I used to bathe with a bathing suit on, well, at least in public. You’re welcome public. I would be the bashful bather at the gym, standing to the side, waiting for a private shower stall to open up, while courageous ladies stripped down and had a rinse off. No way, not me; if I was desperate I would just shower with my bathing suit on.
That was me then, pre-baby.
This is me now; stripping off my bathing suit before the locker room door latches, because I only have 30 seconds to shower before my baby starts demanding boob from his milk-less caretaker. Modesty be damned.
I never thought I would ever be in a bathroom with onlookers urging my bowels to make moves. Okay, well maybe I realized this would be a possibility someday, but certainly not before my nineties. These onlookers were a stark reality of my birth experience. They wanted me to have a bowel movement really bad; but unfortunately, the stage fright, and resulting nerves, did not have the usual outcome of gurgling bowels.
After the no-go pooping debacle, all remaining traces of my modesty were wiped away, as my body pushed out a human, as four humans and one camera, looked on. Oh yes, someone also removed my shirt during this deposit of human, to prepare for the first public feeding of said human.
No one told me that my modesty would be drained out as my internal floodgate of baby love opened and poured in. As I began to feed my baby, my newfound boob boldness was put to the test as my brother-in-law entered the room. My initial reaction was to cover up, but this instinct was quickly overthrown by the ‘whatever’ echoing in my mind. It’s easier to have my boobs out while I’m feeding this hungry infant, whatever.
Since birthing a baby, I have undergone the following, quite liberating, metamorphoses.
The first few weeks postpartum, I not only vetoed the bra, but the shirt as well. My boobs were sore and the effort of pulling my shirt down or up every few minutes was just too much. Any Peeping Toms gazing through my bedroom window would have been treated to the vision of a drooling topless-women, with a man and a baby standing over her, repeating the mantra, ‘I think the baby is hungry again.’ The no-bra thing caught on, and I only wear one when I have to go to a wedding or a funeral.
Flatulence is a Fact and it’s Fun
People fart, I don’t care how proper you are; you fart. If you hold it in too much, you may be really cranky, because your stomach is likely in a constant state of turmoil; I should know, I used to be a chronic fart-holder-inner. Having a baby loosens everything up, which kind of forces you into adopting the motto, ‘if you gotta go, let it flow’; for pretty much all meanings you can attach to that saying. I now have a new understanding, and respect, for the older folks in my life who will boldly lift the side of their tush up during dinner and let one rip; who wants to eat dinner with a belly full of hot air? I have not yet reached the ‘bold brass balls’ level of toots touting, but I’m getting there.
‘There’s a chunk of food on my shirt?’ Pass it to me, I haven’t eaten in hours.
I’ve had everything from baby poop, boogers, green mush, and unidentified liquid on me since having a baby. Pre-baby Bailey would have changed her entire outfit after a miniscule drop of anything trickled onto the edge of her shirt, not anymore. It would take a waterfall like flow of spit up being issued from baby’s mouth, to my already dirty shirt, for me to hassle with changing.
Modesty can be such a nuisance if allowed to get out of control. It holds you back from just living, from just being, by distracting you with thoughts of, ‘how does this make me look?’ Who cares if some snooty pants scoff at your boldness if you’re happy and feel free to just be.