Motherhood is like getting a tattoo because while you're getting the tattoo, you're all like, "Jesus, fuck! This is a lot of pain. Who the hell said THIS would be a good idea? I wish they were here so I could punch them in the face right now!" Then, you look in the mirror after it's done and are so happy with the results that you've forgotten that last 3 hours of horrifically annoying pain. And that's only moments later! Give it a few years and the yearning comes back. When, oh when, can I get another tattoo? People with no tats would ask, "Doesn't it hurt?" Yes, but you have forgotten just how MUCH it hurts because you see your tattoos through rosy marijuana fogged glasses from those days when you were young, carefree and your skin was tight. Then the day comes when you yet again get to lie down on a table and receive another tattoo. Although excited, once that first needle breaks the surface of your skin, you are quickly reminded of the horror. But it's too late now - second one's on its way as you clench your teeth and curse the person that encouraged you to get this one. And the cycle continues...
There you have it.
And last week, my oldest friend (who's survived both grade school, high school AND living with me in Australia), had to be induced to get her little Number Two pushed outta her. Sorry, that sounds like having a big poop, but let's all be grown-ups here, shall we? Ahem.
She had an emergency C-section with her first 3 years ago and was worried she would have to have another one. I was on the fence with this concept since I've heard so many horror stories about dead vaginas and that although a C-section REALLY MOTHERFUCKING HURTS, it was only for about 2 weeks and at least my lady bits were still in tight working order
(Random side note: I wish I had never seen The Spa of Embarrassing Illnesses)
So, I would get texts every few hours about her pain-in-the-vagina cervix dilating too slow and that she was getting more and more Oxytocin pumped into her. All of this so that she can rip open a new hole, instead of re-open the old one she already has. I mean, in a perfect world, yes, yes... we'd all have easy natural child births where we would go take a squat in the backyard and after birthin' a baby, we'd stay out there to get some weeding done with the newborn effortlessly latching on to our teet.
And thus, it's not just the actual second (or third, or...) child that is like getting a tattoo, but it's the actual birth, or more specifically - even though I can make a fairly valid analogy with the first 3 years as well.
How's your cervix?
Not cooperating. It's only at 4 cms.
Fucking cervix. She's a bitch... no, she's a vixen. A Cervixen, to be exact!
Stop, you'll make me poop.
You'll poop anyway - right on the table. Gross.
You love me.
And that's how I came up with the name of my imaginary rock band - if I knew how to sing or play an instrument other than the rice filled Alpha-Getti can. Farrah, Jen, Amy, Rebecca and Jessie have also volunteered to join my imaginary reindeer games. We would be fucking awesome... in theory.
Will there be merchandising, you ask? You bet your sweet ass there is.
Want one? Check out my Estrogoodies. OR you leave a comment because
I'll be giving one away! ROCK ON!
Oh yeah, and my friend has a healthy baby boy. Blardy, blar, blar...
Another vagina bites the dust.