I got the following forwarded email from a friend of mine, Seneca. I'm not sure who the author is, but it is absolutely hilarious. Whoever wrote this said she composed this email to all of her girlfriends when her first child was about 5 weeks old to "thank" them for all the lovely little things they failed to warn her about regarding the postpartum period. SO TRUE, and I think I could add a little :o)
Dear Bitches,
What the hell? I asked you to tell me the truth. I wanted to know what I could really expect during the postpartum recovery time. I wanted you to tell me the stuff that they don't put in those stupid, useless, piece of shit parenting books. You gave me cute little tips about putting two crib sheets on the mattress to limit middle of the night hassles and always carrying an extra outfit for the baby. Or how about the sage advice I got when we discussed breastfeeding? I believe you told me that my nipples might be a little sore so to just use that Lanolin cream and it will get better. LIARS! You bitches are liars. What you should have told me is that my beautiful little baby would turn into a ravenous piranha with suction that a Hoover vacuum can't even rival. You should have told me that my once unscathed nipples would be cracked, bleeding and oddly deformed. And while on the subject of my boobies, let's discuss their size, shall we? Nobody warned me. You said they might be a little engorged. Talk about understating the obvious. They are huge. They're bigger than the baby's head. I feel like I'm walking around with two ripe cantaloupe's stuck to my chest. Cantaloupes that leak. Alot. I can write my damn name in the snow with the milk shooting out of these things. I firmly believe that stuff like this deserves a mention when someone asks for honest postpartum experiences.
When I asked you about tearing and stitches, you led me to believe that it healed quickly and the discomfort was minimal. Again, you bitches are big fat liars. You should have told me that my girly bits would be mangled beyond all recognition and that the mere thought of taking a tinkle would send my bladder into spasms of fear. Oh and a little warning about the pain associated with the resumption of all things bowel related would have been nice. You didn't even have to tell me, if for some reason you have developed an aversion to the word poop. You could have just dropped me off a nice bottle of prune juice and told me to drink up.
I bet you're all sitting around giggling right now, aren't you? Laughing at my naivety and scoffing as you recall your so-called advice. Know this, bitches, I will get you back. You know I will. Live in fear.
May your mustaches grow in black, your eyebrows grow together, your boobs sag to the floor and I hope you all develop incontinence! Bitches.
Sincerely,
Your former BFF
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