Mom-a-Logue:
The adventures in parenthood have only just begun!
 

I Hope It’s Mine
Written by Margot Black

During 36 hours of labor I had only one thought….damn, I hope it’s mine.

People name their kids all kinds of weird things like Summer, Sky or Rain. I think you should name a kid something to commemorate the moment. “I’d like to introduce you to my son, Disappointing Premature Ejaculation.” “Hi, I’m Spring Break.” “Nice to meet you, I’m Bottomless Margarita.”

When I was pregnant people kept coming up to me saying, “Do you want a boy or a girl? What are you hoping for?”  I didn’t care.  I was just hoping it’s my husband’s.

A lot of people refer to birth as “A Miracle.” It’s pretty impressive but I don’t know if I’d consider it “A miracle” as much as a case of really bad architectural planning. Come on – it’s like putting Hagrid in Frodo’s house and calling it an act of divine intervention.

And frankly, after giving birth, I’m not so impressed with evolution. If evolution really was so great, every time a woman gave birth to a child, she’d sprout another arm. Two are no longer enough for the job. Perhaps a woman would even pop another set of eyes in the back of her head as her kids grew up. Then, I’d toast Darwin (assuming I had the strength to lift my glass).

I’m a lot less shy about my body since I’ve given birth. And it’s a lot less perfect now. I gave birth at a teaching hospital. Everyone has seen me naked. Spread eagle naked with no mood lighting. Some of the interns were so young, I felt like they should have to pay a cover charge. I’d find myself thinking, “Are you sure you’re old enough to look at my vagina?”  Most of them looked like they just came out of someone’s vagina.

And on the subject of vaginas…let’s have a little chat about pain, shall we? Who ever considers natural childbirth is a flat-out masochist. Don’t even come near me looking for some Crunchy Granola Mom Merit Badge because you have a high tolerance for pain. I think you’re a freak.  Why suffer more than necessary? The kid is going to be on drugs at some point in their life, mother and child might as well get off to a good start.

With my baby came huge hooters. My breasts grew faster than the population of Latin America. I couldn’t find a bra that fitted me in all of Target. I had to go to one of those old lady bra shops where three German ladies with yard-long tape measures come out to measure you. Inga tells me I’m a triple DDD. Holy shit! I got me some porn star titties. Although mine are real, so they’re more like truck stop titties. You know, the type you see in magazines like JUGGS. The un-airbrushed kind. Mmmm, yeah, pretty. The only problem is these big new boobs come with a deflated basketball belly and the need to constantly wear lesbian shoes. This great new look proves to me that God indeed is a comedian, and one who knows the fine points of irony.

My body has changed. Stuff hasn’t just sagged – it’s slid. I got in the car the other day and my husband was like, “You look hot. Is that a new bra you’re wearing?”

“Nope. It’s my seat belt.”

I don’t mind the changes in my body as much as I thought I would. My body, which I vaguely recall was once a non-denominational temple of worship, now seems more like a quiet little chapel doing the hard work of life… feeding the hungry, warming the cold and giving comfort to the sad.  The C-section scar which I once feared would mar me seems more like a proud mark of battle I’m willing to share with the world. My badge of honor. When I see other women at the gym sporting one, I quietly smile and I feel like a kindred spirit, silently proclaiming, ‘Oh yeah, I was in that war too sista.’

I have new respect, love and admiration for my husband. The entire time I was pregnant he kept telling me how sexy I was and that he wanted to sleep with me. (Did I marry a pervert? If so, he’s my pervert and I’m damn proud of him for it). We were fooling around one night during the third trimester of my pregnancy and I caught a glimpse of us in the mirror and burst out laughing – it was like watching a nature special on Bullfrogs Mating.

Sex used to be an act of seduction orchestrated between interludes of full moons, good meals and bottles of chardonnay. Now it’s more like a welcome sloppy, quick, hot burger that provides great relief from starvation – think In N’ Out. 

When I was single, I liked to go out to the hottest new place. When I got married, I’d hope for a place that was cozy and intimate. As a new Mom, I’m just happy when a place has really dim lighting.

I’m so grateful that I’m married and have a family. I always wanted it. I worked for it. I waited for it.  It’s worth having, at least to me. I’ve heard a lot of girlfriends make dumb excuses for why they’re single. My favorite is: “Men don’t like successful women.” Really? Guys don’t like women who can pay for their own shit and blow them? Hmmm, news to me.

I got my dream and – wow! It’s even better than I could have imagined. Sure, I’m sleep deprived, my breasts leak, and none of my shoes fit (what’s up with that?). But the happiness I feel with my new life and my new family couldn’t be replaced with any amount of riches. Oh my gosh! I’ve been so rude. I haven’t introduced them. This is my husband Rob and my son, “Made In Spain.”