Baby Bumps: The Almost, Barely, Not-Quite-True Story of Pregnancy, Bed Rest and One Batshit Crazy Family

By Amy Sprenger

From the author of the award-winning blog Snarky Mommy comes a book that will make every woman who has ever been pregnant pee with laughter (not that that’s hard). Wearing her highest heels and hottest pregnancy jeans, Amy Sprenger marches into her doctor’s office, beverage in hand, ready to finally see whether her baby is a boy or a girl. Sure, sure, this appointment is supposed to be about checking the health of the baby, but everyone who’s ever been there knows it’s really about looking for what lays, or doesn’t lay, between the legs. So when the doctor tells her she has an incompetent cervix, Amy becomes immediately offended on behalf of her reproductive organs. Is that just a politically correct way of saying her cervix sucks?

Unfortunately, as she’s soon to learn, it’s a lot more than that. The only way to keep that baby from falling out on the sidewalk (probably in front of Starbucks) is for her doctor to stitch her cervix closed and for Amy to stay in bed for the next four months. Four months that are carefully detailed in this “memoir.” A memoir that, while basically true, has been embellished with Amy’s signature brand of humor and hilarity.

With more time off than a castoff contestant on "The Bachelor," Amy takes pen to paper and settles in for the ride. But instead of sitting around eating bonbons, she’s popping hypertension drugs to stave off preterm labor. And complications? Oh, she’s got your complications. She’s gut-rehabbing her house. Her mother moves in to care for her. Her husband takes a “mancation” while she’s stuck in the hospital. And every time she has a contraction, she’s convinced it’s The Big One.

Living by the adage that laughter is the best medicine, Amy fumbles her way through a series of sometimes serious and usually embarrassing situations. And just to be clear, using a bedpan qualifies as both serious and embarrassing.

"Amy Sprenger's foray into factual fiction is a hilarious (and sometimes poignant) look at high-risk pregnancy from her view at the end of the bed. Sprenger offers a fresh and funny voice that readers will love!" -- New York Times bestselling author Jen Lancaster

"It takes someone special to take a serious subject and make it laugh-out-loud funny. Amy Sprenger has done just that. After reading this I can't hear the word 'cervix' without smiling!" -- Jennifer Hartling, The Relentless Reader blogger and Shirley You Jest Book Awards judge

"Totally hilarious-we think this one will brighten your day for sure!" -- Liz Fenton and Lisa Steinke, authors of "Your Perfect Life" and "The Status of All Things"

Baby Bumps was the winner of the 2013 Winner of the Shirley You Jest Book Award for Fiction!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Amy Sprenger
• Release date: Sep 1, 2015
• ISBN: 9780991036981

Amy Sprenger

Amy Sprenger is the author of "Baby Bumps: The Almost, Barely, Not Quite True Story of Surviving Pregnancy, Bed Rest and One Batshit Crazy Family" and "Over My Dead Potty." She's an award-winning blogger at SnarkyMommy.com, where she tells it like it is and isn't afraid to make fun of herself or her questionable parenting prowess. A former news and sports reporter, she lives with her husband and three children in Chicago’s Lincoln Park neighborhood where she silently judges all the other parents. Connect with Amy at www.facebook.com/thesnarkymommy, www.twitter.com/snarkymommy, and www.pinterest.com/snarkymommy.

Book preview

Baby Bumps

The Almost, Barely, Not-Quite-True Story of Pregnancy, Bed Rest and One Batshit Crazy Family

Amy Sprenger

Copyright © 2012 by Amy Sprenger

Cover design and illustration by Dar Albert, Wicked Smart Designs

ISBN: 978-0-9910369-8-1

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this book. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented without the express written permission of the copyright holder and the publisher.

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Sheffield Publishing Group

Smashwords edition: September 2015

Dear Readers,

Since the dawn of time, people have wanted to tell their own stories. Cave drawings were the original Draw Something app. The Bible? Totally a bunch of memoirs packaged as an anthology. Al Gore invented the Internet simply so we could all document what we had for lunch in one-hundred-forty characters or less.

And then along came James Frey and A Million Little Pieces and-- boom--everybody was all up in arms about fabrication and truth. What a drag. Thanks for ruining it for the rest of us, James.

When I sat down to write this book, I realized it would be way funnier if I could just make stuff up. And my agent reminded me that was totally allowed, and that there's actually some wacky new genre I might not have heard of called fiction. But come on, true stories are way more interesting. The framework of the story is true, but certain details have been, how shall we say, embellished. Most of the story is absolutely true. Okay, it's mostly true. All right, all right, it's somewhat true.

Names have been changed to protect the innocent, timelines have been compressed and events have been slightly altered. Slightly. But let me be clear: I had all of these conversations with my husband at some time or another and I'm still pissed he went on a trip when I was confined to a hospital bed. But hey, I can let bygones be bygones if it sells books.

CHAPTER ONE

Stretching a tight maternity T-shirt with the phrase Knocked Up emblazoned across the chest over my pregnant bump gets me a lot of shocked expressions and bemused smiles from strangers, but when it comes to people letting me cut in line, it's not very effective. And if someone doesn't let this pregnant lady skip to the front of the Starbucks line that now stretches from Chicago to Iowa and back, I am going to be very late for my ultrasound appointment. Technically it won't be the big reveal, because that happened at an ultrasound I somehow finagled out of my OB a full month ago, but this is the one where they make sure the baby has two arms, a full complement of working organs and doesn't have flippers for feet.

Most people call it the big ultrasound because that's when the sex of their precious unborn child can be detected. I know, I know; it's supposed to be about making sure you have a healthy baby. But the fact you can get a look at the goods between the legs totally trumps the ultrasound technician's ability to show you what the blood flow to the placenta looks like. There are pregnant women who insist they only want to make sure their babies are healthy and normal, who say that finding out the sex is not important. Those women would be kidding themselves. They also probably don't peek at hidden Christmas gifts or cheat on their taxes.

Today's ultrasound is supposed to confirm the existence of male genitalia, among the other boring--excuse me, standard--inspections of the fetus. I am looking forward to getting another look at the Blob, as I fondly call him, and then going out to lunch before resuming my workday.

I'll have a tall, two-pump vanilla, nonfat, extra-hot latte, the anorexic model in front of me barks at the tattoo-sleeved barista. Nonfat. Got it?

Jesus. Don't people drink their calories in liquid form anymore? That's one of the perks of being pregnant--unfettered access to whole milk and whipped cream. As she steps to the side and checks her BlackBerry, I give the barista a big smile and roll my eyes.

I'll have a venti white hot chocolate with whole milk, I say proudly. With whip.

Now that's an order I can get behind, the barista says. He must have a thing for pregnant women, or perhaps just hates skinny bitch models who act better than him, because he makes my drink on the spot and I walk out before Miss Skinny Jeans can say Guatemalan blend.

As I walk out of the store, I realize I have only a precious few seconds to drink it before I have to dash off. And I mean that literally as I am now five minutes away from being late and I have six city blocks to cover on foot. Why did I take the El again? Oh, yes, because my husband, Jake, didn't want to go to Starbucks and planned to meet me at the hospital, so he took the car. And why did I wear these three-inch heels? Because I needed to be the cute pregnant lady in my designer maternity jeans, high heels and smartass shirt. I reluctantly dump the rest of my drink in the garbage, because I really don't want to be late, and I would rather be out the $2.50 than spill it all over my super-cute outfit. Not to mention I yelled at Jake no less than seventeen times this morning that he absolutely, positively could not be late under any circumstances or he would face the wrath of Pregnant Annie. He's seen the wrath of Pregnant Annie on more than a few occasions during the last four months and he doesn't enjoy it.

I take off walking, then realize I could definitely make better progress with an actual jog, but I know that's not possible with these three-inch boot heels. I figure I am heading to the hospital anyway, so if I keel over from lack of oxygen or a broken ankle, they'll be able to help me. I make it the six blocks in record time thanks to my half jog/ half walk, showing up just slightly after I told Jake to be there. And as always, he is not there on time. In his defense, he does have the car, and finding a spot in this neighborhood is the tenth circle of hell. God forbid he should pay for parking in the structure. No, he'd rather spend twenty minutes circling the same two-block radius prowling for a free opening. So I put a smile on my face, and as I hold my aching side and catch my breath, finally see him and wave hello. I look around for a wheelchair, thinking maybe they will take pity on the wheezing pregnant lady, but there are none to be found. Instead we take the elevator to the second floor.

Why are you out of breath? Jake asks, finally noticing my labored breathing.

I . . . had . . . to . . . run . . . some . . . of . . . the . . . way, I sputter.

Well, that was stupid, he says while looking down at his cell phone. Next time maybe you'll skip spending money at Starbucks and just come in the car with me.

