Pregnant Days

Week 20: Vaginal Discharge & Perfumed Sanitary Towels

It’s time to talk about vaginal discharge. If this topic “totally grosses” you out then all I can say is “catch yourself on” in my best Jim McDonald voice. All women get it to some extent. But, pregnant women bring vaginal discharge to a whole new level. If vaginal discharge were a sport they would be Olympians.

Their body is going doolally with hormone changes especially the vagina. The NHS puts it better than I can, “during pregnancy the cervix (neck of the womb) and vaginal walls get softer, and discharge increases to help prevent any infections traveling up from the vagina to the womb.”

Herself is embarrassed by this new change.
“My feckin’ knickers are ruined. I can’t go on like this… maybe I can get signed off from work and just draw the curtains.”
“No doctor will sign you off for twenty weeks because of vaginal discharge.”
“Well they should!”

Defeated she bought a pack of sanitary towels yet she made the huge mistake of getting perfumed pads.

Fanny pad companies aka sanitary towel multinationals have managed to create the most disgusting perfume to mask a vagina’s odour. I’m sure it’s called Eau du we hate vaginas oh la la. If people didn’t know you were discharging like a waterfall then they sure as feck know once they get a bang of that nasty cheap chemical perfume.

If you wash daily then I don’t understand the need for a perfumed pad. I get the need for a pad because things can get uncomfortable down there (if you’ve never been pregnant or are a man then your mind will be blown at how much a vagina can produce… it’s like pissing your pants).

I realise that I am talking about perfumed pads and vaginal discharge ad nauseum because it really bothers me the message it gives out. A woman’s natural smell is somehow bad yet why don’t these companies make perfumed envelope type pads for a penis and scrotum… unless it smells of spring flowers down there all the time? I’ve no idea, I’m a lezzer after all.

 

Pregnant Days

Week 17: She’s Giving Birth to Baby Jesus

It’s Christmas day! Happy Christmas to you all! Today is the day that Christ was born to a virgin. This leads me to today’s next big revelation… What does Mary, mammy of Jesus, and herself have in common? Immaculate conception. The similarities don’t just end there. Mary’s fella was a carpenter, I took a night course in woodwork last month in Ringsend. That’s beyond coincidence, it’s providence. This brings me to the following hypothesis: our baby is the second coming of Jesus.

I broke the exciting news to herself this morning.
“What would you love more than anything for Christmas?”
“To have my old vagina back. I’m so grossed out by the amount of discharge that’s exiting it.” It’s true, it’s like a pump station on steroids but there’s no way I would ever agree with her on this new body trait.
“Try again”
“To not be in negative equity,”
she started on to her second box of breakfast chocolates.
“Well you’re in luck! I’ve found a way to make us loads of mullah for 2018.”
“Go on,” she was half listening whilst opening up a selection box.
“So religion is the best way to make mad cash.”
“Uh huh.”
“Basically, we’re going to write a bestseller then tour the world because you’re carrying baby Jesus.” She flipped the chocolate menu card over and started studying it.
“My sister is expecting us at 11am, we’ve to open up the presents with the kids.”
“Did you hear what I said?”
“Yeah and you’re mental, I’m not carrying Jesus. I’m carrying something that hasn’t allowed me to shit for 48 hours and has me secreting stuff that looks like slime.”
“Trust me on this one babe, you’re carrying Jesus.”
“You haven’t slept in 24 hours and you just lost your job so you’re panicking.” She’s right, she’s always right.

The US multinational company that I worked for decided to close down the Dublin office. They realised they can hire cheaper people somewhere elsewhere, globalisation baby. Now we’ve a little one on the way and I’m unemployed. Who the fuck lays off someone two weeks before Christmas? A dastardly corporation that thinks Ireland is part of the UK, that’s who.

Whilst it was terrifying to be sans job it was also very liberating up until yesterday. Now the fear has started to kick in hence the money making opportunity of herself having Jesus in her belly… She’ll come round to it, especially when the bank calls for the next mortgage payment.

Pregnant Days

Week 9: Photos of Bleeding Gums & Other Odd Pregnancy Reactions

Sometimes I question the societal value of a smartphone being able to take photos and video. Everything now is documented. There’s no novelty to taking a photo anymore.

When I grew up, only posh people had cameras. That is the main reason why there are five photos of me as a child. All were taken by wealthy relatives that had emigrated to the United States. Instead of a slew of photos to prove my childhood existence, I have vague memories.

I’m old enough to remember when disposable cameras were the must have on a night out with pals. I remember the excitement and the anticipation of waiting to get your night-out photos developed. Over time you understood that 70% of the photos would have your finger covering 70% of the photo.

Those were innocent times I’ve now come to realise. With the invention of the smartphone you don’t need a disposable camera or wealthy Irish-American relatives anymore. You’ve a hi-tech camera in your pocket that can deliver hyper real photos. The mysteries of life have been exposed especially around pregnancy, and I don’t think that’s a good thing.

*****

“Look at my mouth!!!!!!” She texted. I put down my coffee and gasped for air. Her usual perfect white smile was dripping with blood. But the selfie did not convey any horror in her face, she actually seemed to find it hilarious as the laughter emoticons reinforced.
“Jesus. That’s vile.”
“That’s pregnancy Birdie <winky emoticon face + hearts>.”

I resumed drinking my coffee and tried to forgot what I had just seen. Two minutes later the phone beeped again. Another message from herself. I sighed.

“Look at my knickers <multiple laughter emoticons with tears streaming out>.” I threw the rest of my coffee down the work sink, sat down, inhaled deeply like the meditation app said to do when faced with stressful situations.

In my hand was a detailed image of the discharge on her knickers. I could make out from the floor that she was in her office. I guess when you’re the boss you can yank off your knickers whenever the mood takes you.
“Gah! Why are you showing me this?” The moment I sent it, I regretted it.
“Because we’re in this together & you need to know what I’m going through for us <angry + sad emoticon>.”
“OK. Thanks for the updates xo.”

I resigned myself to the fact that I’ll be getting a photo ticker full of weird bodily reactions to pregnancy up… fuck you modern technology.