Read Exploiting My Baby Online

Authors: Teresa Strasser

Exploiting My Baby

Table of Contents
 
 
Praise for
EXPLOITING MY BABY
“Exploiting her baby, perhaps, but most certainly rewarding her readers, Teresa Strasser trudges, nay, romps with us down the road from the anxiety of no baby to guilt of not deserving a precious child. All the while she reminds us that the echoes of our families of origin, although carried along with us like so much muck in a riverbed, need not choke our ability to flourish and find joy as parents.”
—Dr. Drew Pinsky
 
“If Woody Allen was a woman with big giant ovaries and wrote a book about his pregnancy, it still wouldn’t have been this funny, warm, brassy, and insightful.”
—Stefanie Wilder-Taylor, bestselling author of
Sippy Cups Are Not for Chardonnay
 
“If this is what it’s really like to have a baby, I should have been a lot nicer to my lovely wife. Also, she should have made me laugh this much. So we’re even.....If you think you worry too much about being a parent, Teresa Strasser will inform you of all the things you forgot to freak out about.”
—Joel Stein
 
“I loved this book. Teresa Strasser has blessed us all with an amazing, inspired work. I laughed, I cried, I learned lessons about marriage and love and pregnancy and motherhood that will last a lifetime. Teresa knows how to speak directly to every one of us, and offers us the inside story every pregnant woman wishes someone out there would finally share. Her very personal, hysterical, and moving story is universal. I can’t wait to buy this book for all my pregnant friends.”
—Rabbi Naomi Levy, author of
Hope Will Find You
and
To Begin Again
 
“Teresa is the mom you want to invite to your playgroup.”
—Heather McDonald,
New York Times
bestselling author of
You’ll Never Blueball in This Town Again
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Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices:
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First published by New American Library,
a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.
 
First Printing, January 2011
 
Copyright © Teresa Strasser, 2011
All rights reserved
REGISTERED TR ADEMARK—MARCA REGISTRADA
 
LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA:
Strasser, Teresa.
Exploiting my baby: because it’s exploiting me: a memoir of pregnancy & childbirth/Teresa Strasser. p. cm.
eISBN : 978-1-101-47825-7
1. Mothers—Biography. 2. Motherhood. 3. Pregnancy. 4. Childbirth. I. Title.
HQ759.S8137 2011
306.874’3092—dc
[B]
 
 
 
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For my husband and baby.
Thanks for letting me exploit you.
About This Book
Why Exploiting My Baby Seems Like a Good Idea
 
 
 
L
ike it’s so special having a baby. Britney Spears did it twice, so there you go.
Yet we’ve all seen these spooky, obsessed smother mothers with their sippy cups full of self-absorption and their nonstop, mind-numbing prattle about the relative merits of different brands of organic baby food. These are the souls who update their Facebook status to reflect little Jackson’s latest bowel movement. This is not okay. This is chilling.
There are so many nerve-racking things about being pregnant for the first time. Just when you think you can handle nausea, ravenous hunger, precipitous weight gain, and of course the abject fear about your baby’s health, you come into contact with one of these mothers and you think, “Not that I’m so great, but I hope I don’t become
her.

Frankly, before I got pregnant, I was never actually all that comfortable being me, but it was all I knew. Would I now become an uptight asshole who would insist you douse yourself in Purell before touching my offspring, lest you pass on some grubby infection to my precious baby Jesus child? Would I find myself driving a minivan to Tot Shabbat—glassy-eyed and resentful—wearing a crumb-covered Ann Taylor knit and blasting Raffi?
Would all of my concerns in life revolve around what kind of crib mattress was optimum or how best to pack a diaper bag so I could spend the day pushing a stroller through an indoor mall like the other zombie moms, stopping only occasionally to bust out some watermelon cubes from a worn Tupperware container? Would I get gory stretch marks and an eighteen-year-long case of postpartum depression like my mother? Would I feel suffocated and fake a seizure just for some “alone time”?
While I hemorrhaged money on Baby Einstein mobiles and brain-enhancing music classes for the little one, would my own mind atrophy?
In essence: Would both my ass and my mind wear mom jeans?
I had no idea about any of this.
Maybe everything had already been said about the experience of pregnancy, but it was new to me and I found myself not only wanting to write about it but also consuming any information I could, from Nancy O’Dell’s book (beautiful lady, but her memoir about extra-glowing pregnancy skin and lack of any unpleasant symptoms can
suck it
) to Jenny McCarthy (you want to dismiss her but you can’t, because Jenny is charming and likeable and has touched Oprah with her own hands. Still, her style makes you want to say, “I get it. You’re edgy. Even though you’re hot, you talk about poops and farts. Goooooood for you”).
I sought out books and blogs that would level with me, and I don’t mean syrupy pseudo-disclosures like, “I haven’t washed my hair in weeks, but it’s all worth it because of the majesty of motherhood.” I wanted precise details about both the trip and the destination. What
exactly
was going to happen to my digestive system, cervix, weight, delicate internal anxiety management system, boobs, mind, sex life, sense of personal freedom, bladder, marriage, anus, appetite, mood, body image, overall ability to accept changing identity, deeply rooted and unrelenting mommy issues, chronic insomnia, beloved but moderate use of toxins, oil glands, abdomen, shoe size? Who was I going to be on the other side, and how painful would it be crossing over?
As long as there are pregnant girls up in the middle of the night wondering if it’s a cramp or gas or a disaster, as long as there are new-comers to this world as confused and terrified as I was, this pregnancy thing is always going to be fresh and relevant.
There is no precedent for us first-timers. I didn’t understand any of the sensations happening in my body, which all seemed like they must mean imminent miscarriage, a phrase I Googled no fewer than 137 times.
I didn’t have any idea what nipple salve or nasal aspirators do. I didn’t know what a doula was, except maybe something you might find on a platter of Mediterranean food. I didn’t know anything about babies, except that I was having one. Moreover, I didn’t know how to write about any of this without conjuring images of poor, kicked-around Kathie Lee Gifford, who seems like an all right gal but who took so much shit for trotting out little Cody and little what’s-her-face just to make America love her.

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