Good morning!  Please grab a cup of coffee, put down your email, & welcome to our second installment of Guest Blog Week, brought to you by Morgan of The818. I had the fantastic opportunity to experience pregnancy on a bi-coastal level with Morgan.  (her absolutely perfect little girl, Dee, was born a mere 6 days before Harrison)  & I know y’all will love her as much as I do, if you don’t already religiously follow The818 like me.  She’s gorgeous.  Hilarious.  With wedding pictures to swoon over (no seriously, go look at the page on her site dedicated to them).  & she takes pictures of herself breastfeeding for the interwebs.

So basically, one of the best Mommy-bloggers out there.

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Well, Hello Heir-To-Blair-Ites.   I must say I’m feeling a bit nervous…like I’m the ill-mannered Valley Girl about to get grass stains on Blair’s freshly cleaned Southern carpets…    But hell, she invited me, so I should just kick my filthy chuck taylors up on her coffee table and make myself comfy, right?

When Blair told me my guest blogging stint would be a free-for-all (read: no assigned topic) my mind instantly started to sizzle with possibility.   My immediate reaction was to seize the opportunity to talk smack about all of the people in my life who I can’t talk smack about on my own blog because they read it…But I thought that might be in poor taste and Blair’s a classy gal.

So instead I’m going to talk about when my vagina became a war zone.    Enjoy.

My daughter was about twenty minutes old.   The euphoria of childbirth was starting to wear off – along with my epidural – and the reality of having had a small human stroll out of my nether regions was starting to set in.   I remember the exact moment that I became aware that there were two people still elbow deep in my uterus.   I was trying to listen to the nurses taking Dee’s measurements across the room when I heard my OB say “And this is what I call the ‘HUSBAND STITCH”.   I snapped to attention.   It wasn’t lost on the Doc.   I’m pretty sure she winked at me.   (See, the thing about teaching hospitals is, the Attending physicians are always doing that pesky teaching thing which means they’re narrating their every move.   Trust me when I tell you that listening to someone describe in graphic detail the repairs they’re making to the extensive damage to your vagina that you DID NOT SEE COMING, AND REALLY WISH SOMEONE HAD WARNED YOU ABOUT is pretty much the last thing on earth you would ever want to do.)   Anyway – there I was, 20 minutes post-delivery, still spread eagle in the delivery room with Doctor FrankenGyn, the resident on duty, and a couple of L&D nurses holding a quilting circle at my cervix, and I couldn’t help but think to myself how nonchalant these ladies were being about the whole thing.   I mean I knew there would be stitches, but  HELLO?   THAT’S MY VAGINA YOU’VE BEEN DEMONSTRATING THE CROSS STITCH ON FOR THE LAST TWENTY MINUTES.

Note to Doctor:   I really don’t appreciate flippancy when it comes to the state of my lady business.   When I ask you if it’s really bad?   I could do without the chuckle and the jokes about vaginal rejuvenation, THANKYOUVERYMUCH.