Your Bits Post Childbirth

"Childbirth can't hurt that much if you're wanting another baby! You won't catch me ever asking for another kick in the bollocks!"

This is one of the many words of wisdom that I have been given by men over the years, which is usually met with the kick in the bollocks they haven't asked for.

When you are pregnant with your first child, your main thoughts are getting a nice case to put your pregnancy notes in, stocking up on matching outfits for your baby and buying the latest steriliser for the baby bottles you have bought at Mamas and Papas, because the Tommee Tippee ones from Asda just WILL NOT be enough for your precious new arrival.

From your second pregnancy onwards, your maternity notes will be shoved in the bottom of your bag and take on the resemblance of a chewed up dog toy; your first baby's clothes will just be washed and on hand for when thing 2 comes along, sterilising bottles isn't high on the priority list - a quick swill with boiling water before chucking the milk in will do, and whatever bottles you bought for thing one will just be used again.

During your first pregnancy, you will not be aware of the hell that is to come where your downstairs is concerned. For your second, third, and if you are completely mad, fourth and beyond pregnancy, this will be your ONLY thought.

After having Alfie, I generally healed rather quickly. I was 22, and after giving birth on the Saturday, I was back in my pre pregnancy size 8 clothes by the Monday. I could walk, I could breast feed, I wasn't drowning in post natal depression, I could go to the toilet relatively problem free, and I had a generally good control of my bladder. This having a baby lark was easy.

Eleven years later and I'm 33 and pregnant again.

Following the hell that was labour with Tommy (see previous posts) I was then left to deal with the aftermath, and my bits took on the appearance of Hiroshima following the detonation of the Atomic Bomb. Tommy, as much as I loved him and couldn't get enough of him; had torn me a new one. And as a result, I wanted to throttle him. 

The main thing that midwives concern themselves with once you have given birth is not the baby, nor your mental or physical well being. What they want you to do following expelling an eight pound ball of gooey mess out of your vagina, is to go for a poo.

Why? I could only come to one conclusion. They are sadists.

One midwife suggested to me pouring a jug of warm water over my bits whilst trying to have a wee, as this would 'take the sting away'. She clearly hadn't given birth before, and therefore was unaware that pouring warm water over what is essentially an open wound would induce the same sensation as pouring hot tar in your eyeballs. After Alfie had been born, the midwife ran me a bath to get straight into. It felt as if they were trying to push the baby back inside me, only this time it was covered with razor blades. The bathroom had taken on the appearance of the shower scene from Psycho. Lovely.

After giving birth to Tommy, there was absolutely no way I was going to go for a poo. Ever again.

Having been ripped from front to back and stitched up in a way that resembled a year 4 sewing project, I struggled to even walk. Couple that with the contents of the hospitals various painkillers shoved up my arse, I doubt anything was likely to get past it.

Obviously I told the midwife that I had gone for a poo within a matter of hours of giving birth, just to shut her up. Had I told her the truth I genuinely believe she would have burst into the bathroom wearing a pair of Marigolds ready to get it out herself. Weirdo.

Once home, you are now faced with the task of looking after the alien that you have evicted from your womb the day previous, plus resuming your role as chief washer, housekeeper, cook, brew maker, and trying to keep your other children alive. Whereas before these were relatively easy tasks, you now have to complete these activities walking like John Wayne, and feeling that you have been riding a bucking broncho for the last three weeks. You don't want to take too big a step for fear of another child falling out without warning,

Now another thing that you are not warned about before having children is that once you have been through childbirth, you are going to piss yourself. All. The. Time, When you laugh, sneeze, jump up and down (trampoline parties are now a no go) and don't even think about getting too excited at a concert; or at least if you are, get the good old Tena Lady out.

Another golden piece of advice that the good old health professionals dole out regularly is 'try and stop your wee mid flow'. Listen love, I'm currently locked in the bathroom having the wee that I've needed since half 7 this morning. It's currently 17:20  and my husband is on his way home expecting his tea ready. I've foolishly brought an Orange Club biscuit into the bathroom with me to try and eat in peace, but obviously my children have Vulcan hearing, and heard me opening it from out in the back garden. The toddler is trying to squeeze himself underneath the door, and the other three aren't far behind him rhyming off their list of demands. So, whilst trying to 'stop mid flow' I unlock the door to allow the mob outside to come into the bathroom, (trying to have a private wee in the house is impossible, so I give up) and in the process lose control of said flow, and piss all over the floor. Cue the kids running out of the bathroom horrified, not wanting to step in a puddle of wee.

So now, whenever I want a bath in peace, I just sprinkle water over the floor at the bathroom door and tell the kids I've pissed myself.

Bath in peace.

Aaaaahh, thank you, thank you, thank you, post pregnancy front bum :o)