Reality of motherhood.
You just pushed out a watermelon and you have a body that looks like an inflated balloon. Your jugs can no longer wedge into anything other than a serape or a tarp. You wonder if there ever will be a day when you can happily wear a silk shirt without worrying that two large saucers will suddenly appear. In fact you’ve probably started inserting pads in your bra, because it’s your lone defense from springing a leak. “I’d love to come to lunch with you”, you tell your friends. But you’re not sure they would appreciate the fact that you need to sit on a donut pillow or that you can’t stay long because you’re nervous anyone other than yourself will drop the baby.
And since you haven’t slept soundly for a good block of time your skin looks haggard. Your hair, no longer a priority to brush let alone flat iron or curl, is now starting to look like you’ve just come home from a 6-month stay in an adolescent wilderness camp.
And despite this hot mess that you have now become your husband still wants to get it on, because nothing puts you in the mood more than the thought of your still swollen uterus. In fact you are still probably lying about how soon you are physically capable of having sex after giving birth. “Doctor said we should wait 10 weeks. Just can’t afford breaking a socket or ripping apart a membrane.” He looks confused. “I thought she said six weeks, he says.” No, God no.
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