Friday, July 4, 2008

Body of Evidence

While you may have caught by now that I'm a sarcastic person, you may not know that I'm also very fascinated by things that would be considered morbid to others. J comments on it quite frequently, as he says it's apparently not normal to pass a black garbage bag on the side of the road and wonder aloud if it had just trash, or a dead body inside. Or to comment as you pass a particularly thickly wooded area if anyone has ever stashed their evidence of homicidal mania inside. What?! Have you not seen enough movies?

In that vein of thought, I realized recently that my outward facade, if found at a time and place where I was not available for questioning, would leave no doubt in the investigator's minds that I am a mother. They would not need to look at the names of H and C on the custom stamped sterling silver necklace and wonder if they were my children; my National Geographic boobs and Rand McNally Road Atlas-esque stomach would answer that for them.

I don't say these things because I regret that I have stretch marks or breasts that aren't quite 'youthful' looking anymore, it's just the reality of where I am. I was prepared for all of these changes when I decided I wanted to have kids. I've been around enough other women who've had babies and are close to me that I didn't have delusions I'd fit into my pre-baby clothes for the ride home from the hospital, nor that I would look like a pin-up in the chest area after the initial nursing phase was over. What I wasn't prepared for, however, are some of the more personal changes that happen to your body. So personal, apparently, that your friends don't think it necessary to bother warning you about them.

Which brings me to what happened in the restroom at the new play center in the mall the other day. After my friends had taken me to lunch, we all decided to head over to let the kids get out their wiggles before heading home.

I was in the private family bathroom changing C's diaper when I felt like maybe I'd need to use the potty myself. Within, literally, half a second the urge was uncontrollable and I started to pee my pants. Yes, you read that correctly. Never have I been more grateful that the stars aligned to make several things happen; a) I was wearing drawstring pants that could be pulled down without delay, b) I was still wearing the post-partum 'diaper', and c) I was at a changing table that was directly across from the toilet so that I could pull down my pants and sit while still having a hand on my baby so I didn't have to make the choice of leaving my child unattended or peeing my pants, leaving me to face public humiliation.

I walked out of the restroom in a state of shock, and immediately told my friend Alex that I had pretty much just peed my pants. I have NEVER had that happen past the age of, say, four. I have a bladder of steel. I worked in a field where I was so busy that I often held it for hours. WHAT had just happened? Pair that with the raging hemorrhoids and the other 'swelling' that's going on down there and I am feeling dy-no-mite about my current self!

Later that night, when I told J about it, he just smiled kindly and said "It's just going to take awhile to get everything back as it should be." Somehow that was not reassuring. I was hoping for a horrified look and the confirmation that, yes, that was very alarming, circumstantial and would most hopefully never happen again.

Oh, and Happy Independence Day, America!

1 comment:

Suzanne said...

OK, my very sad comment to this story is that I have no children, and I have road maps on my boobs and thighs from weight gain and loss, plus I have peed my pants in recent times. Just a little tiny bit, and usually when I really had to go and maybe sneezed, but still. It's not cool to be 32 and pissing yourself when you sneeze.