Between a woman who was not any kind of mother before getting pregnant and the mother I have become, a lot has changed. Sure, all the “inside” nonsense, you know the “growing up” and the “finding a greater purpose” yes yes. but also the actual literal inside, literal in the actual LITERAL sense. my insides, my goods, my gooey goo.
I knew so very little before ry. but I knew some basic things were true, constant: 2+2=4. sun rises in east sets in west. up is up. down is down. etc.
Not anymore. So much has changed, and none more than my old beat box south of the border. Tell my vagina that 2+2=4 and she’ll respond, “Yes, wheat crackers would be lovely, please.”
She’s polite at least, I’ll give her that.
here’s the thing. I used to have sexy underwear, I swear. I did. I even wore them. And some of you got to see them, and some of you didn’t, but I wore them and they were there, being all secret underwear sexy, if only to me.
Except at period time, I had my “mense this” pairs, durable fuckers that could take the lickings (or should i say drippings) and keep on ticking. sexy underwear is sexy but it isn’t for non-sexy times, you know what I mean?
So I had my normal undies and my p.dot undies. Two distinct, specialized groups working together in synergized harmony to achieve a common goal–protect my girl bits from the big bad world.
Then I had Ry and I am still trying to figure out what the hell was unleashed upon the earth.
Because my vagina, the elusive enigmatic unpredictable little saucepot she is, suddenly turned into a complete fucking lunatic, waving her crazy arms and shouting her crazy thoughts and scaring the jebus out of me.
my p.dot undies, once reserved for a few days a month, has become my normal, every-single-goddamned-day of my life underwear. there is no more sexy. it’s gone gone gone. sexy abandoned me the minute his sperm was wiggling its way into my egg, and I didn’t even know it.
I need industrial strength fabric or else my cervix is going to plop right out.
and I’m always leaking something now, I couldn’t tell you what. this formerly lazy flower of mine is in constant production, always manufacturing, always sharing.
sigh. yet another fabulous joy to add to the many that motherhood has brought me.
and it isn’t old age, it’s all ry’s fault. Because it never happened before a giant baby came rip roaring his way into the world, and now it does. a to b to c. it’s simple arithmetic kids.
Is this my vagina’s way of getting back at me? For all the torture I’ve put her through?
that little bitch. I’ll show her. I’ll fucking show her. She can ruin every single pair of underwear I own but I’ll suffocate the shit out of her. I will. You hear me, v? I will do it. I will goddamned do it right now.
- extreme ways