In the wake of back to back spawn birthdays, someone suggested that I write a letter to my vagina congratulating it for shoving two humans through it. We all spend so much time congratulating mom and dad and fawning over the new lil’ crotchfruit- but who ever recognizes the crotch as the hero in this? Or even as a contributor? No one. We curse at it and loathe it for the pain it gives us after the fact; so I thought WHY NOT? Why not write a letter to my vagina. I’ve put it through enough that it deserves a little recognition, right?
And so I did. And this is it.
I have come to realize lately that we haven’t been on the greatest of terms these past 5 years, and that is because I do not give you the praise and recognition you deserve. I don’t want to go all vagina monologues on you and insist the world worship you, but I think the following needs to be said, and we can get back on the path to being one- or something.
Vagina, you are pretty awesome. Every month since I was a young teen (or whatever age I was, seriously, I don’t remember- I’m sure you do)- you are forced to leak for a week straight and were either smothered and then rubbed in the leakage, or had cotton shoved into you. Repeatedly. Every month you never complained- but I sure did. I blamed you for a large portion of my monthly hell, although it was not your fault.
I’m pretty sure you enjoy the horizontal lambada, Vagina- but I can’t imagine staring at a penis is a perk. I know those things are funky looking, but there’s just no way to shield you from that. No, I will not use those silly colored condoms so it looks like a balloon animal. I know, it’s not fair.
While you absolutely played a part in the conception of both of my children, you certainly had a hands off “I’m staying out of this” approach to the making and baking of them- yet still somehow you get the blame.
I’m quite positive you didn’t enjoy having all kinds of freezing cold hands shoved into you along with metal instruments and magnifying glasses at the OBGYN- when you were never even introduced or taken out to dinner first, but still Vagina, you never even complained. You sat there, silently, maybe a little hurt- probably a lot embarrassed- and let life continue on without a word.
No one thought to prepare you for childbirth. No one even asked your permission, or warned you that you might be torn in two and then stitched back up- all for what? A giant baby head and shoulders to squeeze out of you? No one even informed you that you might want to limber up in order to avoid being exploded by a not-so tiny human head. That was rude, I apologize for that. I especially feel bad about how I ordered pain meds for my brain, so I didn’t feel you ripping to shreds, but I’m sure you did- and then we went off and completely ignored you in favor of the thing that shredded you. All you got was a nice long stitch and some warm water sprayed in your face.
Even though you could have been bitter about all of that (and especially the horrid swelling), or filed a complaint, or even quit on me- you didn’t. You recovered with little to no help from me. Dare I even say, you were better than ever. That’s pretty bad ass, Vagina. Well done.
I especially apologize for that second child I forced out of you. That one wasn’t in the plans, Vagina, but I’ll take the blame for the horrors you experienced. All of the people, and the lights- you must have felt like the star of a film… a snuff film.
STILL, somehow you managed to bounce back. You bounced back even faster than the first time, unlike the rest of me. I’m sure that was somehow out of spite, Vagina, but I won’t hold it against you.
Because after everything you’ve been forced to endure, NONE of which you agreed to, you have managed to not sag, turn into a cavern, fall off, recoil in fear and grow over, gone on strike, filed sexual harassment or battery charges, or exploded.
For that, you are not only appreciated- but my hero.
The next time you’re feeling angry, hurt, or neglected- just blame the Uterus; It’s all her fault anyway.
Every. Single. Time. pic.twitter.com/aAAWWjdrN3
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Hard pass from me pic.twitter.com/VayvW1eopK
I've gotten to the point where I'd let my kids summon a demon with a Ouija board before I'd let them play Monopoly together again.