Mama Needs a Cosmo

Awww. They're so . . . not useful.

I have had, and have attended, my fair share of baby showers.

And while I know what it’s like to be six-months pregnant, waddling around Target with the registry gun and scanning anything associated with baby poop, baby spit-up, and baby feeding, most rookie-moms-to-be never realize what they genuinely need is located on the same aisle where raised toilet seats are sold.

So the customary ritual of printing out what the new mommy has registered for, buying a few things from the list (or collecting $20 bucks from a few friends to get a “big item”), and then anxiously anticipating her unwrapping what you purchased is completely fine. If you like to do what everyone else does.

I like to be a little more . . . MacGyver-ish, I guess you can say.

It all started when I was in the hospital after I had Jake. The whole experience was painful — pushing out an 11-pound baby, being forced to stay in the hospital for three days because I tested positive for Group B Strep, fighting with the “La Leche Nazis,” nurses, and lactation specialists to get a 2-oz bottle of formula, and the fact that the idiot doctor who delivered my baby let me tear from stern to stem instead of giving me an episiotomy.

Before I checked into the hospital, I knew that I’d need my fair share of Preparation H from all the pushing. But I was totally unprepared for the postpartum bleeding dam to open and the flow to come so hard that it would creep up my back when I slept. And what did I have to defend myself against this river of discontent? Temporary underwear and hospital maxi-pads.

Have you ever worn temporary underwear?

They’re kind of like the little, itty-bitty nylons you put on when you try on shoes at Nordstrom. You look at them and think, “Uh, yeah. Like those are going to fit over my feet”

Only these cruel inventions are made of sandpaper woven into a fishnet pattern and stretched to the breaking point over your swollen crotch and post-baby fat ass.

Then, you’re supposed to strategically fasten two or three hospital maxi pads inside them so you can pretend to catch what mother nature is pushing out.

I did that. For about a day.

Then I sent the LOML down to Walgreen’s for some Depends. And I swear to God on my boys today, it was like sitting on a pillow of cotton balls compared to what I’d been using 24 hours before.

A few years later, when I packed my hospital bag for my trip to have Benny, I made sure that I included a generous supply of Depends undergarments, Depends pads, witch hazel, and an ice pack. (Because soaking your hoo-hah in ice water isn’t doable in a hospital.) Oh yeah, and because I knew some of the nurses at the hospital where I was to stay, I also packed some small boxes of See’s Candy Truffles to use as bribes to get more medication. (It works!)

So, how does one wrap and present such . . . “gifts”?

Here’s what I did last month for my BFF:

• I bought a package of Depends undergarments, Depends pads, witch hazel pads, and “Cool Gel” Preparation H.
• I wrote small notes and taped them to each item. (i.e., for the undergarments, I wrote, ‘Tell every nurse with a pulse that you want to wear these after you have the baby.”; for the witch hazel pads and Preparation H, I wrote, “Put these in the refrigerator for extra-special relief.”)
• I packed everything into a large gift bag
• On the gift bag, I placed a note that read, “For the mama-to-be to open AFTER the shower . . . preferably at home.” Because no one in attendance will coo and “awww” over a jumbo pack of adult diapers.

Her reaction?

“DUDE! I must have read two dozen birth and parenting books and not ONE mentioned or recommended ANY of these things! This is frickin’ BRILLIANT!” But, I knew she was lying. She’s read at least 50 birth and parenting books.

Anyway, was the “gift” unconventional? Yes. Necessary? Abso-frickin-lutely.

So, I had this wickedly awesome week of partying planned. Posts were laid out, drinks were mixed, and Mama was going to show you all how to do the UBP right.

But something dramatic took place in my little world that completely derailed my UBP plans. In fact, I ended up having a really good cry about it last night. I’m not usually one to go all emo on people in the middle of an awesome party, but I’ve got a good reason. Here’s the background:

I’ve known my very best friend in the whole wide world for almost 23 years. During that time, we’ve seen each other through so much crap that it would make Jerry Springer salivate and Judge Judy blush. We’re the ones that taught Romy and Michele how to do a class reunion and showed Thelma and Louise a thing or two about loyalty. Safe to say that we’re “pretty tight.”

My BFF and I also share a common bond that plagues millions of women world-wide: We’ve tried successfully to conceive only to have the pregnancy end in a miscarriage. For me, it was twice. For her, it was four times. During that last pregnancy, she even got past a critical benchmark stage only to suffer disappointment yet again. She feared that she had waited too long to get pregnant and had almost conceded that bearing a child of her own more than likely wasn’t in her future.

Soon after that, she had something of a significant breakthrough and turned to me for advice. And when she comes to me for words of wisdom, she does it because she knows I’ll give it to her straight and tell her what’s right instead of what she wants to hear. So, needless to say the pressure was on.

