For the love of Clay Monkeys

There’s this girl I know….

And by know, I mean, met on the Internet.

Does that make me weird? 

Meh.

Anyways, in the bloggy world she’s a rarity like me.  A Canadian Military wife.  But that’s not what her blog is about.  It’s about clay monkeys and stuff.  Which is way funnier.

Lately, she has been doing this series where she writes about a letter of the alphabet each day.  So far, it’s been in order but I’m just waiting to see when she’s gonna go ahead and switch it up to throw us all off.  She’s crazy like that. 

Well, this last post was awesome fantastic.  Read it here.  Then come back.  Please come back?  I promise you can go back to her blog after…..

Clay Baboons

So, I mentioned to her after that when I read this post, while waiting an unrealistically long time at Service Canada to submit passport applications, only to be told that my two youngest’s pictures were rejected because it ‘looked like they were trying not to smile….‘, I may have laughed out loud and peed my pants a little.

That’s right. 

I have never had the experience of struggling to conceive.  I feel a little guilty about that, if you remember this post.

Possibly because of that,  I don’t have the urge to pee on anything.

BUT, when I mentioned my pants-peeing incident to Stephanie, she said she didn’t know that happened to people, cause, you know, people don’t talk about those things enough.

So, since I think it takes courage for someone to write an honest, funny but a little bit heartbreaking blog about trying to concieve, I am going to write a blog for Stephanie about a different but the same type problem.  Now, I can’t make little clay figures.  I’m a litle concerned they might be needed to make this kind of thing ok.  So I’m going to randomly pull Internet photos to illustrate since I am worried that without illustrations, it might be awkward.  The illustrations will somehow make the difference.

And through this show-of-pee-support blog, I believe that me and my readers, we’re gonna get closer.  That, or you will run away screaming.  In fact, you might want to just go ahead and do that now, before the big reveal….

Having babies broke my bladder.

http://www.soyouwanna.com/images/bladder-problems-10296.jpg

It’s ok, I forgave them.  But it’s true.  I am 31 years old and have the bladder control of a 90 year old.

This didn’t happen overnight… 
After I had my first, I remember talking to other older moms as they laughed about not being able to jump on trampolines without peeing themselves.  And I laughed.  I thought to myself  
‘I do my kegals.  I will be just fine!‘

But, in fact, I was not.

Now, how often does someone who is not in the circus jump on a trampoline?  So this wasn’t that concerning.

After my second, I realized that sneezing, jumping and laughing were also going to be a problem.  But this seemed to be a common theme among moms, so I encouraged myself to continue with my kegals and move on with life.

But then after my third, things got a little more embarrassing.

The list of exercises that were off limits started to grow.  Jumping jacks.  Burpies.  Jump rope…

I started to have trouble even making it through a run.  I kept having the realization when I got home that sitting down was going to have to wait until I changed my pants.  I didn’t have any control over it anymore.

They sell stuff for this, did you know that?  There’s a whole market of ‘discrete’ little hygiene products that you can wear to avoid embarrassing moments.  They even have cute little ads that remind me of tampon commercials geared towards ladies who are past menopause.

http://www.poise.com.au/assets/0000/0480/posie-mobile-image-overlay.jpeg

So I stopped my next grocery shopping trip and I picked some up.

Nothing says cool like ‘I got Poise in my cart’ cool.

That next week, I dropped Drama at her art class at the Family Resource Center and used my hour to go for a quick run on the trail around the base.

Rounding the corner into the building to pick her back up, I realized my adorable little products had not done their jobs.  I was soaking wet to my knees.  And I still had to go to her class and sign her out.

Now, I’m not easily embarrassed.  But this time….  I decided to head to the doctor.  Cause what’s less embarrassing?  Explaining to my very sweet, male,  South African GP that I think there might be something wrong with me because I can’t stop peeing my pants.  Ya.  That was better.

I got a prescription for something to help while I waited for a specialist appointment.  When I picked it up from the adorable young pharmacist, she gave me the saddest look.  I told her childbirth was a terrible, terrible thing that she should avoid at all costs.

Looking back, that might have been a *tad* dramatic.  But leaving with a perscription box of pills that has pictures of 80 year old on it and instructions for taking with post-menopausal hormone replacement therapy hadn’t left me in my happy place.

Since then, I have gotten better.  I seem to have figured out how to avoid the situation getting too out of control.  I have pit stops at houses, churchs, and convenience stores all mapped out when I go out on long runs. 

Eventually, my specialist told me what I had kinda figured.  

My babies broke my bladder.

And it can be surgically fixed.  But waiting lists are long and race season is soon.  

So expect to see me come race day, thanking the Lord for black pants and praying for rain. 

Comments

comments

Related posts:

For The Love of Dairy I love that I can When Love Smells Like Pinsol Because Love Is Worth Missing Sometimes