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Broke Wife, Big City
Here’s my
excuse for my post-baby body
By Aprill Brandon
Here’s a fun fact you may not know. When you are in the hospital after
having a C-section, you are issued several pairs of giant disposable
netted hospital underwear. If you’re having trouble picturing that, let
me help you out: They are incredibly unattractive. I mean, these things
are hideous. And completely see-through, leaving absolutely nothing to
the imagination. (And trust me, immediately after having a baby, you
want most, if not all, things left to the imagination).
Now, I’m assuming these things have something to do with the giant gash
you recently received on your lower abdomen. And since you did just
undergo major surgery and infections are nothing to sneeze at (heh),
you are in no position to argue when the doctor says you have to wear
the giant netted hospital underwear.
Never being one to defy authority (or at least not the authority that
is steadily supplying me with amazing weapons-grade pain-killers) I
obediently followed my doctor’s orders. Although I can guarantee he
probably wished that I hadn’t taken his words quite so literally.
I was in the hospital for four days. And for four days I wore those
see-through granny panties. And only those see-through granny panties.
It didn’t matter who was in the room, if the door was open or closed,
or what I was doing, I was, for all practical purposes, buck naked.
All. The. Time. With my body looking arguably the worst it ever had, I
had it on display for all to see. Every stretch mark, every wobbly bit,
every “hmm, that used to be much higher” body part.
It wasn’t that I had suddenly turned into an exhibitionist. Or…pffft…I
was actually happy with how my body looked. I just had a million other
things that required my attention other than clothes, such as:
The amazing human I just created.
Getting up from the bed to go pee, which was a Herculean task that
required six nurses, a crane and three, sometimes four, horse
tranquilizers shot directly into me by an orderly standing a safe
distance away.
Debating what would hurt more, cutting my boobs off with a dull ax or
continuing to breastfeed.
Deciding continuing to breastfeed would probably hurt slightly less and
then attempting to feed him again while 17 lactation specialists
roughly squished together my boobs and my baby’s head.
Trying to sleep during the 47 seconds I had in-between feedings,
comforting my crying baby, nurses checking my vitals and eating an
unhealthy amount of cheeseburgers from the hospital cafeteria.
So, being naked all the time just made everything so much easier. I was
exhausted and sore and overwhelmed and screw wearing pants! Burn in
hell, stupid bra! Even the hospital gown seemed too complicated, what
with its TWO whole ties in the back.
Now, a woman choosing to be naked in the comfort of her own hospital
room may not seem like a big deal to you, but for me, this was not only
uncharacteristic, but downright unheard of.
Yes, I was one of those women who, like any good white girl raised in
the Midwest, hated her body. I was never thin enough. Or hairless
enough. Or shaped enough like a 12-year-old boy. So to hide my
perfectly healthy and normal weight body, I mastered the art of
changing clothes without flashing any actual skin. I wore overpriced
bikini cover-ups to the beach, only taking them off once I was deep
enough in the water to not let anything south of my chin show (and then
flinging the cover-up back onto the beach). After a shower, I would
race to my room while clinging to my towel for dear life (because God
forbid I flash someone in my family my apparently offensive upper
thighs).
But now? Shoot. You’re lucky if you actually catch me with clothes on.
I’m always walking around with my shirt hoisted up above my chest
because I couldn’t be bothered to pull it back down after feeding
Riker. After a shower, I walk around in my birthday suit because a
towel is too rough on my chewed up nipples. And I’m still too exhausted
and sore and overwhelmed to care about pants.
Of course, this doesn’t mean I am now completely comfortable with my
body. I don’t know if that day will ever happen. But it does mean that
I have a new appreciation for it. Because now it has a purpose other
than looking good for other people. My breasts being perky matter less
than the fact they are a food source for my son. My arms being toned
matter less than them being strong enough to lift him and carry him
around for hours on end. My hips being narrow matter less than me
having a convenient perch to rest him on.
And let me tell you, it is completely freeing.
Because, quite frankly, my dear, I no longer give a damn.
Can’t get enough of Aprill? Can’t wait until next week?
Check out her website at http://aprillbrandon.com/
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