A Word About Stretch Marks

First of all, in regards to stretch marks, I would like to ask: why the heck can't I just use the ones I already have? You know, like notches in a belt, or little strips of elastic. If stretch marks are so permanent, and ugly, it's brutally unfair that you must make new ones and can't use the perfectly good ones that are solidly in place.

Secondly, I would like to have words with the makers of Cocoa Butter Massage Lotion. I had applied gallons of the stuff even before I started growing, and I still have a batch of pregnancy war wounds on my belly. It looks as if some nasty creature with purple talons clawed at my belly button. Not cool. Maybe it's like the flu shot: if you get sick with the flu even after having the shot, who knows if you would have gotten sicker without the shot. Maybe these stretch marks would have run all up and down my torso like a curvy, purple racetrack, but because I have liberally applied the lotion faithfully twice a day, it stopped at the talon marks.

The first time I doused myself with Cocoa Butter, I was in for a surprise. Despite the misleading name, I was not in fact taking a bath in dessert. There is no hint of cocoa, no weird fantasy fulfilled by feeling like this was a stick of Blue Bonnet being rubbed all over my skin. Ladies and gentlemen, this stuff reeks. It smells like a cross between rubber cement and a fart. And massage lotion? If they think that this stuff is going to promote some romantic connection with your partner, they need to consider the fact that both parties involved will be puking from the smell. I suppose that could be considered a form of intimacy on some bizzarre level.

I try to include Michael in participating in as many pregnancy-related things as possible, to help him feel connected to the baby that I get to carry within me. I asked him one night if he wanted to rub the Cocoa Butter on my belly. He happily obliged, then turned very quiet. The next night I offered again. He hesitated and answered in a high voice, "uuuuuummmm, that''s okay....you can do it!" The smell was so off-putting, he hasn't gone near the stuff since.

Michael is sweetly supportive, though, when I am once again in front of that dang mirror, pouting at the new decor that the marks have made on my growing real estate. "Honey, it's fine," he told me one day. "It's not like they're permanent; they'll go away." Michael has a nice, lifelong surprise coming to him. Sadly, I will no longer be pursuing my career as a bikini model for Sports Illustrated; those days are gone.