From Fat to Thin to Pregnant

There is a benefit to being a fat teenager (although when you’re a teenager it probably doesn’t seem that way): if you are a fat teenager who becomes a skinny adult, you have first-hand knowledge of how much it can suck to not be considered attractive, and that tends to keep you humble. Most of the people I know – myself included – who have slimmed down considerably since those awkward high school years are infinitely more confident than we were…but we never really evolve in to self-absorbed, vain assholes.

Assholes like that made us miserable during a very vulnerable time in our lives. We don’t want to be them. Ever.

But as difficult as it is to be overweight (in myriad ways), it’s devastating to get thin and develop a  sense of pride when you look in the mirror…and then fatten up again.

Now I’m not saying being thin is a requirement for having self esteem. I’m just saying for some people, it sure as shit helps. I am one of those people, and I’m not ashamed of it. I am happier when I am at a smaller size.

So when I not only got pregnant but got pregnant with twins, I got big. And I got big quick. And I got bigger than I probably should have because after the girls were born, I still had sixty pounds to lose. I was basically the same weight I had been in high school and one by one, I packed away the articles of clothing I was once able to wear, telling myself I’d wear them again. When life wasn’t so hectic. When the girls were walking. When my schedule at work changed. After the holidays.

Three years later, I wasn’t any smaller. I wasn’t any bigger either, but I definitely wasn’t any smaller.

I thought about it every day, wavering between telling myself  I was okay with it, that I had kids so it was understandable, and being thoroughly disgusted with myself. It consumed me.

And then, one day, I stopped. I stopped thinking about it. I stopped beating myself up. I stopped focusing on every bulge and roll and how wide my thighs were when I sat. I just stopped giving a shit because I didn’t seem to have the motivation to fucking do anything about it. I stopped having internal conversations with myself that mirrored the things all those fucking cunt girls used to say to me when I was fifteen. I just…stopped. Because the more I tormented myself over how I looked, the less I cared about changing it.

But then I changed anyway. I dressed up more. Wore makeup more. Put more effort in to myself. I wore jewelry, perfume, and smiled when I entered a room like I owned that bitch. I wasn’t dieting or exercising. I was just not giving any self-pity steeped fucks. And the bulges and rolls and and thighs and belly were all slowly, gradually, little by little…going away. And they went away because I stopped giving so much of a shit about them. I stopped letting them control me. They were just one facet of myself. They were fixable, should I get the will to fix them through hard work and dedication – but if not? Well fuck you, I’m still pretty. Maybe not to you, or her, or him, or them, but to me? I’m still fucking pretty.

Four years after my girls were born, I was nearly back down to the size I was before I became a mother. Not quite, but almost. I could probably be there again if I lost a measly ten pounds…but I don’t give a shit. Five years ago, I hated my body as much as I did in high school and it wrecked me. It made me sad and bitter, and that made me dislike who I was as a person. And that’s not in the least bit motivating.  Today, I am perfectly comfortable with the way I look – even knowing I could stand to do a few crunches.

Now I’m pregnant again, and I’m aware I’ll probably have around 15-20 pounds to lose after my son is born. Bring it the fuck on. At 24 weeks, I can still fit in (most of) the clothes I wore six months ago. I still wear makeup and perfume and dresses (without heels). I still look in the mirror and see one good-lookin’ broad, with or without the giant basketball I appear to be smuggling under my shirt. There’s a good chance I’ll never have the body I had at nineteen, and you know what?

I don’t want it. I’m not nineteen anymore. I’m almost 30, I’ve had three kids, I partied in my early twenties, I love the fuck out of high quality, rich food, I don’t like physical activity, and fuck you, I’m cute anyway. If you don’t agree, that’s cool.

I’m the only one who needs to believe it to be happy.


dec13Little Black Dress – December 2013


Same Little Black Dress – 22 weeks


What Babies Are Not

I know a few people that are always going on about wanting children, how they’re going to have a baby in a year when things “settle down”, how they think they’d make great parents, how they’re going to do everything right when they have a little one of their own. And in nearly every single fucking instance, I think to myself, “You are the exact type of person who should not have a baby right now.”

