I'm pretty convinced that motherhood is all about the tiny indignities, the bringing you down to size (around two feet, if you have a toddler).
It starts with pregnancy. I don't know too many pregnant women who didn't fart like maniacs their entire pregnancy. I have a friend who told me that practically every step she took was punctuated with a little squeak from behind (Right. A "friend."). You grow hair in strange places, your genitalia swells, you have increased vaginal discharge, stretch marks, and you're puking at anything that smells stronger than a violet. Gag if you want, but hey. This is what it takes to propagate the species.
Childbirth is, of course, the gagfest of all gagfests, in addition to being the most amazing experience of my life. I belonged to an online discussion board of pregnant women when I was expecting Nolie, and was surprised to learn that 90% of them pooped during childbirth. I did. Both times. It makes sense, right? I mean, you're pushing harder than you've ever pushed in your life down there. No surprise that a little poopsy flies out now and then. Still, it came as a total shock to me both times--I didn't even know I had done it. I was so out of it after Nolie was born that I told the nurse, "I think the baby pooped--can you clean her up?" "Oh, no, honey." she said. "That was you."
Having written this, I'm sure I'll get all sorts of comments from women who didn't poop on the table. My gorgeous sister-in-law Julie, who took about five minutes to have both her babies, probably didn't. But most women do--they just don't know it, and everyone was kind enough not to tell them. I dwell on this because pooping in front of people is potentially my worst case scenario in life. I'd rather do anything--lick razor blades, eat fish guts, whatever--than poop in front of somebody. But there you go. I did it. I pooped in front of a lot of people. Twice. All in the name of having kids. If that isn't an argument to have a c-section, I don't know what is.
Then, there's the motherhood itself. I'll be sitting and reading with Addie, smelling her hair and enjoying the yummy deliciousness of my quiet moments with her, and BAM. Booger on the arm. She'll just pick her nose and leave a little nose boulder on my wrist. Why? Why not rub it on the sheet? Or eat it, like most kids?
Because moms are the repository of all things bodily. We clean up pee, poop, and puke. Hairballs and dingleberries. Boogers, snot, spit, drool, urp. So why not wipe a booger on my arm? I mean, look at me. I smell like rotten cheese from Nolie constantly spitting up on me. I probably have an old diaper stuck to my shoe. Every coat I own has wipies in the pocket.
So I suppose I shouldn't have been surprised last night when, as I'm walking Nolie around in the sling, Eric stops making dinner and says, "Honey? You have something coming out the back of your pants." And proceeds to pull out a wad of toilet paper from the top of my jeans. I had been peeing earlier when some kid emergency propelled me from the pot and the t.p. got stuck.
Thank God it wasn't poopy.
But, still. I mean, Christ. Not exactly a recipe for a sultry night of hot lovin' with your man. I'm waving goodbye to my last shred of dignity now. Who needs it, anyway? Not a mom. Not me.