Spongebob Squaretits


So, I had a little work done.

My once blubbery tummy is now flat, my love handles are gone and my boobs…oh, my boobs.  Well, they’re…tight?  And square.

My husband is now referring to me as Spongebob Squaretits.

Evidently, it takes a few weeks for them to ‘drop and settle’.  Until then, they’re big ol’ (square) stripper boobs.  I think they’re going to end up being the same size as they were before.  Only prettier.

Recovering from surgery was no joke.  Everyone told me it would be bad.  They weren’t lying. I was useless for the first five days, pathetic for the next five days and laughably slow for the following five days.  I’m just now getting back into a somewhat normal routine (thanks to my friends at Aleve).

BTW, I really appreciate the heads up on the pain.  Unlike when I was pregnant the first time and so many assholes women told me that labor and delivery would be a piece of cake.

‘Just breathe through it!’

‘Hee-hee-hee, hoo-hoo-hoo!’

‘It hurts, but you forget the pain immediately!’

I call horseshit.  That was the WORST PAIN I HAVE EVER FELT IN MY LIFE and I remember it as if it was this morning.

Bitches.

Because of their filthy lies, I didn’t even arrange for an epidural in advance.  Opting instead to go ‘natural’.  Little did I know that ‘natural’ would entail screaming and crying for four days straight.  OK, so it was only 18 hours or so, but it felt like four days.

I’m going to let you in on a little secret of which I am not proud.  I kind of despise women who are good at having babies. You know the type – nine months along and they don’t even look pregnant from behind. With their perfect little basketball bellies, cute little maternity outfits, clutching their copies of ‘What To Expect When You’re Expecting’.  Show-offs.  They skip into the hospital, hop onto the bed, hiccup and out pops a baby!

‘I got to the hospital at 10:00 and she was born at 10:57!’

I’d like to smack the shit out of them.

I was such a sloppy mess when I had my son.  I was violently nauseous for nine straight months and I gained 50lbs, partly because I was paralyzed by the nausea (and my acute fear of vomiting) and partly because I ate everything within reach to try to quell the nausea.  Every part of me swelled.

When I was about six months along, my dad told me I was getting ‘a little broad in the beam’.  Thanks.  I hadn’t noticed.

Countless times, this conversation occurred:

Rude Idiot: Are you having twins?
Me: Nope. Just one.
Rude Idiot: Are you sure?

He was my second child.  The second one is supposed to pretty much fall out of you, or so the bitches other mothers told me.

Not so much.

Without getting into the details of the lack of grace, dignity and decorum I demonstrated during the ordeal, I was in labor for 20+ hours, four of which were spent pushing.  My son came out with a conehead to rival anything Lorne Michaels could have dreamt up.  He is a handsome young man now, but he was stone-cold ugly when he was born.

Worst part?  He only weighed about 8lbs.

Umm…excuse me?  I gained 50lbs.  Every part of me was puffy.  I was expecting him to weigh at least 12lbs.

He’s 20 now. I just had the belly he left me with surgically removed.  I think it’s the first step toward forgiving him for that miserable experience.

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