I Just Want to Pee Alone

by Some Kick Ass Mom Bloggers

  I had string holding in my insides and I was constipated.

  Forget pain medications, I started popping stool softeners like candy.

  To make matters worse, every nurse that looked at my traumatized lady parts, would make a sad face or a scowl and then remind me that I needed to have a bowel movement prior to being released from the hospital.

  On my first try, I nearly fell off the toilet, and a nurse had to come in and steady me. "Push!" she encouraged as I felt my humility and pride slide out of me into the toilet . . .

  But still no poop.

  My night time nurse, who was an older, kind-eyed woman, gently suggested, "You should look at it" as she slid me more stool softeners and some fresh water while I lay in bed.

  I choked on the water. "Look . . . at what? What do I need to look at?" I coughed knowing full well what she meant.

  "You need to see what your stitches look like, in case there's a problem at home," she offered.

  I laid with my new baby in my arms for an hour or so after she left the room with the words "in case there's a problem at home" stewing in my mind.

  The next night I was in a near panic when I finally had to poop. My kind-eyed nurse from the night before followed me in the bathroom. I was too afraid to tell her that she didn't need to come in to assist me.

  What if I pushed so hard I broke the stitches?

  Would my uterus just fall out?

  Just when I thought I'd never poop and when I thought all of my humility and pride had left me, I sat on the toilet as the kind-eyed nurse cheered me on as I delivered my food baby while she squirted warm water from a plastic squeeze bottle to try to ease the pain that peeing on my wounds would cause.

  "There ya go, sweetie!" she cheered as she squirted my privates with warm, soothing water and I finally went number two. "You can go home now!"

  Home sweet home.

  Life with a newborn was definitely an adjustment, but I loved getting to know him. All his sounds, the way he smelled, and most of new motherhood I did while sitting on the plethora of giant ice pack maxi pads that the kind-eyed nurse stuffed into my bag when I was discharged.

  After two days at home, a visiting nurse came and I told her my pain felt like it was worse in one spot, which she made me point out while laying on my bed.

  "You need to look at this," she said, grabbing a hand held mirror from her bag.

  "Oh, no!" I protested. "I didn't want to watch him come out, I told them no in the hospital, and it's only been five days, I'm not ready to see it."

  "Well, you need to look because you seem to have lost a couple stitches, but it's hard to tell with all the swelling," she explained.

  I was terrified.

  Rightfully so . . .

  It looked like roadkill.

  Or like something that lost a fight with a wood chipper . . .

  Or like I got hit in the crotch with a meat tenderizer . . .

  It was so much worse than I could have ever imagined, and the sight of the trauma was something I'll take to the grave with me.

  She let me sob on my bed for a few moments, lamenting the loss of what used to be my vagina before we both took a look together at the missing stitches.

  Simultaneously, however, we both came to the same assessment of my crippled crotch.

  I hadn't lost any stitches, but rather, my twelve year old doctor seemed to have sewn a stitch right in the middle of my hoo-ha.

  It was like to gentleman's stitch gone wrong.

  As if I wasn't already lamenting my labia enough, dead center, I had a single stitch creating not one, but two vaginas.

  I called my doctor's office right away, but since he was still overseas, I was advised to wait until my six week check up.

  So the weeks went by and I settled into motherhood.

  We - myself, husband, newborn son, and two vaginas - started to fall into a schedule, and we were happy.

  Then came the appointment.

  The nurses I had come to know over the course of my pregnancy came to see the baby, and my doctor congratulated me as I laid on the table and we started the exam.

  "Well, everything has been great, but the extra vagina was quite a surprise," I casually remarked as I told him my terrible tale.

  "Well," he said just as casually, "this is something we can fix right here in the office today." He reached into a drawer and pulled out a needle containing Lidocaine. "First, we need to numb the area," he explained as he began sticking my double-vag with the sharp instrument.

  As much as I hated that my crotch resembled the holes on a bowling ball, what came next was much worse. The doctor took a pair of scissors and cut the supposed-to-be-numb-area instantly creating the socially acceptable single vagina.

