It's true my mind has slipped since I've had two children. I have to leave myself notes, post post-its all around my house and even have my phone send me alerts for important dates, because even though they're written down in bold marker on my calendar I still seem to miss them, but I in no way need a reminder that I've had two children.
As if the first surprise pink strip and the second surprise call from my doctor, seven months after I just had my first surprise, I mean son, wasn't enough, I now get the pleasure of going for a walk, or standing by the kitchen sink washing dishes, just long enough for my body to send me a not so pleasant surprise. Do I honestly need to go to the bathroom to remind myself that I'm a bit gross now.
Was the damage to my breast, I breastfed one son for four and a half months, he preferred one breast particular, the markings on my thighs, Stri-vectin my ass, the beautiful thick scar left on my belly and the last 11 pounds my body seems to want to hold on to for dear life, not enough? I see myself, I feel the sleepless pain, I feel the throbbing headaches from my colic baby cries. Why do I need to be punished more? What about my husband? He took part in this too. Why do I have to bare all the disgusting residuals from having a baby? Where's his share? His gray hair?
I guess he'll never know, nor will I tell him, all the gross things my body stills go through. I'll just let him come home, fling the boys up in the air, play with them until they've fallen on their faces from exhaustion and then bring him a cold beer to sip on the couch while I run to the bathroom and re-check my grossness. He doesn't need to know everything, even if I have to.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment