Mommy is Dating

I do mine whenever I’m in the car, whether passenger or driver. Between Kegels and lifting my wine glass, it’s the most regular exercise I get.

Kegels are highly recommended practice for post-partum women. If you’re a mother, you know nothing strikes terror in your heart like your children enthusiastically begging you to jump with them on a trampoline. Hike up the Depends before doing it. I’d be willing to lay down a bet that every woman who’s had a baby (and many who haven’t) have tinkled in their panties with a sneeze on more than one occasion.

I do my Kegels regularly (often as involuntary response while shopping at my favorite toy store), even though I’ve had the above-described dilemma surgically resolved. If an orgasm is 1/8^th the intensity of a sneeze, well, you get a good picture of what I was dealing with.

There are other ways besides surgery to address the problem. Like 12 weeks of physical therapy. That’s where therapists teach you how to Kegel properly, then “measure” your success. Um, really? I think I’d rather sleep for a couple hours and wake up to a new me.

The surgery was easy. The test to ensure I was a candidate? Yeah, not so much. On a Discomfort Scale of 1-10, with 1 being a pelvic exam and 10 being delivering a child vaginally, I’d give it a 9.9.

Here’s where those of you who get squeamish may want to skip ahead. And if it’s too much for you guys, just skip to the end where there’s a little free advice for you. You can thank me later.

In addition to the Stress Incontinence issue (that just makes me feel so OLD and yet, so common), I was hoping to get a 2-for-1. I was also menstruating every two weeks, 7 days at a time, and the Extra Super Duper Really Absorbent Tampons were not doing the trick. Let’s just say that I would have extreme difficulty seizing the moment should the prospect of getting laid rear its, um, head. While such prospects are about as commonplace in my life as a pope in a whorehouse, I’m picky, too. He should have a penis and at least be the age of consent.

So naturally, on the day of the test, I’m bleeding like a whale. Once enlightened of my circumstances, the Doctor cheerfully says, “No problem. I think I can work around that.” She can work around it? I have a cock-sized tampon shoved up my hoo-ha and she’s going to work around it? Gee, I can’t wait.

Part A of the test: Urinate in what looks like a child-size throne IN the exam room so they can measure “production.” (Why couldn’t I have done this in the regular bathroom?) Now, as you may have inferred, I’m not overly modest. I can pee in front of people. Hell, I’m a single mother of two boys in a house with one bathroom. But on command? In front of two complete strangers? I don’t care how much water you run, it’s not happening.

Part B: Two catheters: One up the urethra to fill my bladder with cold water. Oh, goodie! The other up the vag to measure something else. I think it’s bladder volume, but I’ve long forgotten. I quickly lose concentration as the good Doc explains what she’s doing because it turns out what she meant by working around the catheter was using the rear entry. Holy Fuckola! Give a girl a little warning, would you?

Part C: Doc’s face is buried in my crotch. PA is running some machine that fills my bladder with cold water. (“Let me know when it gets uncomfortable.” “Um, I was uncomfortable about 20 minutes ago?”) I have a catheter up my pee hole, a tampon in my vag and a catheter up my poo hole, and the thought occurs to me, staring at the top of the Doc’s fabulous head of hair, “Dear God. Now would not be a good time to fart. And I really should schedule these things for the morning when I’m a little, oh, fresher.”

The objective of Part C is to measure how much I “leak” when stressed. So I endure a serious of coughing and produce absolutely nothing. Maybe I don’t leak when I’m mentally stressed?

“Doc,” I say. “Here’s where I tell you I don’t really have a problem with leakage. My girlie parts are just in need of a little attention. My insurance covers your attention but not a male escort, so I thought I’d pay you a visit.”

She does not find that amusing, so I try again. “Actually, I think we’d be more successful if you’d just leave me alone for a few minutes with a vibrator and a porn magazine.”

“Actually,” the doctor says, “I think your tampon is producing just enough pressure so that it’s preventing leakage. I say we remove it.” She yanks it out. Now, it’s not like this is the first time someone other than me has removed my tampon, but usually it’s dark, I’m extremely drunk, and monkey sex is about to ensue.

Part D? Back to the throne to measure my ability to empty my bladder. I waddle over (the catheters are still in) and crouch down.

“You can sit down,” the PA says.

“Um, not really,” I respond. Hello! I have a 10” pokey-poker up my ass. I rather stick that fucker in my eye than sit down!

Skip ahead a couple months. No more periods. And while I haven’t had the good fortune of testing the success of the surgery with anyone other than Rrrrrroberto, when the occasion arises, as dear god, it must in about 20 days, I will be good to go. Isn’t modern medicine grand?

That doesn’t mean I don’t do my Kegels anymore. I just do them for fun now.

And here’s a hint for you guys, on me: Women are frequently advised to do their Kegels during their commute to work. When embarking on a new relationship with a woman, a good question to ask is: How long is your morning commute? The longer, the better. Weed out the ones who work at home.