6 Ways Motherhood Has Completely Killed My Modesty – Scary Mommy

6 Ways Motherhood Has Completely Killed My Modesty

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I used to be a modest-ista. I would be the bashful bather at the gym, standing to the side, waiting for a private shower stall to open up, while the crew of courageous ladies stripped down and had a rinse off. Nope, 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 shuts, because I only have 45 seconds to shower before my baby starts demanding booby from his milk-less caretaker. Modesty be damned.

I never thought I would ever be in a bathroom with three onlookers urging my bowels to make moves. Okay, well maybe I realized this would be a possibility someday, but certainly not before my nineties. Potty-time-onlookers were a stark reality of my birthing experience. They wanted me to have a bowel movement SO badly; but unfortunately, the stage fright, and resulting nerves, did not have the usual outcome of bubbling bowels.

After the de-pooping debacle, all remaining traces of my modesty were wiped away, as my body deposited a human… as five humans and one iPhone, looked on. Oh yes, someone also removed my top during this deposit of human, to prepare for the first public feeding of said human.

No one told me that my modesty would be flushed out as my internal floodgate of baby love opened and poured in. As I began to nurse my baby, my newfound booby boldness was put to the test as my brother-in-law entered the room; my initial instinct was to cover up, but this instinct was quickly overthrown by the ‘eh whatever’ echoing in my mind. It’s easier to have my boobs out while I’m feeding this voracious infant, whatever.

Since birthing a baby, I have undergone the following, quite liberating, metamorphoses…

1. Bras Be Gone. 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 15 minutes was just too exhausting. 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.’ This no-bra thing caught on, and now, I only don one when I have to go to a wedding or a funeral. I take that back, I bought a ruffle top dress for the first postpartum wedding I attended, so I wouldn’t have to wear a bra.

2. Flatulence is a Fact. People fart, I don’t care how fancy 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-blocker. 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 brazenly lift the side of their tush up during dinner and let one rip; who wants to eat dinner with a belly full of uncomfortable hot air? I have not yet reached the ‘brazen brass balls’ level of toots touting, but I’m getting there.

3. ‘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 coffee 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, and adding yet another piece of laundry to my already menacing pile of laundry.

4. Peeing my Pants. Before pushing a human out of my vagina, the thought of urinating myself in public would have been my definition of mortifying. But now, I ensure I’m wearing my black yoga pants so the pee that leaked out when I was laughing, jumping, or walking too fast isn’t completely obvious. If anyone smells anything funny, I can blame it on the baby.

5. Picking of the Wedgie, or Camel Toe. Because everything “down there” is now two sizes bigger than they were pre-baby, my underwear just can’t help but jam itself into every available crevice. Because I don’t have time for the discomfort of fabric all up in my business, I have no qualms when reaching down, grabbing the invasive fabric and pulling it right out, regardless of my location. Does that offend you, guy in the grocery store that is throwing me a horrified stare? You can look the other way, and pick your moose knuckle while you’re at it.

6. “Something smells….” Yeah that’s me. When I have no time for a “proper shower,” which is pretty much all the time, I take a Mom Bath. If you’re not privy to the wonder that is the Mom Bath, it entails slathering on extra deodorant, atop stinky pits, and spraying two to three extra spritzes from the perfume bottle, in hopes that the light scent of baby poop, greasy hair, and plain ole dirt is masked.

Modesty can be such a nuisance if allowed to get out of control. It holds you back from just L-I-V-I-N 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.