postpartum body — Posh Poop

...or just plain terrified.

For many blissful years we lived with a separate but equal bathroom policy. We did everything in front of each other, except for that.

Let's face it. Women DO do Number Two (I cringe as I write this and I will also vehemently deny it once this post is up). I don't want to talk about it, but I fear I must because no one else does, and it was such a terribly unexpected part of my recovery. My doctor never mentioned this, neither did the birthing coach. So discuss it we must.

The only time we actually don't do it is post-delivery. And that's not because we don't have to, it's because we don't want to. Imagine you have just pushed out a baby - do you want to know what your body feels like afterwards?

I'll tell you.

Imagine taking a cheese grater to your nether regions, pulling out some innards, and perhaps taking on a few stitches along the way. Yes, it sounds bloody awful, I know. But everything down there is Bombs over Baghdad. It IS awful. You can also imagine that any sort of pressure down there after this is a fearsome, horrible thing.

We can barely bring ourselves to sit on the toilet, let alone DO anything there. I tentatively approached the bathroom only when my body desperately needed to go, perched gently on the seat and squeezed my eyes shut, praying my body wanted to keep it all in.

But that isn't the way we function, sadly. What goes in must come out. It took days. I needed those days just to re-learn how to pee.

When the function that shall not be named (POOP!!! POOP!!!) finally did need to make an appearance I thought I was dying. No I'm not being dramatic...DYING! I was in pain giving birth all over again. I felt light-headed and saw dark spots swimming before my eyes. I had visions of Andy finding me indecorously slumped on the marble floor, stretched out used-to-be-cute undies around my ankles with my loose track pants pooling at my feet. I don't even want to talk about the thought of popped stitches (shudder)!

I called to him. Okay, truth be told, I screamed for him to come and sit with me. He might have held my hand, perplexed at what was going on.

We have never been closer.

There is and was an easy solution to my hard, er, difficult, problem. The next day he came home and gently placed a tiny little bottle in front of me. Colace? What was this?

"The doctor had mentioned you might want to take this to...um...help."

What was this tiny little red capsule going to help me with? I couldn't imagine this bottle actually contained magic.

It worked. It was almost a...pleasure...to make the trip to the loo. I no longer feared that cold bathroom, or that hard seat. The embarrassment of having broken the golden rule of our marriage thus far remained (remains) but you know, it was time to break down barriers.

Now if you see me walking down the street please don't pause to chat; I don't want to look any of you in the eye. You know too much.

Shit Happens.

I write this having just admonished myself for grabbing another Galaxy Ripple chocolate bar from the fridge. Every morning I wake up and promise myself “Green Juice!” as much as I dislike it, “No croissants!” even though I love me some real Viennoiserie, and “Vegetables!” though I really just want rice and pasta.

I wouldn’t call it “lying” to myself, really. I like to think I just start the day remarkably optimistic, considering I know how things will turn out by 6pm. This day though, this day shall be the day to change all others. This day I will finally be…healthy. And I’ll never look back.

Until tonight, when I will shame myself by thinking of all the shit I just ingested because I was tired, stressed, and hungry. Sigh.

I’ve tried to get excited about vegetables, I promise I have. They’re so…green. And FRESH! YAY! But as I miserably chomp on stalks of broccoli and asparagus, I can’t help but think that some Spaghetti Aglio e Oglio would go really well with it. Last week I met a friend for lunch at Fred’s and ordered a SALAD. No profiteroles. No Sancerre. It was depressing but she was a Size Two and I just couldn’t do it. I promptly came home and made up for it by inhaling my new delivery from Instacart. Damn you Instacart! I don’t even have the excuse of “Well, I walked to Fairway…sooo…!” It’s just…there. All the British goodies I love at the click of a button. Sure, I order healthy stuff too. That butternut squash has been taking up a significant portion of my fridge for a few weeks now. Is it still fresh, by the way?

I make complicated salads and mix in nuts to fill me up…but I’m hungry an hour later. My nanny stares at me eating these gourmet creations straight from the salad spinner, because, portions. I don’t have any receptacle large enough to fit a whole bag of baby spinach, walnuts, avocado and quinoa. A feeding trough, that’s the next step.

I was so thrilled at 7 weeks post-partum, when I could slip on my jeans again! Silly me, throwing away my maternity pants. “Where’d your belly go babe?’ asked Andy in wonder. Proudly I congratulated myself on my nursing schedule and my relatively healthy diet. If I could just keep this up, I’d be back into my wedding clothes in no time! But then…my mother left and reality (and fat cells) came raining down upon me. I went from getting 10 hours of sleep a night to waking up multiple times with the baby, sneaking treats from the kitchen to give myself something to look forward to at 4am. Gone were my breakfasts of fruit and eggs, replaced instead by 2 strong cups of Earl Grey and half a packet of biscuits. Salads are cute but pizza is oh-so gratifying.

A few weeks ago I wore my jeans and they felt a big snug. Hmm, I wonder if they shrunk in the wash? The next day my toddler came traipsing in to the bathroom as I was showering (Sidebar: Why does he choose to come in and poop in his diaper at this very moment? When the shower is hot and the bathroom is steamy, amplifying the horrendous odour? I’ve tried switching the time of day I shower, hoping to evade this phenomenon, but it’s like his bowels just know when to go.) Anyway, yes, my son came in and as I was toweling off he put both his tiny hands on my belly and asked if I had another baby brother still coming out. It was then I took a good look in the mirror and saw, with horror, that I did indeed look 5 months pregnant. When had this happened? I HAVE to go to the gym!

So I went, once.

I’ve been busy, ok?! And it made me really hungry.

Tomorrow. There’s always tomorrow. But tomorrow I will pick up my son from pre-school and try to walk right by Eric Kayser, refusing to allow the scent of freshly baked Pain au Chocolat to lure me in. A minute later, while I’m line to pay for the pastry, I’ll try envisioning the cellulite forming on my thighs; it won’t serve to dissuade me. “Today it’s ok. Just today,” I tell myself.

The world’s most pathological liar.