  It was there on the exam table, with my baby in his infant seat, and my doctor holding the scissors victoriously, that I knew next time I needed a better plan . . .

  * * *

  Susan McLean is an award winning blogger and humorist. Her site, The Divine Secrets of a Domestic Diva, has been named one of the Funniest Mom Blogs in 2011 by Parents.com and in 2011 and 2012 by Circle of Moms. Susan's humorous writings have attracted nearly 64,000 Facebook fans as well as major brands and publications. Susan has most recently been featured in The Huffington Post, Babble.com, Delaware Today Magazine, Circle of Moms, LA Times, RealBeauty.com, Delaware State News, and more. She has upcoming features in Redbook.com as well as Baby Talk Magazine. Additionally, Susan was a recent guest on the Dr. Oz Show where he described her as "hilarious" and her "outrageous videos are setting the internet on fire!"

  Susan writes mainly about her life as a stay at home mom to three small children, but also occasionally about her other loves such as bacon and wine. In 2011 she submitted a poem about her love of bacon to the National Pork Board and won a year's supply of pork. In 2012, her Domestic Diva picture won a wine label contest and she was featured on Mad Housewife Wine bottles. In her free time she loves doing laundry.

  My Awkward Period

  By Rachael Pavlik

  RachRiot

  You know that time in 1985 when your mom chaperoned the Spring Fling and got on the dance floor during "Wake Me Up Before You Go-Go"? And then she actually did the jitterbug? Yeah, she knew it was embarrassing. She did it anyway. Probably because she hadn't eaten a hot meal in a restaurant in 14 years. It's called "payback's a bitch."

  Let me explain:

  There are lots of little surprises that you encounter after becoming a parent. Things that weren't in the book. Things like, at some point, your little angel is going to throw up and you're going to have to catch it in your bare hands. Oh, and also? Your uterus might fall out. Not because of the throw up - they're two separate things. Surprise!

  Things that you never saw coming. Things like the aforementioned: You Will Never Eat A Hot Meal In A Restaurant Again. Because once you have a toddler, you will spend the majority of the meal chasing him/her around the restaurant. The other patrons love this, by the way. Dinner and a show! When your child gets a little older you will begin The Great American Bathroom Tour. You mean there is a potty here, too?! Your child will have to check out every single bathroom within a 50 mile radius. But here's the fun part: they will wait 'til the exact moment your piping-hot food arrives on the table to let you know they need to go. Then, and only then, will they feel the need to pee or even better— take a massive dump. It must be some kind of Pavlovian response to the sight of the waitress, and you picking up your fork and gazing hungrily at your beautiful piece of salmon. (Okay, fine: bacon burger.)

  So there I was with my family in a restaurant and of course Camille uttered those four dreaded words in four-year-old speak: "I. Need. Go. Potty." Sigh. Of course she does; she spotted a waitress with a tray. Annoyed, I got up and shuttled her off to the Little Girl's Room. We squeezed into the cramped stall together and I tapped my foot impatiently while she went. Then I decided I should go too, since I was there. Hey, when in Rome. That was my first mistake. I pulled down my
pants and sat. I saw it at the same time she did:

  My pad. With blood on it.

  Now, in my defense I really hadn't been paying too much attention to my lady-cycle since the Current Legal Spouse got the ol' "procedure" from Doctor Snip-Snip. But I knew it might be coming because I had been feeling like hammered shit the day before. So I had put the pad on earlier just as a precaution. Good thing, too. My daughter leaned in for a closer look. I snapped my legs shut, but it was too late. Then came the questions.

  Camille: Mama . . . what is that? What is that, Mama? MAMA! WHAT . . .

  Me: Shhhhh . . . lower your voice, please.

  Everyone knows when a four-year-old "whispers" it's basically their normal voice, but gravelly, like a midget Gilbert Gottfried.

  Camille: What is that? Is that poo poo? Mama, is that poo poo? MAMA, DID YOU POO POO YOUR PANTS??

