Everybody thinks birthdays are so sweet and awesome. Well, okay, I admit that maybe people living in the gutter or who are basically being karma’s whipping boy at this stage in their lives may not think birthdays are all that awesomesauce, but generally speaking the people I come in contact with tend to see the glass-half-full when it comes to birthdays.
What no one realizes is that for every birthday in the universe, there is some woman who is commemorating the event by remembering how amazing her lady garden used to be. Past tense. Was.
I actually don’t remember thinking about my hooha all that much (well, except for the obvious times when I was supposed to be concentrating on my hooha) before that fateful day twelve years ago when I suddenly found myself feet in the air, having everyone from the ultrasound tech down to the custodian coming in my ugly industrial room to “check me” during the labor and delivery of my firstborn. After the fact, though, all women begin thinking about their cooterlands a lot, mostly starting with those first few days when we think, “So, when does it stop resembling ground beef?”
I am pleased to announce that vajajays are universally resilient little things and that all is mostly well, except that I am too young to have to cross my legs when I sneeze.
(author’s note: the comments section on this post will be closed to anything resembling a description of how to do Kegel exercises.)
(more author’s note: my spellchecker is taking issue with the word “Kegel,” which means the spell checker was designed by a sexist woman-hating man who doesn’t want women doing crotch crunches to make their girl parts pretty again.)
(still more author’s note: just to prove my sexism theory, I typed “prostate” and “testicle exercises” and the spell check had no problem with those terms…everything’s a plot, I swear.)
What was I talking about? Oh yeah. Happy Birthday, sweetie!
(another author’s note: Dear First Born, when you forget to put away the dishes like I told you to six times, my revenge is to write a blog post for the entire internet about you emerging from the womb and shredding my privates on your way out that door. Do the dishes next time. Love ya!)
Lorca Damon 
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I would like to say that the actual labour was the worst part of my pregnancy, but unfortunately the actual pregnancy left it for dead. And while labour lasted 24 hours, the pregnancy itself was nine months long… nine, horrific long months…
I agree. My husband told me the reason we can’t have more kids is he can’t take another nine months of me being a total bitch for absolutely no reason.
Kegel exercises. Hmmm, no spell-check problem here. You must be using Internet Explorer, which everyone knows was written by Bill Gates when he wasn’t busy bombing abortion clinics or calling women “babe”.
HaHa! Close! I was using Microsoft Word.
Don’t give that baby a guilt trip over her birth. Save that for something really important like her forgetting your birthday or not coming to see you….
Oh puhleeze. How many women throughout history have thrown out the old, “I was in labor with you for THREE DAYS!” line???
Richard sorta nailed it. I didn’t have the ground-beef syndrome. There was no shredding. Three interesting experiences but I didn’t have a team staring at my ‘down there area’. Just a single person.
I seemed to have all the extra people that never got around to checking out your cooter. I actually had a nursing school class come through my room for a peek! I think I could have told them no, they couldn’t look, but do you really want to irritate a nurse while you’re in labor? Those students could have gotten to third base with me for all I cared!
Never. Having. Kids. EVER.
Don’t let the vagina ruination be the reason you don’t have kids. Let it be the thought that these ungrateful creatures will one day grow up and choose your nursing home.
You are too friggin funny! My walking, talking, breathing you-know-what-a-sizer thought it was hysterical when I read your post out loud to him. Then he had questions about age, shape and form. You breathe much inspiration into us all (and a little fear into the lesser informed sex, at my house anyway!) ;}
Thanks for sharing that Lorca, no really, thanks. That’s the last time I eat a pitta bread sandwich reading blogs.Still happy V day all the same.
Pita sandwich…vagina blog. There’s a visual for you.