Pregnancy hair growth and constipation status update

32 weeks pregnant and another post about my hair. I’m not complaining. I’m observing.

For 20 years I’ve been familiar with all my hairy bits: my facial bits, my armpit bits, my lady bits, my butt bits, my leg bits and my toe bits. That’s right, I used to have some hair on my toes. Haven’t seen them lately, so I can’t tell you for sure.

Good news first. My leg hair has almost stopped growing. So in July, when I’m 10 months pregnant, and/or just gave birth, I don’t have to be an advocate for leg hair. My arm hair has chilled out too. My stomach hair may have stopped growing or it may be that the follicles are getting stretched so far apart from each other that it looks like less hair. Perks of a giant belly.

Neutral news. Facial hair seems to be holding the course. I’ll take it.

And then there’s the hair on my head. When people ask me how I’m feeling and how the pregnancy is going, I could start with the status of my constipation, but hair is more small-talk friendly. I tell them,

“Crazy thing is my hair is growing in straight.”

They look at the curls that go down to my boobs and declare,

“Looks just as curly to me.”

I understand they’re trying to make me feel better, but instead I feel like I need to explain how hair growth works.

The hair by my boobs was sprouting out of my head when I met Captain 3.5 years ago. Almost all of my hair is still curly. I’m talking about the 3 inches that has grown in the last 8 months. It’s straight. And I’m ok with that. Or so I’ve been saying.

People continue to try to reassure me,

“I bet it’ll grow in curly again after you have the baby.”

I hope not. I’m already struggling as it is. If it sticks to its straight agenda then at some point I’ll be able to snip off the last of the curls and move on with my life. If I also have to go through 10 more months of waiting for the straight part to grow out and the curly to come back in, I’ll be very close to shaving my head.

Overall I feel very grateful for Baby Bop, Captain and my nonexistent leg hair.

And I’m not constipated, thanks squatty potty.

monkey hair




My brain cells are dying or on vacation

26 weeks pregnant and I have pregnancy brain. Or at least that’s what I’m going to blame last weekend on.

People say that during pregnancy your brain turns to mush. I’m not sure what’s happening to mine, but my brain cells are abandoning me.

Captain and I load up a U-Haul truck full of baby/kid stuff to move it from his brother’s house to his parents’. It’s really nice to know people with houses. Captain is in charge of driving the truck, I’m in charge of driving our grocery assault vehicle. That’s right, I have a car, it smells great.

Before we leave, I ask Captain,

“Should we follow each other?”

“Do you want to put my parents’ address in the GPS and we’ll go on our own?”


With the talking car, heated seat and so many buttons, I have enough to think about without worrying about following.

The GPS takes me on a very strange route. I know it’s not the way we normally drive, but I also couldn’t tell you the way we normally drive, so I’m stuck with my new GPS friend. I glance behind me. Captain and the U-Haul truck are following me on this weird route.

Finally we’re on the highway and the mom mobile takes off leaving the truck in the dust. I’m cruising along enjoying myself and my warm butt, next thing I know the U-Haul truck goes zipping by me on the left. Hey! Wait for me buddy!

I get behind the truck and follow along for 10 minutes. The GPS tells me to take the exit on the left. The U-Haul heads right. Since the GPS led me a really weird way before, I figure Captain must want me to follow him and he knows the way to go.

I follow the U-Haul. Captain is a more cautious driver than me. He gives cars the right away who don’t deserve it. Now all of sudden it’s like the U-Haul truck has gone to his head. It’s zipping through yellow lights at the last second, which means I’m going through red lights trying to keep up. Why is he doing this when he knows I’m following him?

I trail the U-Haul truck through all the back roads of Fall River. This is very odd. We’ve never gone this way before. I can’t imagine what he’s doing. I glance at my GPS it’s rerouting for the fifteenth time and may give up on me soon. We stop at another light. I catch a glimpse of the driver in the side view mirror. Doesn’t look like Captain. I need to call him.

“Are you at a stoplight in Fall River?”

“No, I’m crossing over the bridge in Rhode Island.”

“Huh. Well I’m behind a U-Haul truck in Fall River.”


“I may have been following a random truck.”


My belly is itchy

I head outside yesterday to enjoy the beautiful weather. I’m starting on a positive note because I’ve been giving my dear friend in California the impression that I’m struggling with this pregnancy.

The thing is a lot of my blogging used to come from interactions with ridiculous people and since I’ve cut back on my time in bars, I’m left with blogging about a wonderful, healthy pregnancy that is producing a lot of normal, horrifying symptoms.

So I head out for a walk. I’m far away from waddling, but it sure feels like my belly is leading the way. My belly is like,

‘I want to go over there.’

And the rest of my body is like,

‘Ok, wait for us, we’re coming.’

I’m strolling, belly first, through Boston Common. I stop to sit on a bench and eat a snack. Being in a park is almost as good for material as being in a bar. A guy sits down next to me and asks,

“Are you from here?”

I think about how far away Worcester, MA is. I tell him,


“But you’re familiar with the area?”

Wow buddy. Your intro line didn’t work and instead of trying a different one, you’re going to double down. I offer,

“A little.”

“I’m looking for the bench from Good Will Hunting.”

“I have absolutely no idea. Check with Google.”

“I’ll wander around until I find it.”

Or that.

I snack, read, scratch my belly and walk back through the park. There’s a cheerful, old guy, sitting at a sidewalk intersection, singing as he begs for change. I’ve seen him many times in the same spot. He always chants about the people who are walking by him. I hear him sing,

“Can I get some change? Can I get a guy in a Red Sox hat? Can I get a woman with blonde hair?”

