Sitting (un)pretty

Being a mommy means that on any given day there will, without a doubt, be one, two, ten reasons to feel embarrassed, humiliated, and mortified. Like the time I forgot breast pads- and skipped a bra! (amateur mistake!)- and didn't realize it until we were in the photography studio for family pictures. If you were standing within two feet of me you enjoyed a spritz of Eau De Colostrum from my Spring 2013 line. Not cute. Funny, silly, refreshing for bystanders (it was a hot day), but not cute.
Or that time I left the house feeling super fly in my "skinny" jeans, only to realize 6 hours into an 8 hour shift at work that I still had the tags attached. No big deal if this had happened at any point between 1985 and 2011, when my pant size was enviously tiny. But instead it occurred 7 months postpartum. And the plethora of different tags all proudly advertised what I preferred to be "my little secret"...
SUPER HIGH RISE
HIDDEN TUMMY CONTROL PANEL
BUTT LIFT TECHNOLOGY
LOOK TEN POUNDS LIGHTER INSTANTLY
There may as well have been one single tag that said it all...
MOM JEANS
Sigh.
Is it such a crime that I prefer for people to know I am a mom because I have my cute kid sitting on my hip and not because I have some extra meat around my hips?
And if the obvious outwardly changes aren't humbling enough, how about the ones that don't meet the eye? Like the annoying layer of hair that now covers every inch of skin from the knees up and nipples down, courtesy of hyped-up mommy hormones. Or the lingering hemorrhoid that has become a permanent fixture in my life. My own personal sidekick that serves as a constant reminder of a gruesome vaginal AND butthole delivery. And how unfair that, besides surgery, the only way to treat this motherf@#%er  is to "avoid prolonged sitting on the toilet". Seriously?! That seems to be the only place I can sit without interruption from a husband or kid. (And even then there is no guarantee that I won't hear my name yelled incessantly.) In fact, this blog post is written, edited, revised, and published all from the privacy of my bathroom. Over the course of three weeks. At the expense of my comfort and my overall health, but privately, nonetheless. Maybe breaking the rules of "hemorrhoid home care" will turn so catastrophic that I end up either
1) placed on bed rest with strict dietary guidelines to eat a high Oreo, low vegetable diet (that exists!)
OR
2) admitted to a long term care facility that plays Bravo! all day on TV and lets me sleep till noon. Of course this facility welcomes family visits and encourages my involvement in Sweet P's life, but there is a much larger emphasis on massage, aromatherapy, and hair and nail care.


Now please excuse me while I pretend to use the restroom again.