By Shana Genre
I can’t believe the hospital has given me these gigantic Granny panties. I asked if they came in a thong style, but no luck. Eric will just have to live with my new look for now. Or maybe I can see if they have any cheeky styles? I suppose it’s wise for me to opt for something more comfortable anyway, since my hemorrhoids have given new meaning to what my husband once referred to as my “hot ass.”
Pee sneaks up on me like a cat might sneak up on a mouse except that the cat is my dysfunctional urethra and the mouse is the toilet, which I never catch. Fortunately, Eric was kind enough to pick up some Depends, which fit snugly in my Granny panties. Today I discovered that I can pull them up to my chest and tuck them right under my breasts. Comfy!
My breasts are no longer soft mounds oozing liquid gold. They have instead ballooned into twin monsters that spray milk in a manner that recalls summer sprinklers. Poor Patty. It is as if my nipple is a bulbous firehose trying to put out a little fire on a baby’s face.
I was terrified of pooping, but the moment could be avoided no longer. I nursed Patty to sleep then tiptoed to the bathroom, where I tried to relax like my midwife told me I should. As I imagined the “happy place” I envisioned during labor (unicorns dancing around a huge cake, obv.), I slowly—and gloriously—produced three smears of brown. I silently thanked the triplets for leaving my colon intact, swaddled them in toilet paper, and said goodbye forever.
Thanks to the many hours I spend bouncing on a yoga ball to put Patty to sleep, I have rock hard abs! Unfortunately they are buried beneath a kangaroo pouch formerly known as my skin. They have also separated like bitter divorcees (thanks, diastasis recti!). Bikini season, here I come!
We lit candles. We burned incense. We tuned on the Barry White. It was time to get it on! The mood felt perfect, yet when Eric (gently!) entered me it felt the way I imagine a pig might feel when skewered on a spit. I gasped and froze in place. “I can’t get enough of your love, Baby,” Barry White sang. Then “Baby” started crying.
It was time to sleep train, so we ordered takeout, turned up the volume on Coneheads, and made the best of three hours of screaming. Within a week, Patty was sleeping through the night. Eric and I, however, have forgotten how to sleep and instead spend our evenings trying to locate the lost dreams of our youth (they’re not under the sink, BTW).
About the Author
Shana Genre is a parallel structure fangirl who lives in Portland, ME. Her writing has been featured in McSweeney’s, The Belladonna Comedy, Points in Case, and Slackjaw. Much to the horror of her family, she sometimes performs stand-up comedy.