I was quite the rebellious teen. Let’s be honest: I was a rude, disrespectful brat. When you’re an obnoxious teenager, people often label you as “wild” because they know your brain hasn’t fully developed yet. Now that I’m nearing forty, I’m not sure I deserve that label anymore, especially since I definitely won’t put up with the same nonsense when my kids hit their teenage years. But back then? My level of disrespect could easily rival that of any punk rocker.
When I turned eighteen, my mom gifted me $80 to buy new shoes for my birthday. Naturally, I did what any anti-establishment brat would do: I snagged a $40 pair of shoes and pocketed the rest for my first piercing. Hey, it was the 90s!
In those days, lots of rebellious teens sported nose rings or eyebrow piercings, but I wanted something edgier. You might guess I went for a nipple ring—close, but no. Think lower. Nope, not a belly button piercing. You got it—my lady parts.
At eighteen, I made the impulsive decision to pierce my genitals. Because, clearly, you don’t think about the future when you’re that young.
For the next decade, I wore that piercing, even after I met the man who would become my husband and the father of my children. Life evolved as I transitioned to adulthood, juggling work and home responsibilities. I considered removing the piercing a few times, but it turned out to be a horseshoe-shaped ring that required a professional piercer to take out. Who had time for that? And let’s be real—I wasn’t about to reveal my bits to a stranger in a shop.
Then, bam! I got pregnant.
I’d been seeing my OB-GYN for eight years, so she was aware of my, uh, metal situation. “No biggie,” she reassured me. “It won’t interfere with your delivery.” After a smooth pregnancy, I was checked into the hospital for induction.
We arrived on a Thursday night, and I settled into the sterile environment with an additional 60 pounds of pregnancy weight. Medication was given to ripen my cervix, and I was told to get some sleep. I woke up the next morning to a doctor breaking my water. “We’d like to speed things up,” they said. I sat there, wondering if this was all standard. They started Pitocin, and I got an epidural, then waited some more.
Two long days later, I had only dilated to 3 centimeters.
What!? My parents came to visit, and while my mom nervously chatted, my dad entertained me with Broadway songs. Suddenly, alarms began to blare, and nurses rushed in with an oxygen mask.
All I heard was “baby in distress, lack of oxygen, C-section.” I nodded, “Do what you have to do.” My priority? Get my baby here, healthy and safe.
Then the nurses approached me with a cough, “Um, we need to talk about your jewelry.”
“Jewelry?” my mom interjected. “She’s not wearing any jewelry.”
Oh, snap. I had never shared my little secret with my mom. My husband quickly ushered my parents out so I could handle the situation. “What’s the issue?” I asked, taking off the oxygen mask.
The nurse with some serious guts explained, “It’s not a problem for natural labor, but it’s a huge issue for surgery.” Apparently, if they needed to use paddles to resuscitate me, any jewelry could cause burns. Charming.
Another nurse piped up, “We’ll have to cut it off.”
Cut it off? What!?
As I lay there getting prepped for a C-section, three nurses entered with a massive bolt cutter aimed at my intimate area. I couldn’t believe it! Clenching my eyes shut, I cursed my reckless teenage self for that absurd decision. Thankfully, my belly was so large at the time that I didn’t have to watch. After several failed attempts with the bolt cutter, we decided to tape up the piercing, praying I wouldn’t need to be revived.
Thankfully, I didn’t. And honestly? A C-section turned out to be way less painful than I had imagined.
My baby arrived—perfect and pink. All memories of labor and the bolt cutter faded away.
Then I got pregnant again.
Nearly eight months along, I had my final check-up with a new OB-GYN, a fabulous man with a great sense of humor. He exclaimed, “Girl! You still haven’t removed that piercing?”
Ugh. I dreaded the thought of visiting a piercing shop while pregnant just to have someone remove it. “Can’t we just tape it again?” I suggested. That was not going to fly with him. “Get that thing out,” he insisted.
So, off I went to a local piercing and tattoo shop proudly displaying a sign that read, “If you are pregnant, sunburned, drunk, high, broke, or rude, do not enter.” Great.
I swallowed my pride and waddled inside. The receptionist, a stunning pin-up girl with tattoos, listened as I nervously recounted my bolt cutter saga.
She led me to a simulated medical area, where I had to remove my underwear and lift my dress. After using a disinfectant solution, she popped the piercing out and handed it to me in a little bag, commenting on the bolt cutter’s war wounds.
Fast forward, I’ve had three successful C-sections resulting in three beautiful sons. That piercing? It now lives in my wallet as a reminder of how far I’ve come from being a brat. And, like most adults, I know owning up to my past means closing that chapter entirely. For instance, my mom still doesn’t know about my “jewelry,” and honestly, why should I tell her now that I’m finally a grown-up mom myself?
Summary:
In this humorous tale, Jessica reflects on her rebellious teenage years when she impulsively pierced her genitals at eighteen. Fast forward a decade, and during her pregnancy, the piercing nearly becomes a problem during her C-section. The story captures her journey from a carefree youth to a responsible adult, all while maintaining a light-hearted tone.