You didn’t think that I could let this one slide by me did you? This whole notion of being someone you are not and then it all coming out (or flopping out if you’ve had a child) to bite you in the ass is fascinating. This idea that physical attraction is so important to our sexual livelihood that we need to make sure our spousal units and the like are informed of any drastic changes to our person is captivating.
But other than Trim-spa helping Anna Nicole lose 400lbs, and the bowflex making that I-refuse-to-believe-you’re-50-years-old woman look like Heidi Klum, the only false advertising I’m concerned these days is this business of motherhood.
Did anyone really tell you how hard this shit is? – because I distinctly remember talking to a lot of moms in my lifetime, and no one told me how incredibly exhausting, frustrating, and stressful it would be. All the moms I knew walked around in their matching socks, showed off their recently showered selves, and made us all think it wasn’t that bad. Now THAT is false advertising.
On most days, particularly during the first year of my daughter’s life, I felt like at any given moment, I was going to lose it. Granted, I never had diagnosed PPD, and as a therapist, I was quite aware of the signs and symptoms, but I often felt like the mothers of the world had done me wrong.
I spent 2 hours every Saturday for the last 3 months of my pregnancy learning about cervical dilation and perineal support, yet I had no clue how to get my baby to sleep on a non-moving horizontal surface. I could say “no episotomy please” in 5 different languages, but I couldn’t figure out why my daughter was shitting green goo and refusing to lay on her stomach for more than ONE second.
By the time I got out of the house for the first time, all I wanted to do was burn all my baby books, and toilet paper all the houses of those mothers who made it look so easy. But let’s face it. You’re stuck with what you got. There’s no money back guarantee for motherhood. There’s no comment box for disgruntled customers.
So now, I proudly stroll in 10 minutes late to mommy and me wearing the same jeans I’ve worn all week. I scoff at the moms who spend 15 minutes on their make-up; lipstick is all anyone really needs. And I happily share my struggles with anyone who asks, knowing that while I might scare the shit out of them, at least they’ll know what to expect.
And when they’re changing a rancid poopy at 2am or suctioning nose snot with all the gusto they can muster, I bet they’ll be somewhat comforted that at least someone (be it ONE person) never said it was going to be easy.