From O to U and other conception induced catastrophes

From O to U and other conception induced catastrophes

Today Mister 3 was practising his writing.

He was attempting to write the word ‘mum’ after successfully completing his brothers name. M was easy because it starts his name and he’s pretty much got that one sorted.

The letter U was new to him, so he needed some help. “It’s like a little bucket” I said to him, trying to make it relatable. The next words he said made me laugh and cringe at the same time.

“Look mummy, it looks like your boobies”.

Brilliant.

I thought of how I would look as a stick figure. Not that I usually spend much time drawing naked people, but I imagined that if I did, I would have drawn a ravashingly beautiful stick woman, with two perfect, high circles on my chest. Apparently, that stunning stick lady should actually don two U’s instead. What was I thinking?

My immediate reaction was to laugh, and try to tuck my left boob back up the leg of my pants. After I thought on it for a while longer I realised that even though I’ve always known that children are brutally honest, I have never really been caught off guard with it like this.

I’m well aware that the ladies have seen better days. I have had three boys in three years, two of them were breastfed. I’ve also recently lost over 30kgs. There are bound to be some casualties. They’re not even alone though, pregnancy and beyond attacked my body in a ‘Hulk smash’ kind of way.

We’ve established the calamity that is my mammaries, but what about the rest? My stomach has never been flat but my skin was as smooth as the butt that caused the damage. Now I can’t tell if I’m white with red stripes, or red with white. My skin is loose and I definitely can’t entirely blame the weight loss. Those three boys made themselves comfortable in there. I picture a huge lumpy couch with a teenager sprawled over it, playing the Playstation and eating dorritos. I have a relatively short torso though, so I didn’t exactly provide them with a luxury condo. Even if I got a tummy tuck it wouldn’t be pretty – I’d basically just be one big stretch mark. #sexiestwomanof2016

Let’s talk about the hair situation shall we? I have ridiculously, stupidly, frustratingly thick and kinky hair. I mean, I’ve had three hair dressers working on it at once just to get in done within three hours. It’s the pits. I was however, grateful for my ludicrous locks when I was pregnant because those coarse, nasty strands fled from me like my kids do when I tell them it’s bedtime. It was glorious, I loved the free hair thinning (I know i’m probably the minority, but it was seriously a pregnancy highlight for me). After my precious little womb raiders evacuated things were different. My head decided to go “Hey love, sorry about all those hairs jumping ship! Don’t worry, we’ve had our most fertile follicles on the job and they’re all expecting any day now. You’ll be back to normal in no time – hey, maybe some of them will even have twins!” Jerk head. So now, I don’t have thinning. I don’t even have my normal head of hair. Do you know what I have? An afro. I have a bloody afro. That’s right, I have brand new baby hairs surrounding my hairline. Too short and too many to be pinned somehow. Too long to be unnoticed. I’m totally not cool enough to pull off the bald look (or the ‘couples with the same hairdo look’ if that’s even a thing) otherwise I would be shaving it all and starting fresh.

OK, it’s time for all the males that don’t want to know about ‘womens business’ to look away – that means you father-in-law (because my father-in-law is actually awesome and generally reads my blog). I’m talking about how my body has changed post-babies so I can’t ignore the part that housed them for 9 months give or take. (Side note – it totally felt closer to 2,400 months)

When we decided that our family was complete with our three boys it was time for a long term contraceptive so that we don’t get accidentally surprised with another gorgeous little money pit. Initially I tried to convince the husband that abstinence was key. Unsurprisingly I lost that argument so I decided on the Mirena. Oh that tiny little uter-anchor is the definition of bittersweet. It does what it is set out to do – no surprise spawn here, it was relatively easy to have put in – especially with labour still fresh in my mind, and in fact I barely notice it’s there. But there’s one little thing, whispering at me, tugging at my sleeve, trying to get my attention, that makes it pretty damned hard to forget. What is it? Oh, nothing really, just one long, continuous, irritating menstrual cycle. You know, just a huge inconvenience. After not having to worry about that part of my life for nearly four years this is like when you go out with your friends and one of them has invited her second cousin who wears a One Direction t-shirt and snorts when she laughs. You can’t sit with us period.

Of course I have to wrap this up with the one post-pregnancy annoyance that burdens me the most, and that I’ve been the most open about. Postnatal Depression. I won’t go into too much detail here – my blog reads like a psychologists patient notes, feel free to look into my brain anytime. PND has changed everything about me. Coupled with anxiety it is like my puppet master. It’s dark, and it’s lonely. It’s angry, and it’s frightening. It’s argumentative, and it is soul crushing. It hurts far too many people, not just the person suffering from it. I feel for any woman that has been touched by the mind fog of PND. It is, for the most part, not able to be accurately explained. It can be bested. It will be bested.

Until I can turn on my fog lights and clear the away the mist in my mind I have the golf balls in stockings on my chest, the raging graffiti on my belly, and the little troll doll hairs on my head to keep me going.

Oh, and the magnificent, brutally honest, smart-ass, hilarious, loving little miracles that are responsible for it all.

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