I shoot him a dirty look, but don't have the energy to muster a comeback, so I stalk out of the open elevator door and down the hall to the office. Our lateness doesn't even register as they are running slightly behind schedule. I surreptitiously check my hair and makeup with a mirror I dig out of my purse. My light brown hair, patiently straightened this morning with both a round brush and a flat iron, could use a quick comb-through after all that sweating, but my makeup held up beautifully. Other than a slight smudge of my eyeliner under each hazel eye, the makeup looks good, too. Would it kill me to wear a little foundation to cover up these freckles, though? Jake says they're cute. I say cute is an adjective that describes puppies, not my skin.

Normally, checking myself out in the mirror could occupy me for hours, but I catch sight of the other women around me and find them more interesting than my own reflection--a first for me. I sneak looks, wondering if the teenage girl in the shirt that doesn't begin to cover her obscenely large belly is married and if the woman sitting next to me sighing and breathing deeply is going to deliver in the next fifteen seconds. Her stomach does look like there's an alien trying to poke its way out as I see it shifting under her blouse, although I don't see any puddles of amniotic fluid under her chair, so I think she might have some time to get down to labor and delivery. Before I can ask if she needs me to boil some water, the tech opens the door saying, Annie Saunders, and I'm so excited to get in the room I practically vault over a row of pregnant women.

We begin the festivities with her asking me to pull my pants down past my hips, then tucking a towel down the front of them. She warns me it's going to be cold as she squirts an icy blob of what appears to be clear Jell-O on my stomach. Then she grabs the wand and runs it over my lower belly, and an image of the Blob fills the screen. He's wiggling and fidgeting to get away from the sound waves, but seeing as he's compressed into a space the size of a cantaloupe, he's in no position to make a break for it. Instead he waves his arm at us and chills out for the inspection.

As I watch him on the screen, I break out into a huge grin. Sure, I've bonded with him since the two pink lines turned up on the stick, but it's kind of an esoteric bond. It's hard to develop a relationship with someone you can't see. If this is what online dating is like, I have no idea how Match.com stays in business. Back at the first ultrasound he looked like a seahorse, but now he's turned into a miniature person. He even has a little nose! How can you not fall in love with a teeny-tiny nostril? I think buying an ultrasound machine for my bedroom so I can check on his whereabouts whenever I want--just like Tom Cruise and Katie Holmes did--would be ridiculously cool. It would also be ridiculously cost-prohibitive.

Even Jake is enthralled by the images on the screen. He squeezes my hand as we watch the screen and exchange goofy grins. I'm not an overly emotional person, but for some reason the pregnancy has brought out an untapped reservoir of sap. Pampers commercials send me running for the tissues and I can no longer watch NFL games without thinking about the poor quarterback's mother and what she must be feeling when she watches her precious baby get sacked from behind by a 350-pound defensive tackle. And don't even get me started on the marathons of The Baby Story I watch every afternoon on cable. As Jake runs his fingers over the backs of mine, I imagine a mini-Jake popping out of the birth canal in a few months, a tall, skinny baby with lots of dark curly hair and a lazy smile that makes me melt. Hopefully the baby version can keep his sarcasm to a minimum.

The technician makes sure the baby has all the normal stuff--four heart chambers, two arms, two legs, bladder, kidneys, car keys, backpack, small snack for the road--and then she confirms that yes, he is indeed still a boy. We get a shot of the goods, which are impressive for a twenty-week-old, and I figure she'll wipe the goo off my stomach and we'll be on our merry way.

She fiddles with the wand for a few more seconds, then she says she would like to do a vaginal ultrasound to get a better look at something. In case you are not familiar, let me be the first to tell you, a vaginal ultrasound entails the tech inserting an ultrasound wand into your vagina and moving it around. Think of it as a dildo that acts like a camera. Thus, the Dildocam. You can thank me later for the awesome picture in your head. I am thinking about copyrighting this name, but have not yet filed the proper paperwork. At this point I am annoyed about having to disrobe for this, but then I think to ask why she wants to use the Dildocam and what exactly she needs to see.

Your cervix, she says, looking at an image on her screen. I need to get a better look at something.

Okay. Well, by all means, let's take a look. She leaves the room so I can undress and Jake looks at me and asks what I think that means. I tell him I have no idea.

