From the moment you discover you’re pregnant, moms everywhere crawl out of their Diaper Genies to tell you horror stories about mucus plugs and their traumatized vajays. And if they’re not telling you in person, they’re sending you articles with thoughtful titles like, 10 Bits of Info I Must Bestow Upon All Pregnant Women or 12 Things All New Moms Must Know About Post-Baby Vaginas.
How sweet. Really. I’m touched. But please, shut the fuck up!
In fact, in honor of every pregnant woman who has ever woken up in a cold sweat terrified for the fate of her beloved lady parts because of something “someone who’s been there,” said to her, I dedicate this list: 5 Things I Wish New Moms Never Told Me About Their Tits and Ass.
THE VAGANUS
Pronounced (Vag-anus), it’s a combo of vagina and anus because just like its name suggests it’s what happens during childbirth when your baby’s giant head tears your vagina so wide open it becomes one with your asshole. New moms, nurses, doctors, medical books and the Internet love to talk about this. The medical term for it is perianal tear—I know that because a doctor told me. See what I mean?
The Vaganus left me with so many questions: Why in god’s name did I marry a 6’3” guy with such enormous head genetics? What would the mechanics of a vaganus mean for my love of burritos? Do I go to a gynecologist or a proctologist to get that checked out? It was a long nine months.
In the end, I had a C-Section and the vaganus paranoia was all, well, for shit.
YOU’LL POOP DURING LABOR
Speaking of shit, it seemed as soon as anyone noticed my baby bump they’d congratulate me then immediately tell me how they pooped on their husband’s shoe during labor. I’ve puked on my husband’s shoes plenty of times, and on margarita night (to go with my burrito) I may have even peed. But pooping? I spent hours worrying about that shit—literally. But again, I had a C-Section. There was no pooping (but that’s an entirely different story) and there was certainly no reason for me to plastic-wrap my husband’s shoes in preparation for the big day.
YOUR HAIR WILL FALL OUT POSTPARTUM
The only reason my hair fell out postpartum was from pulling it out worrying incessantly that my hair was going to fall out postpartum. I know it happens and they swear it grows back but it’s been nearly nine months and it’s still hanging on—for now. I’m hoping that if it does happen it coincides with the crows feet and the osteoporosis I’ll inevitably get as I inch closer to my 40s. At least I’ll know I’ll always have a part in Lord of the Rings remakes.
MOMMY BRAIN
It’s a real thing—a very real thing but I’m totally milking it. There’s a breastmilk joke in there somewhere but I’m not clever enough to think of it—must be Mommy Brain. Ug. See what I mean? I blame evvvvveeerrryyythhhiiinngggg on my Mommy Brain. Some of it is legit. Since having a baby, I really can’t remember my husband’s name or that I left the keys in the door all night. But admittedly some of it is an awesome bullshit excuse for never calling people back, letting wet clothes in the washer grow mold and walking around with unshaved knees.
NURSING LEAVES YOU WITH SAGGY TITS
Yes, providing the best nutrition possible for my baby should trump all vanity. Right?
FUCK. THAT.
I sleep upside down, so if they droop they’ll head in the right direction. I’ve also traded Vogue for National Geographic because no one wears saggy tits better than a tribal woman living in the Amazon.
So, here’s the thing: Take everything you hear with a grain of salt (preferably off of the rim your margarita glass) and never believe anything you read. Including this post because how the fuck should I know what your childbirth and postpartum experience will be like? Maybe it will be exactly how those women say and you’ll wake up bald, with a vaganus and a shoe full of poop. The point is that every pregnancy is different and most of the information you’re reading is most likely written by a sleep-deprived mom with hairy knees who hasn’t pooped in five years (unless you count that one time during labor).
Hm.
I had a better ending for this but I forgot. Damn that Mommy brain.
(This post originally ran on The Spew.)
About the author: Diana is a writer who started as a baker who didn’t bake, a dental assistant to the dental assistant and a shoe saleswoman who gagged around feet. Since then, she’s written all kinds of stuff for all kinds of companies in all kinds of offices. She’s even written newspaper ads for car dealers (some of her best work has probably lined your birdcage).
If you woke up one day covered in baby poop with one shaved leg, knee-deep in your husband’s dirty drawers and thought, “Wow, that must have been one hell of a roofie,” then her blog, The Spew, just might be for you.
You can find her on Facebook, Twitter and living in Jersey (stop judging).