Belly Laughs_ The Naked Truth About Pregnancy and Childbirth - Jenny McCarthy [12]
Of course, I thought I had it worse than anybody. Because of my work, I had to hide my pregnancy. Squeezing into my clothes and hiding my fat was freakin’ impossible. And okay, maybe this particular brand of impossible won’t happen to you, but national TV spot aside, you’re going to be able to relate to the theme of this next story.
Dick Clark asked me to host the American Music Awards, and by the time I would have to do the show, I would already be a few months pregnant. Terrified to have my cover blown but excited about the job, I agreed.
Poor little rich girl, I know, but my wardrobe stylist and I went through a horrific disaster in trying to help me dress cool but all the while hide my belly. Prepregnancy, I usually wore a size 4 or 6, but now I was only barely squeezing into a size 12. We had at least ten “try-on” sessions, which all ended in tears. I would seriously break down and bawl. All of my pre-interviews were about what I was going to wear (ah, Hollywood priorities!). For the first time I heard myself dissing style. “Who cares about clothes?” I said. “It’s about being funny.” Yeah, right, not to Dolce & Gabbana.
Fast-forward to show time and I was about to go out onstage. I was feeling confident because no one had said anything to me about my weight gain. I was uncomfortable as hell, though, because I was wearing a corset so tight I couldn’t breathe. (Of course, I asked my doctor about wearing one at least a million times: “Am I hurting the baby?” No, he told me. “Am I smashing the baby?” No, he said. “Am I killing the baby?” “NO! You’re only hurting yourself. He’s not going to be in pain. You are!” “Well, okay then, as long as I’m the only one suffering I’m happy.”)
The moment of truth: “Ladies and Gentlemen, here are your hosts Sean ‘P. Diddy’ Combs and Jenny McCarthy.” I walked out onstage feeling good, feeling fine, connected with my mojo. Some people made faces at my weird clothing choices (Did I mention the corset?), but I didn’t care as long as the world didn’t think I looked pregnant.
Several hours later (I know, these shows really do go on!) and, to my relief, the end of the show finally arrived. I plopped down on the couch in my dressing room and welcomed my family, who had been sitting in the audience. “How did I do?” They all smiled and clapped and said I did really well except . . . “Except what?” I asked. My sister began to tell me how the people all around them had been commenting on how pregnant I looked. I guess it’s true: You just can’t keep a secret in Hollywood.
Again, this might not happen to you, but national airwaves aside again, you may have had a nightmare experience along these lines. The next day Howard Stern went on the air and made comments about how pregnant I looked. He said I had pregnant boobs. Coming from him, I think that’s a compliment, but it’s not exactly what a girl wants to hear.
First-trimester flab behind me (and on my behind), my next month was fun. I was obviously pregnant, the world knew it, and I could finally shop for maternity clothes. What I didn’t know was how awful some maternity clothes can be. They have gotten better, I think, but not good enough. First of all, they are so overpriced. But you’re kind of screwed—What choice do you have?—so you have to buy some. You have nothing else. Here’s what I know: The key to shopping at this point is comfort. I bought comfy tanks and drawstring pants and cozy turtlenecks. I wore them almost every day until my ninth month, when I porked out beyond belief. I refused to go buy still more and still larger and expensive maternity clothes to wear for just a few more weeks, so I begged my husband to go to Sears and get me a damn muumuu! I’m not kidding. I would beg anyone that heard my cry to go get me a muumuu. Nothing fit me right, and if it did, I just looked so incredibly large or I