Jurls, I am falling apart. It is unbelievable the damage blowing out babies will do to your body, and not just your vag, your whole body! I blame birthing for all my maladies and ailments. The obvious damage is to your tore up lady parts and that's legit. Both my babies were 8 pounders, or a rather large watermelon, so it's like a bomb going off. It's just not right to push stuff out of your prives and if women knew the damage they would sustain with a vaginal birth I'm pretty sure all babies would be puked up instead.
The first pregnancy tore me up pretty good, but the second one brutally attacked my body. Where do I begin? Let's start with the worst first--I can no longer hold my pee. I had hoped that the inability to hold my fluids would go away after I had the baby, but oh, no. In fact today I was forced to use the men's restroom at work because the ladies room was being worked on and I couldn't make it to the upstairs bathroom. I knew I couldn't make it because I peed in my backyard the other day when I couldn't find my keys for the door fast enough. You should have seen the look on my daughter's face. A look of pure confusion that was both sort of sad and sort of funny. I'll probably have a similar look when I find myself studying the variety of adult diapers at CVS. I hear Poise Pads are very nice. (can you hear the sobbing in my sarcasm?)
Besides the potty problem, I'm also decrepit. Half way through my last pregnancy I began to hurt all over. Again, I thought that would go away after baby, but oh, no. My knees hurt, my neck hurts, my left heel hurts, my hips hurt, and I have one pain that travels around-cramp in my calf, glitch in my elbow, twinge in my boob. Ugh. All my life I've heard (and used) the expression "road hard and put up wet" and now I'm living it.
One of the most disturbing legacies of my pregnancy is my new nips. I went from a light pink nipple to a dark mocha aka "nipplechino". Since I'm practically an albino, it looks a little weird. I kind of think they're slowly losing their rich chocolate color, but I don't hold out hope my nips will ever be what they once were. Not that they were anything to write home about before, but they did match my skin tone.
I hesitate to even mention the giant bean bag that was once a body. Again, I was never anything to write home about, but I was better than the unnatural disaster I've become. Let's just say I'm still rockin the pregnancy weight from Baby I and Baby II.
I could also share what it's done to my sex life, but there's nothing to share. (Please refer to Sex and the Mordern Jurl-Phase 3.)
How is it that thirty-five on shows like Sex and the City looks so hot and healthy, but my thirty-five looks more like the Golden Girls. I want to be somewhere between Carrie and Charlotte, but I'm somewhere between Dorothy and Sophia.
And it's not just physical. I'm psychologically an old Amish school marm who thinks butter churning is a big night. Given the choice between a drink at the Ghost Bar or a drink in front of my own T.V., I'll take my T.V. , thank you very much. The quickest route to happiness for me is getting to a place where I can take off my shoes and bra without worrying about foot funk or boob drop. I'm the lamest chick around and I've giving up caring.
So what if I can't remember anything and I do the pee pee dance every time I even think about a bathroom? So what if I'm dead inside? So what if no one would even think to invite me to a Happy Hour because they know I'd never go? I have my mocha nipples, poise pads, and my heating pad on high- what more could a blown-out, broke down, mama want?