  Me: Ahh, no . . . it's not. It's not poo poo. It's um . . . it's . . . er.

  So what was I supposed to do at this point? Tell her it was actually blood and start explaining miracle of menses to my four-year-old in the Applebee's bathroom?

  Camille: Did you poo poo in your pants? I saw POO.

  Me: Well, no . . . I just. Yes. Yes, I did.

  Camille: Yeah, it's poo poo. You just had an accident? IT'S OKAY THAT YOU POO POOED, MAMA- IT WAS AN ACCIDENT. It's okay. We all have accidents, Mama. We will just go home and change!

  Me: . . .

  She was so sweet and reassuring. And loud. I didn't know if I wanted to hug her or strangle her. Then she proceeded to undo the latch and start to walk out while I was mid-pee (so she could, I dunno, inform the other stall occupants? Maybe? As if they didn't know - at this point the kitchen staff at the restaurant next door knew about it). I pulled my pants up with one hand, fuming, and slammed the stall door back shut with the other. Okay, now I officially wanted to strangle her. We washed up and headed back to the table. But not before she informed the lady at the next sink that her Mama had pooped her pants. But that's okay because it was an accident. Super. I just smiled and shrugged my shoulders and gave her the old "Whaaat? Oh, kids!" face.

  Running back to the table, she breathlessly gave everyone there the news as well. Yea. She has a promising career in broadcast journalism, that one.

  That was a few years ago and we laugh about it often. My daughter will be in junior high in seven years. Needless to say, I'm perfecting my jitterbug for her Spring Fling dance.

  Payback's a bitch.

  * * *

  Rachael Pavlik is a writer, mother and Pilates avoider. Author of the popular blog, RachRiot, which is beloved by tens of readers. She also writes for Houston Family Magazine and some say she peaked in high school. She lives in Houston, Texas with her Current Legal Spouse and two above-average children.

  Elite Grocery Moms Club

  By Stacey Hatton

  Nurse Mommy Laughs

  My obsession with grocery stores started at four years-of-age. My parents towed me along one Saturday morning and I was accosted by a drunk, old broad. I've never quite been the same since . . . or at least that's the story I'm sticking with.

  According to my parents, my mother had placed me in the front of the cart - not strapped in, of course, because why would a kid swan dive out of a grocery cart back then? We didn't have a lot of money since my parents were younglings. My father was in graduate school and my mother was an elementary school teacher in rural Kansas. Money was tight.

  Mother had written out the grocery list on the back of an old envelope from an unpaid bill and was buying only from the list. After all, it was double coupon day so they were going to get their monies worth. Mom tediously scratched off the items in #2 pencil, as Dad placed them in the back of the cart; while the young and absolutely adorable, I sat quietly eating an owl-shaped cookie, decorated with large-grained, orange sugar, awarded to me by the bakery staff each week.

  Strolling through the fruit and vegetable aisle, a woman from the opposite direction weaved into our path. She commented on how cute I was, while sputtering and fawning over me, and then insisted on bestowing a gift to my parents' "wonder child."

  "A beautiful, ripe orange!" she slurred. Thank goodness I was flattered by the attention and loved any type of gift because if this morning-imbiber had tried this with me now . . . the end result wouldn't have been so pretty.

  My father happens to view things similarly as I do. "Too bad she didn't pay for the damn orange first!" said my father with a laugh when retelling the story.

  But somehow this soused woman's display of praise and gifting built up my self-esteem. Every time I'm now in the produce section, I'm a little more joyful, a bit extra self-assured, and for some reason . . . craving mimosas!

  Now when my first baby was born and I took her to the grocery store, I assumed people would flock to my cart begging to have their pictures taken with my breathtaking beauty. And there was the elderly gifting of groceries which was to ensue as well, so how was I going to find time to actually shop for groceries with all this baby paparazzi?

