Warning: If you couldn’t tell from the title, this post deals with my female bits. Please don’t read on if this in any way disturbs you. This warning is specifically aimed at my brother who vocally complains when I TMI on here. Sissy – stop reading now! Kthnksbye.
Yesterday was my six week postpartum check up. I packed Bunny up in the car to show her off a bit and we headed over to see the Russian.
I haven’t talked much about my postpartum body here, so here’s a quick rundown:
I only had one first degree tear that required stitches. Ute cramping was a bitch and a half for the first week or so, but then that pretty much went away. My blood sugar leveled out almost immediately after the placenta was evicted. My feet were hella swollen for about a week. I get the occasional stabby pain in my nether regions but that should stop soon. I’ve lost about 20 pounds (bunny’s almost 7 and the placenta included) since Bunny was born. No diet, I assume all of it (or at least most of it) was water weight. Heavy bleeding lasted only about a week, and then I had light bleeding for another 3 weeks. There’s still quite a bit of fat on my bones and I am much heavier than I would like. I’m carrying the weight of five pregnancies, 6 months of modified bed rest, and 3.5 years of comfort eating to treat my depression. A Weight Watchers membership is in my very near future.
So considering all of that, my folded over stomach (which is in desperate need of some yoga – also in my near future), and my epic stretch mark collection, my body has bounced back remarkably well. I really do count myself quite lucky. I know that recovery is a biyotch for a lot of women. My biggest issue was the horrible chemical anxiety loop I had. My body, on the other hand, made it out in very good condition.
So I wasn’t expecting any surprises when I went to see the Russian.
And guess what? For a change – there weren’t any.
I walked in, he took a look at Bunny and deemed her “Very nice, she has your nose.”
Then I had a magical date with Ole’ Wandy (oh how I didn’t miss him) and was pronounced “just fine.”
Once back at the Russian’s desk, he half laughed as he asked me if I wanted birth control, since he knew my answer would be “hell to the no.” He gave me a referral to get my blood sugar assessed just to make sure that the gestational diabetes is all gone, and that was it.
Me: “So I forget – how often do I have to come in to see you now?”
The Russian: “Once every six months for a check up. So six months from now. My secretary will call you with a reminder.”
Me: “So that’s it?”
The Russian: “Yep.”
I got up, grabbed Bunny’s carrier, and with that – my lady parts were officially liberated.
Seriously you guys – there should have been a ceremony or something. Imaginary trumpets went off in my head, but I really do think plaques should have been awarded. There also should have been some sort of interpretive dance or something to celebrate the occasion. They could have gotten Jimmy Kimmel to host.
Ok, so there was no fanfare, but my lady parts are officially on parole! After 3.5 years of getting poked and prodded down there by what seems like All the People, my ute, cootch, and all peripherals have now gained their independence.
Shmerson and I made a deal while planning for Bunny’s arrival. If all went well, talk of going for a second will resume NO SOONER than when Bunny is 18 months old.
It wasn’t an easy thing to agree to. After all, my biological clock is a moody diva. I didn’t write about it here but it took us 6 months to conceive Bunny, and I was monitored and took clo.mid. 18 months means we won’t even start trying until I’m going on 35. That does make me a little nervous, especially considering that my current pregnancy to live baby ratio is 5:1. Those odds aren’t exactly stellar to say the least. But Shmerson insisted, and I really was compelled to agree: My body needs a freaking break. It’s been through the ringer and needs some TLC.
So no hormones of any kind (condoms will do just fine in the meantime, thankyouverymuch). No pee sticks.No speculums or surgeries. No ultrasounds. No blood tests.
A cease and desist letter has been sent. The papers have been signed. The judge’s ruling is final. And so forth.
For the next 18 months at least, my lady parts are officially free. And I think I feel pretty good about that.
Fly lady parts, fly!