Warning: Poop story alert.
Only a handful of my friends and family know about this.
I eventually thought I’d share it, but for some reason I’ve always felt particularly horrified that it actually happened. Anywho… today just feels like the right day to share one of the more mortifying experiences of my life.
My husband and I had decided early on that we were “the ones” and knew we’d get married. One night Adam did the whole “you know I love you, we’ll get married… but can we start trying to get pregnant now?”
A couple of romps and three weeks later I was pregnant. High fives and “Yes Dear, you’re the Inseminator” jokes all round.
I made mention to my future husband early on of not wanting to be a pregnant bride. It had nothing to do with appearances, I was more concerned with watching 148 of our wedding guests drink champagne while I sat there in a tainted white dress, jealously sucking on some overpriced effing mineral water.
Even though I maintained this stance throughout my pregnancy, I still didn’t have a ring on my finger at seven months along. It was summer so I was big, hot and a tad emotional that we weren’t ‘officially’ engaged. I should have listened to Beyoncé.
On the morning of my birthday (December 14 for future reference people), Adam said, “ooooh, I’ve taken the day off and I’m going to take you on a picnic down by the lake”.
Nice. As a heavily pregnant starving woman who had only just consumed 1900 calories for breakfast, a picnic sounded fab! So off we went. We drove the car the incredible distance of 900 metres and then I waddled a further 200 metres to a sandy private area by the lake.
Adam spread out a picnic blanket and put out a few little pregnancy approved (read: everything on the planet) munchies for us. I waddled into the water and had a blood pressure cooling dip.
I must admit Adam seemed a tad nervous – but in my bloated unmarried pregnant mind, I just assumed he was on edge about being near a hormonally fueled pregnant woman.
And then I felt a low rumbling.
Oh, for the love of God and Adam Levine’s naked body, please not now. Not here. But I suppose what goes in must come out. So I clenched my medium size butt cheeks and said to Adam: “Oooh, I really need to go to the toilet.”
“Just go and wee in the water babe,” was his reasonable response.
“No Babe. I. Need. To. Do. A. Poo”
I started to panic as I wouldn’t make it to the Windang Surf Club toilets. A bikini-clad running pregnant women with clenched butt cheeks would never make a 200-metre dash in time. I also knew that an unsupported 90 kilo squat on a sandy knoll was completely out of the question.