About a week ago, I thought I was having some sort of allergic reaction. Maybe it was my penchant for thrifting- who knows what I might have touched and what might have been on it; maybe I was using something new and forgot. I can hardly remember what I had last night for dinner, I can’t always be expected to remember if by chance I’ve used something new in the past few days. What I DO know is that my shoulder started breaking out in some kind of funky rash. From my shoulder, it spread to my chin, and from my chin, to my arms.
It took a few days to fully develop, but once it did- I knew the awful truth. Poison ivy. What the hell? I don’t even like the outdoors! I haven’t gone trampling through any thick brush. There has been no camping or sleeping in tents. My idea of “roughing it” is staying at a hotel with no pool- so how in the hell would I find myself infected with poison ivy? One word, one syllable: Kids. Grody weed-pulling, puddle-stomping, dirt-smearing kids.
First pink eye, and now poison ivy. Were they trying to torture me?
I don’t know if me resisting the incredible urge to scratch myself until my nails are worn down to nubs has clouded my judgment and made me unable to have clear and/or rational thoughts- but the last time I have wanted to cover myself in a sheet and go into hiding from feeling so disgusting is when I gave birth.
I’m not going to sugarcoat it, anyone who has read this blog should know that by now. Of course I regard giving birth to my children as two of the most amazing experiences of my life- but I didn’t have it easy. It was excruciating and stressful and the pain is unmatched by anything else I’ve ever experienced (yes, even the time my ear was infected and had to have a tampon crammed into it)- and I came out of it with all of those things written all over my face.
Some women come out of giving birth glowing, looking like they barely even broke a sweat shoving a kid out of their vag (or having one yanked from their stomach.) They could be used as those pictures that come in frames when you buy them; positively radiant. And then there was me- a moldy old sack of potatoes. Lumpy, swollen, dirty- just a hot ass mess.
All I wanted to do for the first few weeks after having each of my kids was hide. Preferably in a tent large enough to conceal the lumps and bumps and the lovely amount of water weight leftover in the most unattractive places. HIDE ME! DO NOT LET THE SUN TOUCH ME! I AM THE NIGHT!
That is exactly how I feel, right this second, with poison ivy. It’s like deja vu, only substitute an achy vag for itchy arms. Same diff, right?
I just want to hide all of my parts, because my parts don’t look like my parts right now- and I want my parts back! The ones I recognize!
Being postpartum can sometimes make you feel like you are inhabiting someone else’s body. Someone the shape of a deflated beach ball, to be exact. I guess I don’t feel like a deflated beach ball, which is a serious plus, but this could qualify as invasion of the body snatchers. Both of these things take a stupid amount of time to get back to normal, and both are really really REALLY FRUSTRATING. Can you tell I’m mad?
To be honest, I don’t even know where I’m going with this blog. I’m just trying to occupy my mind so I don’t scratch these sons-a-bitches and make this nonsense worse.
I guess all I’m saying is that you people- you know who you are- should stop asking me when I’m gonna have another baby, ’cause poison ivy just made me go through the whole thing and that fills my damn quota! Now let me scratch my lumps in peace!
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