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When I was SO VERY PREGNANT, as opposed to that sorta-kinda-mildly-pregnant…

Um, let’s try this again…

When I was about to burst, at that stage in pregnancy when every woman swears that she will be knocked up for the rest of ETERNITY, the only woman in the history-of-ever to be pregnant for the rest of all time, my doctor began prescribing a lil sumfin sumfin to help “move things along.”

That lil sumfin sumfin being sex. S-E-X.

Because god did I ever feel sexy weighing in at over 200 pounds with a bladder the size of a pea, flatulence a flying, nipples like burned pancakes, and ankles as thick as tree trunks. Sexy was my protruding belly button.

Just imagine my OB, with a very very thick Russian accent a la Robin Williams in Nine Months saying with a straight face, I need you to have sex everyday, as much as possible. The semen will help thin the membranes and the orgasm will help stimulate the contractions.

Orgasms are more than stimulating contractions, lady.

And, please keep in mind that it was not James, but my poor, dear, long-suffering baby sister who was by my side during these conversations.

Kimmy, I apologize.

How very far we have come since that time of forced sexual intercourse.

See, before Addison was born, in those final days of prescribed intimacy, I had some shred of decency. I mean I pooped with the bathroom door closed, and sometimes excused myself before breaking wind.

DECENCY, folks.

Then, after childbirth, and the tearing, and the afterbirth (which btdubs totally looks like whale brains), and the poopin’ the table, and the coaching through my first-post-partum-bowel-movement, and the water faucet boobs, and the lemon-sized blood clots passed on the bathroom floor, somewhere in there, that shred, well it up and disappeared.

Now? Nothing is too shameful or private. Nothing is off limits.

Take for example last week. And our two hour drive to the airport to drop me off for my trip to LA. We stopped at a rest stop because sweet-mother-of-god the Diva Cup was leaking and I was about to board an airplane for six hours and didn’t need to signal all the narco dogs by way of my crotch.

We loaded up in the bathroom family style so that I could change The Cup, and James could change The Diaper.

The bathroom layout proved to be problematic for moi, who was  seated on the porcelain throne, as the sink was located ACROSS the room, which meant that I either needed to waddle on over with my tights down around my knees or hand the bloody Diva Cup off to James for a good rinse.

I think that we all know which route I took.

While James was being the most accommodating husband on the planet, Addison proceeded to crawl all over the public bathroom floor and then, as if in slow motion, lowered her face to the dingy tiles… and… suckled. Like tenderly suckled the public bathroom floor as though it were a teet.

God, Teet is a ridiculous word.

It’s like I’m raising the next Briteny Spears with this kind of public bathroom etiquette.

Horrified, I fell off the toilet seat, bare ass in the breeze, vagina leaking, and nabbed her from the filth. James grabbed Addison and threw The Cup in my general direction. I quickly struck the “Captain’s pose” (a little piece of advice given to me by a successful Diva Cup user), and we scurried on out of there.

Because if we pretend like that didn’t just ACTUALLY happen, then no one is contracting Herpes. And maybe there’s a chance James will one day be able to look me in the eye again.

Maybe.

Although there is no way he’ll look at a bottle of rum the same way ever again.

Why did I just share this post? I DO NOT KNOW.

Happy weekend, y’all. HUGSIES!