Well, I wish I had that problem.*
Don’t get me wrong. My bladder is just as impatient as the next fellow’s—assuming that the “next fellow” is actually another pregnant lady. In fact, when I was expecting Jacob, it was so impatient that I found myself peeing in some pretty strange places.
Here’s an excerpt on what was—up until recently—my most embarrassing pee story:
” … My husband and I had invited friends over to stay the night, and the next morning I awoke with a full bladder—the kind that you have thirty seconds to empty before it does so on its own. I got up to use the restroom but discovered that one of our guests was showering in the bathroom. If I were a cursing woman, I would have inserted an expletive (or five) here.
I considered joining Jake, our lab puppy, outside at his favorite bush, but still being in my nightgown, I decided that peeing into the cup on my nightstand was a safer bet. That turned out to be only slightly true.
Being too embarrassed to tell Tom, I slipped out of bed as quietly as I could (and, when you’re supremely pregnant, that’s no easy task), and hid in our closet to do the deed. This would have worked out fine, except I realized too late that I had far less bladder control than I had previously assumed. For the visual types, let’s just say I ended up with an unfortunate infinity-edge pool effect.”
So, that’s pretty bad, right? I thought so, too, at the time. In hindsight, the moment now seems like a laudable achievement. I mean, at least I made it into the closet. And, with a cup, no less. (Someone get this girl a medal. STAT!)
With this pregnancy, I’m lucky if I can shimmy my pants down in time. (Oh, and toilet seat covers? Fuggedabout it.) If I tried to count the number of times I’ve peed my pants this pregnant, I’m certain I would fail. Not because I’ve lost count, but because I have no idea what number comes after a trillion. And, to be clear, when I say “peed my pants,” I don’t mean a glistening drop or two. I’m talking about giving Niagara Falls a run for her money. (Hey! Honeymooners! Over here!)
I’ll never forget an episode a couple of months back—though, believe me, I wish I could—when I was huddled over the toilet during an intense bout of nausea-induced vomiting. The extreme heaving resulted in a particularly unforgettable Niagara Falls moment. Let’s just say there was so much force, her waters ended up a bit muddy that day. (Have I mentioned lately that my husband is a real trooper???)
While that whole scenario was pretty awful, at least I was awake and aware enough to handle the mess. Lately, I haven’t been so lucky.
Remember what I said earlier about wishing I could wake up a bajillion times at night to pee? Well, this pregnancy has reduced me to an (even more incontinent) version of my 2-year-old self. Instead of waking up to pee—ya know, like any normal person over the age of 3—I wake up realizing that the dream I was having about settling into a nice bathroom stall with elevator jazz playing in the background and soft lighting and loads of soft toilet paper to do my business … yeah, it isn’t real. What is real are the 3 a.m. pajama and sheet changes I’ve been doing for the past few weeks.
The good news is, pregnancy—and the ensuing incontinence issues—won’t last forever. It won’t be long before my bladder is back to normal, and I’ll be up at 3 a.m. changing our baby girl’s wet things instead of my own.
In the interim, I could always try sacking out on the toilet at night. Or, maybe I’ll just invest in a four-month supply of Depends.
*It wouldn’t do much for my sleep schedule, but it would make for a much less embarrassing blog post!