Maybe it's some disease you get when you're five months pregnant and you sprint between a Starbucks and the hospital to satiate a weird caffeine fix, he shoots back. At this moment, I question the reasons why I drag him to each appointment.

The tech comes back in and suddenly, everyone is a little more serious. She starts moving the wand around and she's not smiling, so I can only assume this is Not Good.

So, umm, how's it looking down there? I ask. You finding everything you need? Can I offer you any assistance?

Your cervix looks a little short and I need to take some measurements, she says, eyes never leaving the screen in front of her. Well, is that all? I am a relatively normal woman when it comes to stature. I'm not the starting center on any pickup basketball teams, but I can reach the top shelf in the linen closet. I would say my torso is kind of short, however, so maybe since my cervix is inside my torso region, it too is kind of short. Perhaps we could get it some growth hormone and perk it right up.

I need to have a doctor review these, I'll be right back, she says. You can leave your pants off. He'll probably need to take a look himself. She disappears out the door and I immediately point out how totally sexy this is to Jake.

Honey, you know you want some of this, I say. Come on, admit it.

Totally. Ultrasound exam room sex, right up there at the top of my life list, he answers. But then he stands up and reaches for his zipper.

I was kidding, you moron, I say.

There's no kidding about sex around me, Jake says, sitting back down.

When the tech returns again, she says the doctor is going to meet with us in a separate exam room, so I can get dressed. There goes our opportunity to join the table-high club. After I pull on my jeans and boots, she ushers us across the hall and offers us some ice water while we wait. I take her up on the offer, wistfully thinking about the hot chocolate I dumped out earlier. As we wait, I start getting really nervous because I have no idea what is going on, but I know a meeting in an exam room is definitely Not Good.

A smiling doctor comes in with a nurse and introduces himself as Dr. Burns and puts on a serious face. His light brown hair, icy blue eyes, neatly trimmed goatee and stunningly white teeth make him a guy I'd definitely give a second look across a crowded bar, but that would be awkward considering he's wearing a wedding band on his tanned hand and I'm pregnant with my husband's baby. He sits down and gets right to the point.

You have what is known as an incompetent cervix, Dr. Burns says. That means it's not strong enough to hold the baby in, and if we don't do something you will lose this pregnancy. You basically have no cervix left and you're starting to dilate. Blink, blink.

I'm sorry, what? I'm fine. I feel fine. I look fine. I'm not having contractions--how can I be dilating? Isn't that supposed to be painful and I should be screaming and yelling about needing to push? And what the hell kind of a medical term is incompetent cervix anyway? I quickly swallow the lump forming in my throat and compose myself enough to start asking serious questions. The first of which is, Well, what do we do about this?

Your best option is to have a cerclage, the doctor says.

A what?

We'll stitch your cervix shut. Kind of like a purse string. But there's no guarantee it will work. The biggest risk to your pregnancy both now and after the surgery is infection, and if you develop one, it will result in the immediate delivery of the baby. But I have to tell you that at twenty weeks, the baby is not viable and will not survive outside the womb. If we let an infection go, without treatment, it could kill both the baby and you.

Wow, the fun never stops around here, does it?

I am trying to see if there is an operating room free today, he says.

Holy shit, this is really serious. We ask how they know this is happening and Dr. Burns tells us that my cervix is measuring zero centimeters in length. A normal pregnant woman has a cervix that measures around three to four centimeters. If you've ever given birth, you have heard the term fully effaced, meaning your cervix has shortened all the way to zero and the baby is on its way. That's great news at forty weeks. It's horrible news at twenty weeks. He even draws us a helpful picture of a cervix on his notepad. We're playing Pictionary at a time like this? He shows us that a normal cervix looks like a T, with the top line being your uterus and the vertical line being your cervix. Mine looks like a U, as the uterus is dipping down because the cervix has basically ceased to exist.

The nurse comes in while we are in the midst of digesting all of this and announces they can't do the surgery until the next morning. What? Don't they know this is serious? Shouldn't they be running around yelling Trauma one! and trying to put a tube down my throat like they do on ER?

So what do I do? I ask. Isn't the baby going to fall out if we don't do this right now?

Well, we're going to have you check into the hospital right now, he says. That way we can monitor your condition closely. If anything changes, we will get you in for surgery immediately.

How's the food here? I ask. The man just told me I could lose the baby and I'm worried about food? This is how sixteen weeks of nonstop morning sickness skews your priorities: you never take edible inoffensive food for granted again. I couldn't even think the word chicken for three months, how am I going to stomach a tray of nastiness delivered to my room three times a day?

