A Baby Story

This past weekend marked Luke's second birthday, and what kind of mom would I be if I didn't pay some sort of homage to his birth. Two short years ago, Luke shot out of my pelvis and into this world like a stripper popping out of a birthday cake. He all but said, "Ta-da!" When all was said and done, I was left with a healthy baby boy and a tear all the way from my V-hole to my B-hole. My nether regions were fit for a straight to DVD horror movie. "Have you seen the new horror flick, Frankenstein's Vagina?" Let me tell you, it's scary and I was about two bolts and a zipper away.

After almost a year passed without healing, my doctor suggested I see a vagina therapist. I couldn't see how my vagina laying on a sofa, while pouring its heart out over an unfresh childhood could help. He then explained that it was a type of physical therapy, so I opted in. The whole way there I kept picturing my sister to the south on a tiny little treadmill while people stood around shouting, "You can do it!"

As usual, things didn't turn out as I expected. The therapy hurt. Bad. I'm pretty sure a portion of my therapy is banned in several states, but after a couple of months I was better. By Luke's first birthday I was back to my old self again, and just in time to hear, "When are y'all going to have another one?" I still try not to cringe when I hear that question. Don't get me wrong. I love my son more than life itself. He is hilarious and has more shtick than I could ever dream of. He is amazing from the top of his strawberry blonde head to his dirty little toes. I would take a bullet, lay down in front of a train, or even attend a UT football game for him. But more babies? Not. Going. To. Happen.