Confessions of a Reformed Party Girl turned New Mama

For ten years, my dear friend Jeni has never ceased to amaze me. She is a self-made entrepreneur, a loyal and loving friend, and, in her soul, a good fucking person.

Jeni was THE party girl. She knew everyone…and everyone loved her. She’s magnetic, and edgy, and kind…she’s lightening in a bottle. She has a full sleeve of tattoos and wore a G-string bikini to the pool during my wedding weekend.

(It must be noted that I wear J. Crew button downs, my heaviest narcotic to date is Sauvignon Blanc, and I love the NBA…and she still wants to be my friend.)

Jeni is currently 112 weeks pregnant. While checking in with her earlier this week, she bemoaned all the ups and downs of those final few weeks of pregnancy…as should be expected of any soon-to-be mom. On a whim, I asked her to write down some of her current feelings and gripes, because as soon as her daughter arrives, she won’t remember a thing. (This was 100% self serving, as I’m writing a book on the very topic).

She agreed…and what I received was beyond expectation. She offers up the most candid, raw, humorous and REAL article on those final few weeks of pregnancy that I’ve ever read. From body issues, to overwhelming excitement, to crippling anxiety…and brutal, brutal honesty.

Jeni says what just about every other mama or soon-to-be mama has thought. I’m so proud of her for tackling this new adventure like she has everything else in her life…Like a badass boss bitch.

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It’s 10 a.m. on August 15^th and I’m exactly two weeks away from the due date of my first baby. I’m hot, sweaty, swollen, nervous, anxious, stressed, tired, excited and basically lost.

Did I mention it’s only 10 a.m.?

As I waddle to the bathroom for the ninth time in five hours, I catch a glimpse of my naked pregnant body in the mirror. (Yes, I walk around naked. It’s hot as shit!).

Now I will say, my belly is cute. I didn’t get cursed with stretch marks or that dark line or the weird belly button situation. My belly button is actually on point. It does, however, sit right above my tattoo which reads: “true love.” If one more nurse or doctor says, “Ahhhh, isn’t that the truth?”, I’m going to die. Little do they know that specific tattoo (I have many) was inspired by an ex-boyfriend. Needless to say, we didn’t exactly workout.

Back to my bod: My nipples. What the F is going on? I understand the whole “Mother Nature” thing that your nipples enlarge and darken during pregnancy to naturally help with the breastfeeding process—apparently it’s so the baby can find them easier.

Um, they were already huge and unless this baby is blind, I’m pretty sure she’ll head right for them (or run away, screaming). My sweet baby Carmen will forever be afraid of black flying saucers—because that’s exactly what I’m sporting. Ten months ago, my boobs were a solid DD, round, perky and perfect, and now I’ve got sloppy triple E’s. TRIPLE E’s!

Oh, and by the way, my milk isn’t even in, so I’m already plotting my suicide letter.

My vagina? Well, your guess is as good as mine. I haven’t seen her in months.  All I know is that every time I eat a huge hoagie sandwich—which is every other day—I feel like I’m getting a glimpse of what it looks like down there.

Kankles! This has been, by far, the worst part of pregnancy and has forced me to stay in bed the past few weeks, which I’m terrible at. If I stand for more than two hours I morph into Kim K…pregnant Kim K…the scary one in the gladiator sandals. Eek!

This isn’t ideal for a woman who owns two businesses. I actually cried while eating a baked potato in bed yesterday…while online shopping. Food and online shopping has been my preggo Prozac. I find myself buying bows, mini baby turbans, pink outfits with hearts…like who have I become? (Editor’s Note: She has a pinup girl tattooed on her arm, and her entire wardrobe is essentially shades of black.)

As I go into her bohemian-themed nursery to put away the 26th bunny beanie I’ve purchased, I can’t help to smile. Yes, I smile.

It’s not all stress and tears…but it’s a lot of it.

As I sit in her room, organizing my breast pump parts (pump membranes? I don’t even know what most of this shit is but I registered for it and now I have a whole drawer labeled “pump parts”), I think to myself: Am I going to be a good mother? Am I going to be a good wife? Will I be able to hold this family together?

I never had that “mom gene”… I don’t even like holding babies! Like, I’m horrified. That’s not good, right? People keep asking me, “Omg are you so excited?”

I mean, yes, of course, but I’m also scared. I’ve been the life of the party for all these years. I’ve traveled the world. I’ve danced on tables in St. Tropez. I’ve done mushrooms on an island in Thailand. I found a stranger in Rome and rode on the back of his scooter. I’ve done some pretty crazy shit…but this will by far be the craziest.

So am I excited? Yes, I’m excited to finally meet this little girl who is about to rule my world. A built in best friend, a mini-me. My life is about to change, I’m not ready and you know what? That’s ok. I’ve controlled, micromanaged or planned every aspect of my life and now its time to let go.

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