Do you know how many of the joys of life you have to avoid when you get knocked up? I can’t have beer, except for illicit sipping. Thalidomide is out all together. I can’t have x-rays or x-ray goggles or get oogled by Super Woman. Does she even have x-ray vision, or does her stack of boobs and lack of cool powers make her a good oogling choice in this scenario?

Bazillions of things are supposedly unsafe for pregnancy, and I am half-heartedly attempting to follow a few of them. I get lots of sympathy whenever it’s clearly a coffee time of day and I wave off a steaming cup and point to my belly. “No no, none for me. I am with child. But if you find this act pathetic and adorable, feel free to slip me some extra bacon.”

But when is the sushi sympathy time of day? How can I make that supposed limitation sounds as tragic as it is? I knew about the limitation and ignored it, to find out that the most delicious thing I put in my mouth last week wash raw fish. Which is sad for my sex life, but great for my stomach that churns at the drop of a hat and really, really appreciated the un-cooked salmon shmeared with cream cheese and the side of bacterial endangerment.

You know what else is supposed to be just as dangerous as following all of my friends off of the cliff when they attended satanic Nine Inch Nails concerts? Soft cheese. Feta and brie are risky to my delicate constitution. And while I’m consuming them in bulk on top of crackers and salami, I will also be attempting to thwart the guilt of shoving another no-no into my system. Deli meats are off limits.

Not only does the butcher or deli guy never think I am cool enough to chat with (even when I ask him for his favorite recommendations – what, do I look scared of liver and sweet meats?), not only do I have hairy-tattooed-arm-envy, not only will he not be my best friend and bring fresh sausages to my potlucks, but now I am also supposed to shun him and his wares all together, lest I catch listeria from that smoked turkey with avocado and extra unwashed tomatoes. Hold the sprouts. Those are packed full of toxoplasmosis.

Never mind that I have never in my life gotten even a little sick from the raw eggs in cookie dough, but I should now avoid those slim chances for almost an entire year. I’m not allowed to buy a cat and a horse and gallop over to the litter box to clean it. Now is the time to avoid toxic cleaning products that I never should have owned in the first place. I also can’t get laid in the hot tub or warm my always freezing toes in the sauna. I can’t even sleep flat on my back.

I will give most prenatal professionals credit for pronouncing loudly that “sex” is ok, but I doubt they and I are picturing the same activities. A few typical positions are covered, but what about strap-ons and fisting? What some straight people call “vaginal massage” I call slow-motion fisting, so it’s probably ok at half-speed, but what about slamming around? Common sense tells me to fist Partner instead of offering to receive, which is the direction that activity usually goes anyway, but would I just be uncomfortable bottoming or actually menacing the developing clump of cells if I slap on a harness to pound Partner’s bum?

Considering that I am wearing sweatpants and baggie underwear because I don’t want to suffer through anything remotely snug, it’s not super likely that I would really slam anything tight with my pelvis, but there have been a few nights that I would have overlooked the belly discomfort and stifled the yawns for the thrill of once again getting his feet up in the air and horrifying the new neighbors with the best shrieks outside of Halloween night. But I wouldn’t be dainty about it. Do I have to pass that up for nine months?

There is no answer to that question. Any doctor worth her salt would say to avoid harsh blows to a belly with an attached placenta inside. Any person worth her salt would say to pay attention to one’s own body. My brain, an often overlooked part of my body, says to take a nap and get on inside him with a lubed up black glove. But I’m not very good at listening, so I might sleep extra some afternoon so that I can awkwardly, timidly slide a dildo back and forth with my hips before I sheepishly admit I’m more scared of my strap-on hurting me and the potential spawn than a heaping plate of raw fish, unwashed sprouts, room-temperature deli meats and aspirin-infused soft cheeses served on horseback. My token thing to avoid will be my supple, leather harness.

Does having a pet avoidance mean that I can forget the rest and scrub cat pans with harsh cleaning products while Partner blows air into my bonus hole? Because did you know they tell you to be careful with oral sex, lest air blown into the vagina causes an air bubble in an artery or vein??? I don’t buy it. I bet shoving sushi up there would probably be ok too.

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