I always imagined my pre-hospital beauty ritual and labor to be thus: Luxurious shower, washed hair dried to cascading curl perfection, expertly applied "I just got out of bed" makeup, fabulous "I'm-about-to-give-birth-yet-I-look-so-amazing-it's-really-not-that-hard" outfit, Loubis (obvi), and simple yet tastefully large diamond studs. I stop to pick up the already perfectly packed hospital bag, which is always ready by the front door, and click-clack down the street to New York Presbyterian Hospital, where I'm already 9 centimeters dilated and don't feel the need for drugs. After a brief session of pushing, with my husband holding my hand and the light perspiration on my brow gleaming attractively, our little Prince/Princess slides out, cooing. Andy and I share this moment of joy with a smile and an "I love you!" before being surrounded by family (of course I have time to reapply my Benetint lip balm first). The baby latches on to my breast and nurses happily, sleeping most of the day. By the time I'm back in the suite, I am able to get up and see my Size 2 figure (that post-partum deflation won't happen to ME!), and hold court by my bedside, in beautiful Natori silk pajamas, receiving well-wishers throughout the stay.
After you give birth, you feel untouchable. Like you have achieved the most challenging of tasks, climbed the highest of mountains. As I was being wheeled from the delivery ward to the rooms, I felt like a victorious Rocky Balboa. My brain threw up her gangsta colors and shouted “I just added to the Earth’s population, bitches! What did YOU do today?!”
We walked at snail’s pace past the nursing station on our way to the exit. Why were they letting us just walk out? On our own! With a new baby! Didn’t the nurses want to come home too?! How could we be trusted?!
Stretch marks are a woman’s Axis of Evil. Once there, they can never be erased, despite all the lasers and vanishing creams in the world. Are stretch marks a result of genes or of care (or lack thereof)? The experts, whoever they are, can’t seem to decide. So you PoshPreggos need to hedge your bets and make sure you do everything in your power to prevent these unsightly scars from invading that bikini body. Here are three attack drills a PP must adhere to:
“Have you created your registry yet?” asked every mother I came across. At the mere mention of the registry, my eyes would glaze over and my brain would start to slowly dissolve. And my blood pressure would rise. Equal parts boredom and stress. “I, um, no, not yet, but I will…”
And then I had to battle my pregnancy brain with actual practical thought, all the while joining forces against my husband's attempts to buy...nothing.