue is simply with the delivery of the information…like I was sitting down for some kind of dish session with ::winkwinknudgenudge:: jokes about my cravings for ice cream and pickles or my poor clueless husband that weren’t actually funny.
I can hear you again. “You’re only 8 weeks and you have no idea what’s in store… it’s your first time! So negative! Tut tut, tsk tsk, harrumph harrumph”.
Well friends, I submit to you the original inspiration for this blog: I desire not to be a mommy blogger, (though, by definition I suppose that’s exactly what I am) I want to share my experience as a first-time mom without pooping rainbow cream puffs, wrapping them in tulle and polar fleece and throwing in a bonus puppy as a parting gift.
If rainbow cream puffs and tulle and polar fleece and bonus puppies are your thing: cool! You do you, brah. If that’s the case, I’m sad to report that this definitely is not a blog for you.
(Truth is, I actually love all of those things, but not when I’m trying to understand why my gastrointestinal tract goes on mood swings between constipation and diarrhea in mere minutes.)
In the meantime, I’ll be here, probably acting like the trucker my mother is horrified to have raised, calling it like I’m experiencing it and generally trying to make sense of the bewildering cluster-eff of cell division and hormones that is happening in my uterus.