Afterbirth

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So, six weeks ago, this little piece of girly yumminess popped out of me.

Ok, not so much popped, as exploded out, leaving in her wake, total and utter vaginal destruction. But I’d hate for the horrific reality to overshadow her cuteness.

Regardless of the gory details, she’s here.

And for six weeks, we have been adjusting to our new life.

My husband and I, we’ve done this twice before, taking the time to get  into the groove of our new normal, dealing with, now, three screamy, messy, full diapered midgets, with needs and wants and holy crap, they will fucking cut you.

And, as any new parent will attest, the no sleep, the crying, the filth…it’s stressful as hell.

We’ve seen it take it’s toll on our friends as they welcome babies into their lives.  We hear their desperation and depression, their fights, their unhappiness.

And, we are so thankful we don’t go through that.

Because for six weeks, we live like dudes.

Fucking dudes.

Ok wait, not like fucking dudes, because, well, this is part of the point, we don’t fuck, because, like, I’m not allowed.

Just, you know, stop picturing me with a soul patch and stay with me here.

I just pushed a baby out of my vagina.  A baby.  Followed by a entourage of umbilical cord, cottage cheese stuff, blood and a placenta the size of a roast.

So, aside from my inability to sit without crying, pee with out screaming, or poop with out biting down on a leather strap, Andy is also dealing with his own set of post traumatic issues.

These six postpartum weeks of doctor ordered no nookie, are a welcome break for both of us to, well, recover, both physically and mentally.

So, for six weeks, we focus on the kids, on adjusting, on keeping everyone alive, and fed, and clean-ish.

We don’t worry about squeezing in sex or looking hot for each other.

Fuck, aside from the occasional fist bump after another successful day of no one dying and/or setting something on fire, we barely touch.

Which is great, because then I don’t feel bad about dressing like an asexual high school softball coach, and he is kept at enough of a distance to not rub up against the embarrassingly high elastic waistband of my granny panties.

I don’t shave anything, I don’t brush my hair, all my shirts have two big, hard circles over the nipples that smell like breast milk, and the garbage in our bathroom is overflowing with bloody phone book sized maxi pads.

Sounds hot, right?

Well, it’s not.

That is, until our six weeks is up, and I have to start waxing and smelling like something other than old yogurt, and my husband has to remember my vagina is not the lower ninth ward, but rather a place where puppies and unicorns hang out, and like, sing and eat cotton candy…but in a totally hot, fuckable way.

And, today is that day.

The day I get declared healed and open for shop.

The day I put away my big scary underwear and my perineum bottle, and pluck that one weird black hair off my boob.

But, I have a feeling I still might need the leather strap.

I’m kinda skanky like that.