a rejection.

what? it's like no one wanted to read about the difficulties of knocked up pube maintenance? (rolls eyes). whatever. i submitted this to a popular mom blog and it got DE-nied. probably rightly so. but this is real talk. THE number one struggle of pregnancy, at least for me. (ok, that may be an exaggeration, but it sucked). makes me think of all those beautiful model celebs who flaunt their baby bumps in itty bitty bikinis on the beach. you just KNOW they had to hire some schmuck to trim their hedges/bikini lines for them. how glam. anyway. i wrote this when i was about halfway done cooking lil max. i'm happy to say, my lady bic is now back in action, some two and a half months post partum, just in case you were curious.

I said goodbye to my vagina tonight.

Not in the ‘no more sexy time’ way, (because let’s face it, other than a handful of rushed, quiet sessions of couch sex and the debut night we purchased my toddler’s full sized bed (cough, cough, co-sleeping), which coincidently, landed me in my current state), THAT lady was pretty much bid adieu twenty months ago when my first son joined us.

No, I literally said goodbye to my lady friend tonight, as I awkwardly realized this evening’s grooming session was likely to be my last in the next six or so months. Being twenty-four weeks pregnant with my second child, I figured I had more time to declare my farewell, but after a risky peek at business down there three nights ago, I was shocked to find that my days as an Amazonian woman had apparently snuck up on me sooner than anticipated and it was time to clean things up, one last time. Three weeks ago I never would have been able to contain my impulsive OCD to waiting three minutes on a sole stray ingrown hair on my bikini line, let alone three whole days on the whole front lawn. But come on mamas, when you’re constantly chasing a two and a half feet tall, juice guzzling, ‘Bubba Guppy’ obsessed little terror around all day and you’re carrying around an extra twenty or so pounds, the choice between crawling into your luxurious, warm bed at 8:30 pm or hacking around blindly at your lady bits isn’t exactly a tough one to make.

But here I found myself, crouched over my toilet, nervously peeking, gripping my electronic Lady Venus bikini trimmer in one hand, a handful of my bloated, skin tight whale belly in the other, determined to get things done. And while I had my fair share of Mr. Magoo ‘man I hope I’m getting this right’ moments, I’m happy to say I managed to successfully trim the hedges. Expecting an expertly self-executed Brazilian, I was not, but I am feeling pretty proud to know I got the job done. I’d be lying if I said it wasn’t bittersweet, though. You ladies know what I’m talking about. Shit gets way too awkward and clumsy, and as we teach our young ones, it’s not smart to play with scissors (or bikini razors).

So goodbye, my friend. Or at the very least, see you on the flipside, in sixteen or so weeks, when I put you through hell and back once again, and you re-humble me with the wonderful and mysterious gift of motherhood. Maybe if I’m lucky, I’ll find the energy and privacy (ha! with two little boys under two, not likely) to worry about prettying you up one day again. Until then, I’ll just be getting reacquainted with my newfound pal, belly button, and all the wonderful contents that apparently reside in that mysterious cove.