The Tomboy’s Guide to Pregnancy and Parenthood

Because I tend to do best in regimented environments (thank you Catholic School), and this blog is in dire need of directive, I have decided to try to write daily (Monday through Friday) focusing on one subject. What those subjects will be, I don’t know. But today, Thursday, will be known as “The Tomboy’s Guide to Pregnancy and Parenthood”. Those wondering at home, this will be my tomboy related view of things relating to pregnancy and parenthood. Really, the title pretty much sums it up. Pregnancy views will be restricted to my prior two pregnancies, and no future pregnancy, because this womb is closed for business. The sight of a pregnant woman causes a violent eye twitch followed by instant headache. If that does not say “done with kids”, perhaps this possible tattoo on my abdomen will be clearer:



Let us begin with the reason this is called the Tomboy’s Guide. Before actually reading the positive sign on a pregnancy test, there was a lurking suspicion in my mind that I would never become pregnant. It was absolutely impossible. The reason? A wrestling move. My youth was one filled with the wrestling styles of the WWF. Such stars as Hacksaw Jim Duggan, Hulk Hogan, Macho Man Randy Savage, and the Demolition Duo. I loved it. One evening, my brother and I locked in wrestling battle, he managed to get me on the ground, stand up and then kick me in the stomach hard. An immediate pain like none I ever knew surged through my stomach (this was the lovely time before my period and the hell of cramps). I cried and rolled around clutching my stomach. This is when my mother said it “Michael, you can’t kick her in the stomach, she may never have kids.” Because of this utterance by mother, I believed that my chances of getting pregnant were very remote. After all, a Jimmy Super Fly Snooker kick to the abdomen even performed my younger brother would be extremely damaging.

Flash forward to April 2006, as I sat peeing on a stick the first month of us “trying” for a kid. Five minutes later, there it was. A positive sign. I was pregnant. And what did I say to John upon exiting the bathroom “Positive. I’m pregnant. I can’t believe it. I mean, my brother did that wrestling move on me.” To which he stood staring at me dumbfounded. Let this be a lesson to all parents, the things you say casually to your children can be etched in their minds forever. This is why I often tell Maggie in her sleep that boys are horrible, horrible creatures she should never date until she attains her 21st birthday.

Next up on the Tomboy’s Guide - Breast Feeding: Get Over Yourself.