Pregnancy brain – a definition of what happens when your brain actually physically shrinks when you’re carrying a kid. Add this phenomenon to my already depleted memory bank and you get things like: me forgetting to pick up Nuv after his tattoo touch-up appointment, me dumping sugar into the garbage instead of my teacup, and (most tragic) unable to remember the names of movies I loved so much I should have had a producer's credit on. Brutal. Not being able to deftly pull out a pop culture reference and sprinkle it into any conversation was like shooting me in both kneecaps. Debilitating, painful and terrifying.
After something wonderful tweaked in my right hip that lead to a long twingey pain from my lower back into my right bum cheek, I went for a prenatal massage at Som Visao. To say I was looking forward to this was an understatement. I practically sprinted from my car into the waiting room, and was lying naked on the special foam cutouts with the sheet draped over top of me, ready for the sweet sweet hands of the massage therapist, in approximately 2 minutes. Somehow two bouncy balls on fire had been implanted into each hip and the kneading of them nearly made me yelp out loud, but I knew the masseuse was essentially a carpenter trying to put back together a swayed rotting outhouse, so I needed to suck it up and let her nail everything back together. My favourite part was her remarking my feet were already swollen enough for some bone to not be showing. I paused and sheepishly told her it had never poked out. I had life cankles and was just going to throw that out into the universe.
Various other grab bag symptoms sprung up through the end of June: some spry vaginal tweaks that made me sharply inhale, heartburn that reminded me nothing you eat is good enough to handle tasting it again with an acid marinade, and the back/butt pain that periodically made it impossible to roll over in bed without needing an elaborate pulley system to help me.
I don’t really want to even write about this, because it means they win, but I confess I got mildly fucking flustered twice in traffic, as the weather turned warmer and dickbags in trucks got fucking even dickier. I was honked at multiple times when I had nowhere to go, and was told, “You wanna get fucked? I’ll fuck you buddy,” by a well-dressed middle aged man in an Isuzu. I was inconsolable when I got home. I let these brief encounters with hideous men get to me. For a long time. Those pregnancy hormones that I thought had left town with their buddies nausea and bacne, were suddenly back with a dramatic flourish, ready to swoop in and moisten my eyes and inflame my cheeks with no notice at all. Fun for me. SUPER FUN FOR NUV.
I seriously dreaded driving home and wished I had a laser gun with me to annihilate the next cuntfuck who told me to “wake up.” Salty language and violent thoughts – all par for this 18 hole trembling emotional course.