She had just returned home from a doctor appointment at which the doctor had told her that, while her body had made a full recovery, he didn’t think she “was mentally ready to try again,” and went on to say that she should probably wait another month or two before even revisiting the topic. But, instead of letting the news throw her into a deep, depressed state, she decided to take it as a challenge.

She said to me, “I was like, ‘Who the hell does this guy think he is, telling me how I feel?’”

And I said, “Do YOU think you’re ready? Because the only one who can tell you that you’re ready is you. And if you think you’re ready, then tell your husband to come home early because you’ve got some business to tend to.”

“THANK you,” she replied, “because I think I’m ready. I just needed to hear it said out loud from someone that isn’t married to me.”

That was late June of last year.

Two months later, she confirmed her pregnancy with a blood test.

And everyone in our circle of friends and family have been holding our collective breaths ever since. Adding HER doctor appointment days to our calendars, and anxiously waiting for the results of each and every one of her exams. Hell, I even gained some sympathy weight.

When her due date came and went, I wondered if the kid was going to give his mom some trouble when her body decided it was time to kick him out. Having endured a “past the due-date” pregnancy myself, I knew that the chances of the baby being bigger than average increased dramatically with each day that goes beyond the 40-week mark. And I’ve got the scars to prove it.

I received word that she was admitted to the hospital at 1:15am Monday morning (Nearly a week overdue). So, I spent the entire day completely unfocused and pacing like a caged tiger since I wasn’t allowed in the room with her. (The rules were that only one other coach was allowed in the birthing room besides her husband, and, while I could totally take her mom in a street fight, she ultimately won the battle of the baby watch.) Her husband did his best to keep me in the loop, though, and I did my best to do some patient advocacy from my end.

At 9:00pm, I got a text from him that stated, “She’s fully dilated; 100% effaced. Not pushing yet, though.”

And I was like, “Holy-Mother-of-God-just-get-that-kid-OUT-because-if-anything-happens-to-her-or-that-baby-I’m-gonna-bust-some-serious-f-ing-heads.”

Then my phone went silent. For nearly TWO HOURS.

I was a total wreck. I got up, had a drink, tried to watch TV, tried to blog, and even tried to shop. And when Mama can’t find anything to buy online after a cocktail, you know something is seriously amiss.

My phone buzzed and lit up at 10:50pm.

“HE’S HERE! 9LBS 7OZ 22 INCHES LONG!”

“Jesus! She gave birth to a toddler!” I replied, fumbling through the message with shaking hands and increasingly loud sobs. “I wish I was there.” Then I put the phone back on its charger and went into a full-on no-breath-having cry-like-a 4-year-old meltdown. But in a good way.

Yesterday morning was filled with lots more texts . . . baby is good, mom is good, no name yet, when are you going to get here . . . and, after YEARS of waiting for the moment, I finally got to hold my best friend’s first baby. I didn’t put him down for nearly two hours, and it was only out of necessity, since the little dude had pooped.

Sorry, this is all you get until I receive permission to post a picture of the baby's sweet little face.

Yesterday I was reading a post by one of my favorite bloggers. She’d posted a story about a troubled friendship, and how she ultimately had to disconnect herself from her former friend. She’d also included some comments made to her by her best friend, who was passionately showing her support to the blogger during the difficult time. In my comments to the blogger, I told her that she’d inspired a topic for me to blog about: My BFF.

I’m one of those lucky women who met her BFF during the first week of high school. Connected by our love for hairbands and disdain for a certain few of the popular girls, we roamed the halls and cafeteria without a care about what anyone else thought of us. And, like Romy and Michele, we don’t ever remember high school “being all that bad.”

After high school, and during my wilder stages, my BFF would take the wheel of my manual-shift-no-power-steering-piece-of-crap car so that I’d get home safely. When it was time to leave an abusive relationship, she backed her truck into my driveway at 5:30 in the morning to help me move out, no questions asked, after not having spoken to her for weeks. She’s also the one who pointed out a tall, blue-eyed cowboy to me nearly 14 years ago, chaperoned our first date, and later that evening told me, “Yeah, you can date him,” not knowing that he’d become the love of my life.

Through the years, we’ve seen each other through pounds gained and loves lost, three weddings, two miscarriages, and two beloved euthanized pets. Our friendship even survived a disastrous family trip to Cancun, after which I was truly convinced I’d never see her again.

My BFF & I don’t have to talk every day. In fact, we’ve been known to go long periods of time without word only to pick right up where we left off. Friendships should be like that: no worries, no effort, and no excuses.

To my BFF, I’m the “rational” friend: the one who will say not what she wants to hear, but what she NEEDS to hear, even if the truth hurts. To me, she is my “low-road” friend: the one who’ll commiserate with me when someone pisses me off, even if it’s about something stupid.

We should all be so lucky to have a BFF like mine.

So, if you’ve got a BFF, give her a call today. (And tell her I said, “HI!”)