​Jeans on me nowadays are like what a miniature waist cincher would be on a hot dog. Pointless and kind of disturbing. My lady parts swell up enough from chafing to convince a stranger they’re lost in the Sahara with the amount of camel toe I’m sporting. This pelvis is too long, too broken, and too bitter to be trifled with. 

So when I crossed paths with a headline that read, “Science Confirms You Are a Different Person After Giving Birth“. I scoffed and muttered to myself, “No $#!+, geniuses… how much did they spend on THAT &*%^$#÷ study?” 

Honestly though, the topic fascinates me (““Mom” From Your Cells Up“) and I’m thrilled that the scientific research community has finally deemed it interesting and worthy to study the other half of the population and our health. Especially since someone once upon a time bothered to birth them and sacrifice their body and health to bring them into the world but, you know, no big.

I don’t regret the sacrifices I’ve made with my own health to have my children. I do regret that I live in an era that still treats women’s bodies solely focused on their fertility and nothing else. Our quality of life or the long term effects of treatments are rarely discussed because – hey, you got a baby out of this finally, right?

It makes me want to go back and scream at most of the doctors I’ve seen in my life and greet them with, “QUACK!” I deserved to know the truth and be fully informed about my choices. Instead, looking back, I was placated and patted like a cow being sent to pasture. It was routine to them, business as usual, and no regard was given to warning me about the dangers of fertility drugs used long term. 

My resentment at the medical community eclipses those feelings of grief over my old ability to bend over without pissing myself or sit on the floor and get back up without groaning or crying, almost. I’ve accepted that my body is broken, breaking, and possibly not even good enough for spare parts.

The comfort level of my clothes reflects the level of discomfort and pain I’m in on any given day. Someone commented recently that I dress so much more “feminine” these past years. 

I bristled (rightly so and not just my chins) and responded that I’ve been busy breastfeeding and chasing kids. My clothes required easy boob access, dark patterns to create stain camouflage, and the ability to use the bathroom one-handed. (You try using a public toilet with a baby in a carrier, a preschooler for company, and you’re in jeans. Good luck!)

My wardrobe downgraded immediately with my second trimester while pregnant with Nora and continued to plumit until I gave up all hope. I type in searches on eBay now like “cruisewear” or “lounge”. My dresses are all wrinkle-free floral patterns that are inexpensive enough I don’t fuss about stains and comfortable enough I can wear them to bed. I call them my “Mrs. Ropers'”. (If you don’t get the referrence just think mumu. Also, congratulations on being so young you’ve never heard of Threes Company, fetus.)

I can only wear dresses, skirts, and yoga pants because anything else is too uncomfortable from c-section scar tissue and joint problems. Which means if I wear form fitting clothes I swell up and walk like John Wayne in drag.

So to all of you out there that make fun of how moms dress – screw you. No really. If you need me to explain why then your mother failed and is either miserable with regret over going through so much to end up with you or clueless as to what a s#!++y job she’s done raising you since you’re the end result.

We’re busy “raising future grown ups” (thank you, Louis C.K.), so shut up or these mom genes might just stomp all over you.