There’s enough shit you have to remember before going into surgery and leaving with an infant. Walking in, you have a luggage rack full of: Boppies, diaper bags, diapers (both adult and baby), and so.many.fucking.clothes.
When my daughter was born, it was my second c-section. The first was a whirlwind of an emergency after three days of labor and I barely remember it. Walking in, I thought I was an old pro. I was ready for anything. My pubes, on the other hand, were a different story.
When my husband and I arrived at the hospital, my mother was impatiently waiting to get the show on the road. We were all glowing with anticipation to meet this little girl. I’m pretty sure we all walked into the hospital room holding hands with happy tears in our eyes. This was the moment we had all been waiting for.
I quickly flopped on the bed in my starchy gown ready to experienced one of life’s most precious moments. During my first c-section, the time between the announcement of necessary c-section and the moment I heard my son’s first cry was less than 10 minutes. I was expecting this type of urgency during round two and was sadly mistaken.
The elderly nurse that would be preparing me for surgery waltzed in immediately and cut to the chase.
“Did you shave?” She croaked, no doubt just stepping in from a cigarette break.
“Huh?” I said, quickly glimpsing at my loved ones’ bright red faces seated next to me hoping she was talking about my armpits.
“Your bikini area, did you shave it?” She asked again, this time with much more vigor in her turkey neck.
“I was not told this was necessary…” I whispered, hoping I could avoid this impending doom.
“No problem. I will take care of it,” she said and with the whirl of one liver-spotted hand she had a hedge trimmer between my thighs.
Did I mention my mother is still sitting right next to me?
“Holy hell!” I squealed as I watched the scene before me unravel.
“The Packers play tonight, eh?” My mom quickly questioned my husband at ten octaves higher than normal in order to be heard over the landscaping that was taking place. I’m not sure my husband ever answered her as he was vomiting up giggles so hard he couldn’t function.
My lack of a beauty regime in the prior nine months was wielding a monster that could not be tamed by one go-round with a trimmer. My mother’s face was puce as she looked on from her rocking chair. A chair she, no doubt, envisioned holding her granddaughter in for the first time, but instead watched a Barbie wig pile at the feet of a nurse who should have retired during the Clinton Administration.
My lower half burned while this woman wrenched, tugged and buzzed every inch of my bits. We could have eaten dinner off my loins that evening. She didn’t give up though, not until 30 MINUTES passed and I whimpered in pain. Pain for both my bikini area and shriveling pride.
If it wasn’t for the distraction of the surgery and soon-to-be newborn, I am sure I would have died more than once of embarrassment that afternoon. Moral of the story is: even if you can’t see your va-jay-jay for six months, it still needs to be at-the-ready no matter what the circumstance.
What’s your embarrassing birth story? Huge bush? Poop on the table? I want to know! Tell me about it in the comments!
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