RemebeRED: The first time I peed my pants after pregnancy

This post was written for RemembeRED. The prompt: Fill in the blank. The first time I __________ after __________. (PS: This post contains TMI! Read at your own risk!) 

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The first time I peed my pants after pregnancy, a flood of disturbing thoughts drowned my brain as the gush soaked my shorts. 1. It's finally happened—I've turned into my mom. 2. Incontinence at 30—definitely not sexy (thank god I'm married). 3. Am I really going to have to resort to wearing panty liners or maxi-pads? Gross. 4. So this is why doctors and advice columnists recommend Kegels. 5. Now I'm gonna have to carry two changes of clothes in the diaper bag: one for the baby and one for me. 6. Thank god I was at home and not teaching a class! 7. Regardless, I'm mortified and will never tell anyone about this.

But pregnancy and child rearing changes you in more ways than you can prepare for—some for the good and many for the gory. If bodily functions freak you out, don't get pregnant (or don't knock up your wife), because sexy secretions will inevitably be replace by rapid-fire TMI incidents—that don't subside after the mess (miracle) that is vaginal childbirth. If you and your husband want to maintain that immaculately pure relationship based on intelligence and sex-appeal—a.k.a. you have not farted in front of each other or discussed the size or consistency of your own poop—I warn you now, say goodbye to that lifestyle the minute your Clear Blue Easy comes back positive. I guarantee you will become less self-conscious about all secretions. After the marching band that is the delivery-room staff parade around your wide-open, bleeding groin, you will care less about the nuisance of everyday bodily mishaps. But acceptance doesn't have to mean resignation.

I whole-heartedly believe in the miracle of life and the wonder that is pro-creation. But after two pregnancies, I am not one that finds swollen ankles and varicose veins attractive, let alone anything that can be describe by the words mucous or discharge (and hearing the two together is never a sign of a fun time). Despite the supreme joy of bring a child into this world, the side effects are less-than-pleasant. Though I have yet to experience the boobs that have stretched into saggy sacks like salt-water taffy on a hot day, my second baby has yet to be delivered and I'm sure I can't avoid the inevitable after another year of breast feeding. But isn't that always the case? The higher the jump the harder the fall. The harder the work, the higher the accomplishment. I would never trade my children for rock-hard boobies, but should I just give up and submit to losing my facilities every time my Allegra wears off? I think not. I will never resign to plastic-coated panties, thank you very much. So while I can accept the fact that my body has gone from model to mom (just go with the alliteration and don't infer any unintended conceit), I do not have to go gently into that good night.