This is for all the c-section mamas out there. If you birthed any other way, please quietly exit to another post (one of mine, of course). I’ve done it both ways, so I think I can say this. See, these words are not for you. What I’m about to say makes me angry at you. Just kidding, I love you. Get out.
Alright, c-section mamas (and everyone else, because we all know you’re still here). I’m going to talk about something that’s hard, so have a seat, grab some coffee and a few tissues. I’ll wait.
While I’m waiting, I should say this post could very well be from personal experience OR I could be speaking as the voice for many other moms I’ve talked to going through this. I’ll never tell. Or show.
There’s this thing, they call it an apron. A mother’s apron actually. I looked it up one day. Google: What is this creature growing below my belly button? Thinking I had surgical sponges, or maybe a sub sandwich left inside me from the surgery, I thought it best to investigate. You never know, surgical techs get hungry too. I almost wish that was the case.
If you’re not sure what I’m speaking of, I’m not sure we can be friends. Maybe occasional coffee friends, but that’s it. If you know all about it then let’s hug, I know we both need one.
New moms, thinking about being a mom, about to be moms. I’m not trying to upset anyone. This doesn’t happen to everyone and some can get it to go away. Moms who already have it, just laugh with me. Trust me, it’s not worth crying over.
Back to my point, why would they call it this? I got the cutest little ruffle apron one year for my birthday. It makes me happy, I want to wear it. This other thing they call an apron, I want to rip it off and throw it in the “things to donate” pile. Actually, I wouldn’t even donate it. It would go into the “shred/burn” pile with the other things that need to be erased from existence.
They should call it the not-so-happy-flappy-pack, the peek-a-boo pooch or even the hovering flesh wing. Apron just doesn’t work. Aprons don’t jiggle, they don’t wave at your feet, they don’t require an occasional check under the hood to top of fluids or whatnot. This name is just not ok.
I’m sure however the name was decided, it was meant to minimize the trauma to moms who actually do their cesarean research prior to giving birth. “Possible lifelong side effect: mother’s apron.” (Oh, that doesn’t sound so bad.) “Possible lifelong side effect: bikini hangover resembling a depressed jelly roll.” (Oh no way, this kid is staying in here forever.)
See, that’s why I don’t name things.
Ah well, now you know about aprons. Or you knew but never wanted to talk about it. It’s not like we see each other and ask how the apron is getting along. Either way, happy flapping. Although I gave it a pretty hard review, it is a daily reminder of something much bigger–the little miracle you love so much your heart could burst. So, just love it anyway.