And it’s because they really have no concept of what a baby is. What it means to have a child. They do not comprehend that once you decide to have a kid, the life you have led for however many years is gone. You have a new life now. In many ways, it will be better, and in more ways it will be harder, and that is due in no small part to the fact that parenting is one of the few things in life that you pretty much have to completely fucking improvise. There is no manual, no two week training period, no documentary. You just kinda have to, you know, do it, and hope like hell no one dies.

So. For those of you who think you can like, omigosh, so totally handle having a kid cuz maybe you’ve babysat a few times and your nieces and nephews seem to like you – read on. This is for you.

1. A baby is not a doll. You’re having a human, not a Barbie. And if you knew shit about kids, you’d know that the last thing you need is a plethora of cutesy little goddamn outfits, since a baby will just shit and puke all over them, then promptly get too big to wear any of it.

2. A baby is not a relationship Band-aid. Your marriage/partnership will not improve by bringing a human life in to the mix. My guess is it’s probably going to get worse because babies are stressful and exhausting. If your relationship is on the rocks, work that shit out before you drag an innocent child in to it.

3. A baby is not proof of your maturity. If you think it is, you’re not mature enough to have a baby.

4. A baby is not fun. Yeah, there are parts of parenthood that are fun. But in those early, formative months, it’s a lot of craziness, trial and error, questions, stress, confusion, worry, and sleepless nights. You aren’t going to have fun for a while, champ.

5. A baby is not temporary. Your life is changed now. You can’t just dump the kid off with someone and go about your pre-kid existence. You can’t party every weekend. You can’t party in the middle of the week. You don’t get to sleep 12 hours a day anymore. Your shitty minimum wage job will no longer cut it. Your child deserves all of you, they require the absolute best that you have to give.

6. A baby is not a dog. I shouldn’t even have to fucking say this. I don’t care how much you love your dog. I don’t care that your dog has pet insurance and is doted on and worshipped. I don’t care that you think dog owners have it harder because they don’t qualify for government assistance (yeah, I’ve actually heard these words come out of someone’s mouth). YOUR DOG IS NOT A FUCKING HUMAN BEING. PERIOD. IT IS NOT THE SAME. 

To help put this in perspective: Let’s say your apartment building is on fire. A baby is trapped inside. So is your dog. Now let’s say your best friend comes along. When given the choice between rescuing YOUR DOG and a STRANGER’S BABY most people are going to pick the baby. Yes, the fact that you take such good care of your pet is a good indicator that you’ll be good with a child. But if you think caring for a dog and caring for a baby are basically the same thing, you’re a fucking idiot.

7. A baby is not leverage. Pregnancy is not how you keep a man in a relationship. A child is not a pawn for use in your divorce/break up. If you think a child is a good way to manipulate people, you are a shitty person.

8. A baby will not grow up to be your best friend. It’s your child, not your buddy. You did not give birth to a minime. You gave birth to a goddamn individual. If you are still operating under the assumption that you won’t be like your parents, that you’ll let them wear what they want and talk how they want and do what they want, you are delusional. My kids’ grandmother put it best: “if your teenager doesn’t hate you at some point, you’re not doing your job as a parent.”

9. A baby is not a trophy. You are going to fuck up this kid. No matter what you do, you will do something wrong. And chances are, your kid is still going to be okay. If you have this grand idea in your head that feeding a kid only organic food and never letting them watch TV and making sure every hard surface in their life is covered in foam, you are totally missing the point of being a parent. A baby is not something you parade around and show off so everyone knows what a stellar person you are. You aren’t perfect. Your kid won’t be either. And that’s okay.


Please breed responsibly.

The Top Ten Crises That Pregnant Women Face

1. Dropping something.

If you’re alone in the house and an object goes flying out of your hands, there is a 70% chance it’s going to stay right the fuck where it is until someone happens by.

2. Shaving your legs.

Far more horrifying for a woman carrying through the summer months, since you winter bitches can just wear pants and take a weed-whacker to your legs for your monthly OB visit.

3. Extreme thirst during the third trimester.

It’s cool, I already have to pee every ten minutes anyway. I would love to also be parched. You know what? I’ll be on the toilet. Just bring me a pitcher of ice water and some Kleenex and leave me the hell alone.

4. Having to sneeze and pee at the same time.

Yeah. That pee is not staying in there. Just let it happen.

5. Getting up.

Except you don’t really get up anymore, do you? You may roll, heave, scramble, claw, push, wiggle, or squirm. But you do not simply rise to your feet. Not anymore.

