My womb is offended.
She is crying in her dark chamber of empty, stretched ligaments. She can’t quite remember the feeling of carrying around a surprisingly heavy 7lb creature, but she knows it happened. She can see it in the shape – the nice ovally roundness looks more like a pentagon. And indeed, she is quite like the U.S. Department of Defence, angry, rude and a bit sexist – she hates men.
Not only did my womb have to sacrifice 10 months of her life and more, but so did my other body parts. My throat was dry from lack of wine. My lungs were squished, and a bit too fresh with oxygen. My sober eyes had seen too much; chirpy, drunk girlfriends grinding on hot Brazilian looking men at summer parties. My boobs grew as fast as Usain Bolt at the 2008 Beijing Olympics.
I mean Jesus my boobs were big.
And now, two years later. GONE. They are as flat as an American freeway in Houston, Texas.
The nipples look a bit sad too. If they were a text message they would look like this —-> :S
OH, let’s not forget my ASS. It’s like all the fat bypassed everything else in my body and went straight DOWN. My body is like a less perky, slightly chubbier Jennifer Rabbit without boobs. I’m ALL ASS.
And we haven’t even discussed my face…..or what is it called, my BRAIN. I breastfed that baby for eight straight months, on the grind all day and all night, breast-pumping at work to make sure he. was. fed. And let me reiterate, when I say ALL NIGHT, I mean all. fucking. night. No, your husband can’t help you, he doesn’t have tits remember? It’s ALL YOU baby.
And thus the spiral of broken sleep and mind-numbing tiredness begins.
I could hear my brain drying up. It was crying, “SAVE MEEEEEEEE, put me to sleeeep please so I can monitor my hydration levels and create synaptic synergy between the tissues to make you smarter!”
BUT NO. The baby would not have it. He was up every two hours, on the dot. Staring at me like, “GIVE ME THAT BOOB”
And now what? What do I get for all of my hard work? Day in and day out boobing the little tiny creature as if he was a well that would never – and I mean NEVER – dry up. All the sleepless nights, waking up, boobing, waking up again, staring into the dark room, scrolling through Kayne’s tweets about how ‘he is a God.’ Through hazy connections in my brain, start to believe that he in fact might be God and maybe I should DM him to see if he would help my son go to sleep.
All of the kisses and hugs and constant worrying. The endless months feeling like a hippopotamus. The lack of coffee and fish. Must I go on?
As I walk through the front door after a long day of work, my son looks over his shoulder and stares at me for a split second then turns to my other half and says, “Da-di” and hands him a book to read.
And it doesn’t stop there. He is constantly attached to daddy’s leg, throwing his pudgy arms up in the air and squeezing his hands wanting to be picked up. Even on weekend mornings – when it’s my turn to wake up early – he will go wait by our bedroom door for daddy to get up.
I stand at the end of the hallway holding my phone in the air – much like the main character in the 1989 film Say Anything – and blast the Black Eyed Peas song, “Where is the love?”
My son looks at me and starts dancing, shaking his butt and smiling, and I think if this were a movie this would be the part where I find peace in my heart and realise that it doesn’t matter who he loves more as long as he feels loved.
But it’s not. So until then I will be slightly jealous of my husband. ; )
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