Mrs. Trophy Wife over at Exploits of a Military Mama is such an amazing woman. She's an over-sharing, Pinot Grigio loving, funny gal. She is so my people. I was really stoked when she agreed to do a guest blog over here. I can't say enough good things about her blog and her writing, so I won't I'll let her do the talking.
When Melissa asked me to guest blog for her I thought, “YES! Par-tay at Completely Eclipsed’s house today!” Then I immediately became worried that I would be that neighbor that is invited to the party, gets tanks, tells ridiculous stories too loudly, and never gets invited back…but, of course that won’t happen. Melissa would be getting tanked right there with me (babies safely in bed and DD ready just in case, of course. Wouldn’t want to be irresponsible). She also told me that I could write about whatever I want. So, since I have an affinity for over sharing and no shame, I’m going to talk about stitches in your vagina and all things after labor. It’s about time someone is honest with you. If you’re a fourteen-year-old boy that just googled “vagina”, you should probably leave. Unless you want to be scarred for life.
I’m not here to scare you about labor. Seriously, it’s scary enough to think about pushing a baby out without having to hear from everyone else the horror stories. Actually, my labor was relatively easy. Thanks to an epidural that worked when it was most needed (the pushing), delivery was pretty easy, too. It took me about thirty minutes before Sullivan came screaming into this world. In an epidural and exhaustion haze, I barely even noticed the doctor stitching me up like a rag doll. Why was I being stitched? Oh, that would be because of the episiotomy. :Shivers:
Anyway, I looked at my little wiggling boy, tried nursing him, kissed him, learned that there was only rooming in at my hospital, and burst into tears. Give me a break. I hadn’t slept in almost twenty-four hours, I was bleeding enough to make my husband fear for my life, and I wanted some sleep, damnit. But no. Little man was going to be staying in our room. Okay, I can handle it. I’m a mama now. This is what mamas do. Then I was informed I had to walk to the bathroom and prove to them I could pee before I was allowed into the Postpartum Recovery room. Easy peasy. Until my legs gave out. I walked like a drunken sailor into the bathroom, sat down, and peed? I couldn’t tell. “Taylor!” I yelled, “Come see if I’m peeing!”
“Are you serious right now?”
“Yes! I can’t tell.”
So, being the wonderful husband he is, Taylor carried Sully into the bathroom, looked to see if I was peeing, confirmed that yes, I was, and walked out. Then he noticed the blood trail leading to the bathroom and promptly told me we needed to call a doctor because I was losing too much blood. “Whatever. Just get me some crackers. I’m starving,” I replied. Crackers were handed over, and the nurse wheeled me up to the Postpartum room since I was able to pee. Thank you, Jesus.
The next few days were a haze of IV removal, blood pressure taking, shots, finger pricks, and trying to figure out just how to be a new mom. Oh, let’s also add in Tucks pads, sitz baths, mesh panties, giant pads, and an inability to walk without being bowlegged.
When we finally made it home, there were leaking boobs, pulled stitches (one day, I literally could not even sit down on the toilet it was so bad), swollen feet, lots and lots of bleeding, and nausea.
Seriously? With the next baby, I wish they could just teleport out of my uterus so that I didn’t have to go through the recovery part. I bled for seven weeks. Stitches fell out after eight weeks. And the first postpartum period? I don’t want to talk about it.
But does any of it matter? At the end, I still have my adorable little boy. And honestly, I’ve started to forget about how horrible the recovery was. I’m even starting to think that another baby might be a good idea.
Just not yet.