They say you forget pain and healing just takes time. I must be broken because I vividly remember my attempt to amputate my toe, just as I remember every second of that hell wrapped up in a pretty ribbon and called the gift of giving birth. Now before everyone straps on their Mommy Killing Heels, let me preface everything I am about to tell you with this: I adore The Girl. Love her more than any one of you can imagine. She was worth every gained pound, stretch mark, pain, gray hair, negative budget months and everything in between. Even though she has picked an eight year degree at one of the most expensive colleges known to Jeebus– I still love her. I will expect free Veterinarian care for life. So will my pets. That aside, having experienced childbirth, I would like to ask which part of stretching my skin, patience and lady bits within an inch of their usefulness is a gift?
The entire business is a cruel joke. Those first few months you get awesome hair, glowing skin and the best chesticals a woman could want. Then you reach the last two months and you realize this child birthing gig is no gift but a wildly cruel punishment for giving too good of a blow job to your husband (or whomever the baby daddy is). Your skin suddenly resembles a nuclear disaster, your bikini area requires a machete to trim it, you have uncontrollable flatulence, your ankles blend into your thighs and your butt hole is pushed out and resembles a giant brown Hostess donut. And as if that is not obnoxious enough, every female within a 50 mile radius has to tell you her own birthing story and they are never just okay. Nope- they either had a four-week labor, ripped their special places from naval to tail bone and have to spend the rest of their life in Depends because they can’t hold their pee anymore, or worse, their labor was a breezy fifteen minutes, their abdominal muscles snapped right back into place and lying whore she felt zero pain. I felt pain. Incredible pain that had me screaming, summoning Satan and threatening an epic massacre via speculum to all in the room. I screamed so loudly and fiercely that my Doctor announced it was epidural time because the other women in the maternity ward were freaking the fuck out and requesting to be moved to a more quiet floor, like the morgue, to give birth.
Read Part One here:
P.S. Guess who figured out how to make her own Someecards? I’m dangerous now!