Before and Afterbirth

Stomach

Before: I always felt fat, but could disguise my pudgy belly. I’m lanky. Losing that

magical five pounds? Not a problem.

After: Rolling flab. The Guppins is still breastfeeding, or as her father so glamourously

expresses it, “still on the tit.” So why isn’t she sucking the fat out of me? My breasts are

like a sideshow and my once skinny — yes, skinny — legs now have a PUDGE to them.

And does anyone else feel like they have a gaping hole of nothing somewhere between

their pelvis and spine?

Vagina

Before: Okay, I wouldn’t say I was Helen of Troy down there, but I could live with things.

And have sex with things.

After: It’s like, “Hmm, what’s that?” And look out allergy season, because every time I

sneeze I pee my pants.

Face

I actually look pretty good in the post-birth photos. But now I have miniature bananas

parked below my eyeballs.

Bed

Once the exclusive domain of private luxury; now littered with stuffed animals, rumpled

sheets, damp spots from kamikaze diaper changes, dirt. Now, my bed represents

conflict: Stay in your crib. SHHH. Okay, get in the bed, but you can’t have booby.

Scream, cry (what do my tenants think of this midnight yowling?), eventually I give

in…suck suck, no sleep for Mommy.

My bed. Once my comfort. Now my dread.


Before the Thing that Happened

Anxiety: Check. Scrambled career: Check. Wellbutrin, Xanax, alcohol: Check. Turned

forty: Check. Therapy: Check. Ambivalence: Double check. Maybe not. No…okay,

check that.

After the Thing that Happened

She is — oh my God, she is life, light, wit, she is Tiger Untamed; she is warmth,

happiness, hero; she is challenge, life, everything; she is best of me, worst of me,

and all her own. She kisses, she holds, she loves, she teaches me I teach myself,

she makes anxiety unimportant, fills me with air, she gives me longing, belonging, a

family, this new portrait: I am Mother Beautiful, wordless with wonder, my daughter my

daughter, oh my daughter.


-Drama Mama