Hands up who birthed a human and now has a busted vag forever?
EVERY WOMAN I KNOW.
There are varying degrees of bustedness. But we all agree on one thing. Our lady bits won’t EVER BE THE SAME AGAIN.
But it’s totally worth it.
When you’ve been woken up every 20 minutes so the baby can gnaw on your broken nipples, and then just as you drift off, you get an eye watering, white-flash-of-pain punch in the boob at 6am by a giggling toddler, you just know.
Motherhood is special.
The fact that you wet yourself every time you bend over to pick up a dirty nappy off the floor. The way your bladder burns like molten lava during your unexplained and frequent UTIs. The joys of never being able to wear a tampon again.
These things are all irrelevant. Now you have found true love.
Sometimes true love comes in the form of Ryan Gosling holding a martini, hey girl to you. And sometimes true love comes in the form of a sweaty, writhing, peanut butter smeared, screeching lump in aisle 3, who is pulling jars of pickles off the shelf and hurling them at you while pinching you under your tuck shop arms with sharp, pincer like fingers.
I have heard so many busted vag war stories. Some experiences were so awful and middle ages-like, these poor women never want to birth again. Ranging from utterly humiliating to near death, squeezing out babies is not for wimps.
We laugh about our broken fannies over wine as we do our pelvic floor exercises in vain.
There are some exquisitely wonderful parts of motherhood. The love is a deep, deep well of emotion that still keeps on loving as you lug your snotty biter out of the playground muttering ‘how did I give birth to a fucking psychopath?’ under your breath. Even when the snotty biter still has the flesh from their victim hanging from their jowls, only loosened by their maniacal laughter.
And then they say ‘Sorry, mum. Kiss?’ and you melt and cry a little bit out of your vagina with all the love you feel.
These little buggers have a way of doing that to you. And they always forgive us when we demand too much of them. ‘Grow up!’ I shout, and then realise the kid is 2.
That’s the beauty of these confusing, beautiful, complicated and harrowing relationships with small people. We are all rookies. Mums forgive. Kids forgive. And no one holds a grudge.
Except our vaginas. They hold a deep, deep well of grudgedom forever.