Good luck with that, Dr. Burns says. I make it a rule not to eat the food here.

The nurse tells us to sit tight for a few minutes as they leave the room, everyone shaking hands and looking serious again, with promises of seeing me bright and early in the operating room. I think to ask what bright and early means before they leave and the nurse tells me they'll probably start at seven the next morning. I can't imagine ever falling asleep again, lest my cervix stage a bloody coup while my defenses are down, so seven o'clock sounds perfect.

Jake and I are quiet for a minute and I stare at the pea-green exam table trying to figure out exactly what just happened here. An hour ago I was happily ordering Starbucks and running down the street. Now I'm facing the loss of my baby. I put my hand on my stomach, instinctively, and absentmindedly rub small circles on the lower right side of my belly, right where I have felt the Blob kicking me for the last few days. I just started to feel him moving around in there, how can I possibly lose him before I even meet him?

Jake puts his arm around me and pulls me toward him. I tuck my head in my favorite spot between his shoulder and chin.

I'm really freaked out, I say into his chest. Why is this happening?

I did everything right. I took prenatal vitamins for several months before I even got pregnant, I gave up Diet Coke, I did yoga and ate healthy food. Okay, somewhat healthy food. All right, fine, I thought about eating more healthy food. I even put more money in my 401(k) to save for his college tuition and badgered Jake about buying life insurance. It's probably because I was so smug about getting pregnant on the first try--I clearly pissed off fate and now I'm paying for it.

Jake puts his hand on the top of my belly--something he rarely does--and says everything will be okay. I ask how he knows that.

I guess I don't, he says, his face pale, his hand still on my stomach. But it has to be. It will be.

When the door opens again a few minutes later, I try to present a brave face. I see there's a wheelchair in the hall. I couldn't get one downstairs when I was dying of oxygen deprivation, but they have them up here. I look around for the person who should be sitting in it, and seeing no one start walking down the hall, when the nurse touches my arm and gently tells me to get in. It's for me. Oh, right. Now I know where they keep them: in the office where the women who might lose their babies any second are. This is definitely serious.

CHAPTER TWO

How fast can we get this thing going? I ask the orderly as I climb into the wheelchair. Can we try popping a wheelie?

For the last thirty-one years, my default coping mechanism has been humor. I have cracked jokes at funerals and once flippantly packed my desk while declaring how much I was going to enjoy collecting unemployment after a contentious layoff. Funny Annie has to take over, otherwise Maudlin Annie will prevail. And who wants to watch the pregnant lady sniffle and clutch a tissue? Besides, there's no time to wallow in fear right now because I am in planning mode. I am going to project-manage the shit out of this hospital stay and that's a great distraction from thinking about losing my baby.

Orderly Stonyface does not find me as humorous as I find myself, and wearily starts pushing me down the hallway with Jake trailing behind us. I'm trying to have a conversation with Jake, but it's difficult because the orderly is rather large in stature and I can't really contort my body over the chair's arm rail with my pregnant belly in the way. Instead I bark instructions at Jake over my shoulder, hoping he hears me.

I'm going to need a bag from home, I say once we're in the elevator. "You should go get me some clothes. And my contact solution. And my makeup. Oh, oh! And my US Weekly from this week that's on the counter. And my laptop."

Clearly, all the vital items I need for a weekend stay at a hospital. Jake points out that I probably don't need any clothes or makeup, you know, since I will be in bed, but I dismiss his concerns with a wave of my hand in his general direction. I am in planning mode and these things are crucial. I picture myself in a giant white room filled with fresh flowers, reclining in bed wearing a flowing white silk robe and nightgown, surrounded by my friends and family. Don't mind the fact I have never slept in a nightgown in my life because I hate the way it bunches up around my legs when I move in my sleep. It's my hospital fantasy and I'll wear what I want to, damn it.

We arrive at the Perinatal Surveillance Unit on the fifth floor and it's eerily quiet. There are several nurses

Reviews for Baby Bumps

[mrsmommybooknerd7 · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

Honestly is the best policy, right...well that is what Amy Sprenger thinks as she writes about pregnancy motherhood and really life in general. The story is funny, honest and raw. Spenger holds nothing back and I could relate to her and her struggles. This is a great read for all mothers, but beware: you will laugh, you could cry and you will have fun reading this book: 5 stars!!!