I don’t know anyone who lives in a house with a white, picket fence who has pooed their pants, except for me.
I’ve also wet my pants on the netball court and I’ve also had nipples the size of dinner plates.
I’ve attempted getting my sexy on with my husband, riding him on top only to find that my tummy spills onto his before our lips can meet in a kiss.
Bless those little souls who come into our life, completely change our bodies and change our lives forever. Welcome to motherhood.
During my first pregnancy I loved my growing bump; I loved everything about my tummy. It has always been my “trouble” area so at 6 weeks I took great pleasure to attributing my tummy lady lumps to the growing baby inside me.
The love affair with my round and full tummy lasted 9 months and halted abruptly when it no longer housed a little human being.
I remember sitting in the shower in a commode chair after the birth of my first child, Oliver, and thinking, “Faaaaark, that was a bit full on!” (Reflections on labouring for 18 hours, pushing for 3 and getting a suppository up my bottom as the trifecta.) I looked down at my tummy and it resembled something from the 80’s movie “The Blob”. I remember thinking, oh it will return to normal, just give it some time. (The present me just laughs bahahahahaha at the notion of that!)
Weeks went on and my tummy still remained jelly-like and to top it off my nipples had grown to the size of dinner plates, I had it all going on so I decided to be proactive and join a netball team. Getting back into a team sport was fun, getting Ollie into a crèche and forgetting about being a mother was even better.
All was going really well until one day I took a dazzling intercept and wet my pants. God dammed pelvic floors got smashed during my pregnancy and all I could think was why did I only do my pelvic floor exercises for the 30 seconds that followed the question from my physio girlfriend, “have you been doing your strengthening exercises?”
So there I was, standing there on the netball court, completely blindsided, mortified with wee running down my leg. Here I was trying to be proactive about getting my body back into shape and all I could think was how disloyal it was being to me.
Whilst I was dealing with wetting my pants and those nipples I was surrounded by imagery and messages like: “My dream baby!” “How I got back into my pre-baby jeans!” “Being a mother is magical!”
The magazine covers looked like this:
But there was no magazine covers like this:
There was another incident that occurred one night when I was walking from a friend’s house with my husband, pushing 6 week old Oliver in the pram. I got the urge to do a number 2; it was a “touching cloth” situation. I screamed to my husband “Run ahead, open the gate and the house and have the toilet door open and ready for me”.