Think motherhood equals mom jeans and a minivan? Think again.
I don’t fake orgasms. You know what I have faked? Peeing. I don’t mean pouring warm tea on someone and pretending it’s a golden shower. I’m talking about those group trips to the ladies’ room where you’re all supposed to pee in front of each other while fixing your lip gloss and gossiping about boys. I could never do it. I was pee shy. So I’d squat, wait a few seconds, flush nothing and then sneak back to the bathroom later, alone.
Want to know the cure for pee shyness? Toddlers. Not only do I never pee alone anymore, but I generally do so with my daughter’s head wedged between my bum and the toilet seat so she can get a prime view of the action. If that is what she needs to get potty trained, I’m all for it. I’m also pretty sure that if you brought in five drunk sorority girls, I could now pee in front of them as well. Ergo, motherhood has actually turned me into a cooler chick by making me less self-conscious and uptight.
Here’s another example of the power of motherhood: I used to be appalled by scatological humor. I didn’t find farts funny. I thought that episode of Oprah where Dr. Oz described the color and shape of an ideal poop was super gross. Now, every day of my life includes detailed poop conversations, poop encouragement and poop analysis (a mom needs to make sure her kid is eating properly). Frequently, my kid will beg to see her own poop, so we’ll actually peel open a sealed diaper and take a few minutes to admire her masterpiece. And then I’ll go right back to eating pizza. At bedtime, my daughter will ask me to tell her a poop story, and I’ll do some elaborate number about monkeys slip-sliding in their own feces while she laughs and laughs. I am literally a completely different person—a person who talks about poop.
There’s a third thing. I used to be somewhat modest when it came to nudity. This wasn’t a moral stance—I was just a bit self-conscious, especially when it came to my boobs, which I didn’t believe were awesome enough to be on display. Then came breastfeeding. During the first few months of my daughter’s life, I pretty much showed my tits to everyone in town, including the mailman and my father-in-law. And I was so proud of their nurturing prowess that I began to feel they deserved to be in the spotlight, even after I stopped breastfeeding. I would get so many beads at Mardi Gras now.
Sure, motherhood can teach us all sorts of deep and wise things: unconditional love, patience, acceptance. But I’m most impressed by newfound ability to pee with the door open, topless.
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