Flame Free Friday Confession: Pregnancy Bytes

I hated being pregnant. Hated it. It surprised the hell out of me, too. I was one of those people who, even as a teenager, used to dream about being pregnant and couldn't wait for it to happen to me. I thought that I would look adorable, that I wouldn't get stretch marks (my mom didn't) and that I would feel overjoyed at the miracle of knowing that life was inside me.

\To be honest, when it happened, it kind of freaked me out. And when I could see my sweet Baboo rolling around in there, I thought it was kind of gross. I usually enjoyed feeling his kicks when they first started up, but if you know my baby, he's a mover and shaker and he went NUTS in there several times a day. After half an hour of crazy, non-stop kicking, I just wanted him to calm.down. It hurt. And it still hurts. We bedshare and I consistently wake up because I'm being kicked in the leg/stomach/head. This child!

For the trimester of my pregnancy, all I could eat was oranges and cucumber, and all I could drink was water. All of my favourite things made me ill, and even the SMELL of coffee made me want to vomit.Then in the second trimester my appetite came back with a vengeance and I ate two breakfasts, two lunches and two dinners daily. In third tri my appetite started to level out, but at that point food was my only comfort and I force fed myself two lunches every day because I just enjoyed eating that.much. Sad, no?

Then there was the sciatica. The horrible, horrible back pain. People did NOT GET IT. They were all like "You're barely showing, how can your back hurt that bad?" And I was all like "BECAUSE AN ENTIRE PERSON IS LIVING ON.MY.SPINE." I had a regular sized baby, people, and guess what: If he isn't pushing my belly way out, it's probably because he's ON MY SPINE. ON A FREAKIN NERVE. And we were poor and didn't have health insurance so there was no chiropractic or massage for me. By the end of each day I was limping home, and sometimes, I kid you not, I would honestly just collapse. My legs would literally give out on my way to the car, and I'd just fall down.

"I'm sure some of you are reading this and thinking, so what?"

And I understand, and you are right. So what, indeed? I did not have a high risk pregnancy. I wasn't going to weekly ultrasounds, stuck on bedrest or dealing with a sudden onset of pregnancy related diabetes. Compared to a lot of women, my pregnancy rocked. But here is the truly flammable part:

Many of these women who were high risk and went through crazy complications would be willing to do it again in order to have another child. I, on the other hand, am seriously considering adopting. I hated my run-of-the-mill pregnancy THAT MUCH.

My womb is empty, and I kinda hope it stays that way.

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Flame Free Friday Confession: Confessions of an Oreo

Here's my confession: It's a big one, and something that I'm not proud of, but here it is anyway.

Sometimes I hate being Black.

I hate the hair. It is the bane of my existence. It either needs chemicals, or extensions, or massive amounts of combing and blowdrying and oils to make it look decent. And I hate that I feel that way. Why can't I just go natural? Whenever I contemplate going natural, I get pressure from, of all people, my mother. I can't go natural, I have to look "good". Why isn't the way I look naturally "good" enough?

I hate the assumptions of others. I hate that people think that I have to dress a certain way (Apple Bottom Jeans, lots of bling, Baby Phat baby-tees), and listen to a certain kind of music (hip hop, gospel, and gangsta rap).

I am not like that. I am not like my cousin who is getting her PhD in race and race studies. I am not like my sister who only dates black guys and enjoys Mariah Carey and Chris brown.

I love to sing, but I channel Sarah McLachlan more than. . .honestly, I paused here because I can't think of any black artists besides Janet Jackson and Whitney Houston, who I don't think are popular anymore.

When I was in high school and going through my rebellious phase, I didn't wear low-rise jeans or basketball jersey dresses. I lined my lids with black eyeliner and wore shirts with skulls and cross-bones on them.

I can't play basketball or run track, I am not a good dancer, and even in my post-baby body I am not booty-liscious.

But I am expected to be and do all of these things. I'm not and I can't and I don't even want to. I want to not disappoint people when I don't turn out to be what they expected me to be. I don't want people to be impressed or surprised when I don't use the current slang. I don't want to have to be ashamed that I'm more interested in travelling to Greece than Africa, or that I prefer HGTV to BET.

I just want to be allowed to be myself. I don't want to be called an Oreo. I don't want to be shunned by my own family members because they think I am "white washed". It enrages me that my own people are stereotyping themselves so badly that they are surprised when another Black person isn't exactly like them.

Are all white people the same? Do all white people drink tea and play water polo and summer in St. Barths? No? Then why should all Black people be the same?

I just am who I am. I cannot help what I like, and I will not modify what I do. If that's not Black enough for you, then you're the one with the problem. And frankly, you're invited to twist off my top, dip me in milk, and bite me.

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