I start to walk by him, along with many other people. I’m not expecting to get singled out. He chants,

“Can I get a lady with long legs, scratching her belly, cause her belly is sticking out, it’s sticking way out, it’s bigger than mine.”



Getting Bigger – means I need bigger…

25 weeks pregnant. I’m getting bigger. Theoretically I understand that I will continue to get bigger until I don’t have an extra person inside of me. Realistically, every few days I’m shocked to see that every part of my body is sticking out more.

This lack of control over my body reminds me of puberty, especially as I discuss it with my Little Sister. She tells me,

“My stomach hurts.”

“Mine too.”

“I like candy.”

“Me too.”

“None of my clothes fit anymore.”

“Mine neither.”

I just had to buy a bunch of new underwear. This hurts me because I love underwear. In the past 15 years I have collected over 200 pairs. Some wear out, but for the most part all of my favorites are still around. I occasionally add a few more pairs. Nothing major, but I can’t resist a cute thong with penguins, hot dogs or ice cream cones.

Now faced with needing a bigger size and somewhat concerned about how ice cream cone thongs hold up to pregnancy and postpartum, I’ve made a smart, boring investment in a bunch of plain black underwears.

It does save time. In the morning I’m not wavering between snowflake, seahorse or superman undies. The sooner I pick out my underwear, the sooner I’m sitting on my couch blogging about my underwear.

And for the record, I do own all the underwear variations I’ve named.

I mention my new larger size to Captain. He exclaims,

“Did you get granny panties?”

I hold them up.

“Oh those are cute boy shorts.”

The amount of coverage between the two seems very similar.

I tell my Little Sister,

“I’ve gained 18 pounds. Not all in the bump.”

“Your butt?”

“Yes! I just had to buy bigger underwear.”

“Whoa, that’s drastic.”

Jessica versus Jessica’s hair – the saga continues

24 weeks pregnant. I take back EVERY pregnancy complaint I have ever made. Every single one. At least for now. I am having an identity crisis.

For the first 10 years of my life I had straight hair:


Tell me you love these shorts.


Then this happened:

curly hair.jpg

Now I have had curly hair for 24 years. TWENTY-FOUR YEARS of perfecting my curly hair. The first five years I spent in a whirlwind of what-the-heck-is-happening-to-my-body: hips, period, boobs, hairy legs, hairy armpits AND CURLY hair.

The next five years I spent realizing that brushing dry curly hair may not be the best way to go and that layers are my friend. I was making progress but it was still Jessica versus Jessica’s hair.

Ten years ago I began to feel like curly hair might be my jam. Then 6 years ago I started getting special curly-hair haircuts and using all curly-hair hair products. I’m owning it. Curly hair is me and it fits my personality: energetic, bouncy and a little all over the place.

Now I’m pregnant. I may be crazy, but my hair appears to be growing in straight. GAH! Who am I?!

An entire head of straight hair would be one thing, but it seems like the front edges didn’t get the hormonal memo. The front is sticking to it’s curly agenda, while the rest of my head gives up and straightens out.

I’m concerned about how this will end, but maybe my hair will be so coated in baby spit-up, drool and poop that I won’t notice.

mom hair


Squatty potty did not pay me to write this, but any day now

Before I got knocked up, I’d heard of one pregnancy symptom: morning sickness. For thirty years I assumed morning sickness means you feel a little sick in the morning and then life goes on. Nope. I felt like I was going to die. I thought I might be sick for the rest of my life.

It turned out I was only sick for a few months, BUT it also turns out that there are a lot of random symptoms that seem totally unrelated to pregnancy, but persist nonetheless. What their biological advantage is, is a mystery.

My symptoms in no particular order:

  • Nausea
  • Exhaustion
  • A lot of mucus and boogers. So many boogers. I haven’t had this many boogers since I spent 12 hours on a dirt road in Africa with the windows open.
  • Bleeding gums. WHY?
  • Serious food aversions. I have gone from eating everything, EVERYTHING, to 3 or 4 different foods, if Cheerios and Honey Nut Cheerios count as two different foods.
  • And sometimes it’s hard to poop. Pooping used to be easy. I looked forward to my 20 minutes in the evening with the toilet and Consumer Reports magazine.

The real Jessica is gone and this new Jessica I’m dealing with is a tired, sick, boogery, picky eater, poop filled Jessica. I hear that five months from now I’ll forget that that Jessica ever existed and will be agreeable to getting knocked up again.

Last weekend, 15 weeks pregnant, I drag myself to the breakfast table. Captain is concerned. He asks,

“What’s wrong?”

“I think I’m pregnant.”

“Anything I can do?”

Just listen to me talk about my boogers again.

I’ve signed up for every pregnant mommy group nearby. What’s better than talking to Captain about my boogers and poop? Talking to lots of women about their boogers and poop.

One woman asks me,

“Have you tried the squatty potty?”

“The WHAT?”

“Squatty potty. It’s great. It helps open up your colon.”

My colon needs all the help it can get. I order the squatty potty.

All packages that arrive at our condo building are signed for by the concierge. He then notifies residents if you have a package. I receive a notification and go to claim my package:


The return address on the mailing label is glaring at me. Really? Everyone needs to know that I ordered a toilet stool? Captain tries to reassure me,

“It could easily be for a small child.”

That we’re 3 years away from having.

But it works and I ordered another one despite the address label. This way I can pick my toilet based on the reading material I’ve left by each one as opposed to which one has the stool.