6. Sleeping.

You can’t sleep on your back or your stomach, and it’s preferable to sleep on your left side for the benefit of the baby. You probably can’t share a bed with someone because they either radiate so much heat you are convinced they are made of hellfire or they grow fed up with you getting up every hour to piss and cry.

7. Can I do that?

Because everyone becomes a gynecologist when they see a pregnant girl, we face a constant barrage of old wives’ tales interspersed with legitimate medical truths. Can’t eat sushi, can’t swim in lakes, can’t drink water bottled anywhere in the north of France…how about you give me a list of what I can do, asshole.

8. Guard the belly.

Whether it’s a runaway kid, a wayward puppy, or an unforeseen countertop, our tummies are under constant attack by the world around us. We can’t even turn around quickly for fear of knocking over a lamp. Or running our of breath, you know, whatever.

9. Taking off a bra.

This is some excruciating shit right here. I don’t know why we think taking it off slowly will somehow trick our tits in to not being throbbing, aching globes of milk-filled agony, but immediately after removing a bra, we instantly regret the decision and wind up cupping our own lady bits. A wise man knows to look away when this happens. This is not sexy. This is Sparta, motherfucker.

10. Stranger danger.

Please stop touching us. Please. It’s creepy and we don’t like it. Stop. Just stop.


Being Pregnant Sucks and You Know It

I am in the middle of growing my third human right now, and I must say I’m pretty goddamn good at it. Shit, I’m so good at it that the first time I did it, I grew TWO of them. AT THE SAME TIME. *high fives self*

But I’m not going to bullshit you around like some of these other pregnant broads and tell you it’s a joyous and beautiful and fulfilling experience. It fucking blows, ya’ll.

I mean, it’s joyous and beautiful and shit, too, totally. But oh my GOD, it is rough.

Which is why I can’t help but roll my eyes at these chicks who feel compelled to act like pregnancy is this glorious experience and everything with them is perfect, wonderful, maaarvelous.

Bitch, you LIE.

Here’s why.

1. You’re fat.

Whether you gain it everywhere or just in your belly, you will reach a point where you are basically a rounded vessel of baby-growing. And it. Is. HORSESHIT.

Suddenly, dropping a pen on the floor from a standing position is enough to ruin your goddamn day. Can’t find the remote? Fuck it, guess we’re watching this teeth whitening infomercial. And that little black dress? Yeah. That’s now a plaid bathrobe covered in remnants of Haagan Das and tears.

2. You’re not sure why you’re crying.

It might be because you stubbed your toe, or remembered the goldfish that died when you were six, or maybe your husband sneezed and it scared you a little. Either way, you’re sad goddamnit, and someone needs to bring you a fucking cupcake and some tissue. Immediately.

3. Goodbye, things that are awesome.

Sushi? Nope! Martini?You’ll have a glass of water. Passing around a joint? Bitch, please.

Hey, remember staying up until 1AM and playing Skyrim? Of course not. Your bedtime is 8:30 now.


Dude. I just want to shave my fucking legs, okay? Like, without heaving and grunting and running out of breath. Or, hey, you know what else would be cool? Taking off my bra without pain radiating through my swollen boobies. Jesus fuck, that is awful. I will also accept getting up off the couch on my own, wearing high heels down a flight of stairs, and, you know, standing up for extended periods of time.

5. Why, I’d love to discuss my lady parts with you, perfect stranger!

I’m not sure when my cervix become so goddamn interesting to people, but I am pretty much done being questioned about any and all parts of my vagina. I also do not care about YOUR vagina. I am not interested in anything that has come out of it, how long it took you to push it out, or how big the placenta was. I don’t care. Just leave me alone and let me finish this entire cheese platter.

6. That’s not glow, that’s sweat.


7. Pee.

I can’t even think of any clever title for this bit. Just…pee. So much. Constant pee. I pee before and after I pee. If I see a faucet, I have to pee. If I think of the letter P, I have to pee. That is my life. Eat, sleep, pee.

8. I don’t want your stupid advice.

Please shut up. I’ve done this before. Even if I hadn’t done this before, why in the hell would I take advice from a stranger I met checking out at Target? How do I know your kid isn’t a serial killer, or worse, really fucking stupid?