  Needless to say, I was surprised when not every person in the market even noticed my child. What was wrong with them? Were they visually impaired? Did I need to prop her up for optimum viewing or did she just need better lighting? Ooh, pepperoni Hot Pockets! These were the things I pondered while shopping with my gift from God down the frozen food aisle.

  Instead of being a total freak and obsessing about outward appearances, I was the dutiful pediatric nurse (AKA safety expert) and duct taped her car seat to the cart upon each visit. No head injuries were going happen on my shift! I didn't really do this but seriously contemplated it while constructing the perfect jury-rigging system in my crazed-overprotective-post-partum mind.

  To further complicate matters, another infant was added to my shopping cart 14 months later. Darling baby number two! And this is when I began my in-depth research grocery store project. I became obsessed with watching other parents and how they handled their children while shopping. I'm not sure if all mothers do this or if I'm just quirky; but I wanted to know why I had lost my "fun" at the grocery store and I needed to fix it STAT.

  "I must be doing something wrong. What did the other moms know that I didn't?"

  For the next six years, weekly research consumed me: Through toddlerhood when my rugrats wouldn't sit still for longer than their age in minutes, and refused to remain strapped in the cart, I searched for a way to tether my children, which wouldn't warrant a call from the Division of Family Services.

  This was also the time when they could strip the paint off the markets walls and the patience from Mother Teresa with their screams for snacks. And as soon as you would give in to their demands, they would hurl it across the aisle like a Ninja throwing star destroying kiosks of kielbasa and kibble.

  In Preschool, my daughters acquired new skills how to manipulate others and be deviant at the market. They were proficient at recognizing food items and now had developed the vocabulary to list their demands. Also, having learned which stores had free balloons, cookies, slices of cheese and mechanical pony rides, they manipulated the entire trip. "Who is in charge here?" I asked myself. Dropping my head in shame - clearly it wasn't me with those L-O-U-D, but lovely, children.

  Then my day of blissdom arrived when my beauties both were enrolled in full day grade school! Oh, yes I missed them terribly and cried on the first day - blah, blah, blah - but I soon got over it when I first soloed at the market. The clouds parted, the sun shone through and I believe angels sang through the store speakers when those glass doors first parted.

  Entering the grocery store sans children after school drop off is grand. What I didn't realize was the whole time I was moaning and trying to quiet my young kids with fruit snacks and Goldfish crackers, there was a subset of mothers tiptoeing in the background - celebrating their freedom, mocking those with poorly behaving tykes, and enjoying every minute of it!

  They are the Elite Grocery Moms Club.

  They drop off
the kids at school, head to the store with their grocery list (or shhh, NO list) and enter the store to relax . . . it's a grocery morning spa. Don't forget to get your coffee or tea first, because it's social hour! Many of my favorite stores now have Starbucks in them. I bring in my plastic cup holder which fits smartly onto the cart, so I can leisurely waltz through the store with my beverage of choice and not fumble like those poor other parents who are juggling children, snacks, wet wipes, and Sippy cups. Not this mama - I've joined the Elite Grocery Moms Club and there's no going back, Baby!

  Go stand by the greeting card section and watch who is really reading cards. I have found many members of the club sipping coffee, playing Words With Friends, or texting their BFFs. Having a great time until another mom with youngsters comes by, and then they clam up and pretend as if they are working diligently. You don't want to rub this kind of delight in their face.

  My favorite was when I saw a woman park her cart off to the side in an aisle. The school bus had picked up this mama's kids. She was solo! And she was literally planning a full week's worth of meals on the back of her list. I commented on her brilliant idea, and she said, "It's the only time I get complete peace and quiet. I get more work done here at the store!" Amen, sistah! I wanted to give her a high-five but didn't want to draw attention from other non-club members.

  Maybe that sauced lady who offered me an orange as a child was only discovering her joy. She didn't have any kids with her. Perhaps she was one of the founding members of the Elite Grocery Moms Club. They didn't have Starbucks back then, so she brought her flask. She definitely was more joyful than my parents, enjoying her time alone and socializing with the crowd.

  There we go again . . . I'm craving a Mimosa!