I just spent a weekend away, for a stagette party with 10 other women. Once upon a time, a stagette weekend away would have involved many Blow Job Shooters (or some other naughty named shots), push-up bras (well, for me anyways!) with tight clothing as we bar hop getting louder and gigglier along the way, and at some point, buff, naked men with big body parts dancing for us.
Not this stagette however.
No, at this stagette, three of the eleven women have had babies in the past year. Now, let’s be fair, three new moms, much like dog years, is really like 21 moms circling us sleep-filled, spur-of-the-moment, still selfish to our own needs women as they fill us in on hormones, post partum and poop. It’s like a traveler coming back from a third world country. All you want to do is share the enlightenment and sorrow and amazement you felt on the road but find that unless someone has experienced a similar place, your tales fall on deaf ears.
Here, the 3 moms have each other to share with. So they talk. And talk. And talk. And in the end, the rest of us, knowing our time may come, are drawn into the tales ourselves.
Even when the subject veers towards the wedding night and possible romantic honeymoon locales, we, inevitably, instead talk about the complete lack of desire after birth for anything but a full nights sleep. Only that, apparently, is woosh-worthy now. And do not even get the moms started on Nipple Talk. Stand back boys, baby needs to suck, chew, and sometimes nibble every 2 hours or so at the beginning. THAT’S 12 TIMES A DAY LADIES! But of course, you know that already.
I, myself, prefer to continue living the delusional fantasy that 3 meals a day is sufficient for any human. Handing over my breasts 3 times a day seems manageable. I have, after all, let Bal at them 3 times a day before. (Please do NOT remind Bal of this! I finally got him brainwashed into thinking 3 times a month is a lot!) But 12 feedings? A day? Every day?
I have yet to mention that at this stagette, no babies are allowed. So for two of the moms, this was their first time leaving their baby overnight, never mind an entire weekend. This meant a few frantic calls from Dads yelping, “He won’t stop crying! He’s pooping everywhere! We want your boobies back!” with what I can only imagine are big pouty lips and arms being thrown down to the sides.
In between Dad calls and glaringly detailed birth stories, there was a seemingly endless assembly line of breast pumping breaks. On the second night, I innocently went to the fridge for a beer. There, encompassing most of the fridge space was an overwhelming supply of breast milk. From one woman! There must have been over 12 bottles in there. Twelve!
By the second night, Milk-Saving Mom had given up on preserving her precious supply and decided to get loaded. She drank as heartily as the rest of us, pumped, and dumped. For the Moms, it was the first big drink in at least one year so were easy and cheap drunks. Good thing too, because the rest of us needed inordinate amounts of alcohol in an attempt to forget the horrors in which we had been enlightened to.
Unfortunately, as the night wore on, the stories became more vulgar and well, brutally honest. Obviously, I did not drink enough because I remember, with alarming clarity, that some women poop while giving birth. And pee. And puke. People film this?
We were witness to stretch marks and scars. We were told about pushing so hard, one woman broke her tail bone. I looked around the room at eight shell-shocked faces and three who were elated at their captive audience. What they did not realize is that we truly were captives. The only two vehicles we had to escape were driven by the moms. But honestly, much like a car crash, we would have stayed, gawked and not been able to turn away had there had been an escape route. It was all too fascinating.
So there were no pub crawls. No built stripper with engorged body parts. Who needed that? We had three ladies with engorged body parts of their own. On our way to the hot tub, one Mom realizes she has not pumped in, oh, like 2 hours. I learn that hot water will cause major leakage. Who knew? I picture the headline, “More Disturbing than Exxon, Mom has Major Spill in Public Whirlpool!” Mom #2 then whips out her rather large right breast and shows us all some clear plastic type thing pasted on her boob. Remember being a kid and looking at yourself in the mirror with cellophane over your face, all your facial features smooshed and distorted? This is her breast.
“No more leakage!” she shrills excitedly. I need a nap.
As the weekend draws to a close, we all declare it a successful weekend. We drink, we giggle, we play silly bride games and give her silly underwear. We also get an unbelievable education. Don’t get me wrong. I am still of the opinion that some things should never be shared. NEVER. Pregnancy poop for example. NEVER. After all, those of us teetering towards the thought of even the possibility of becoming a mother may instead run screaming back to the spontaneity, undisturbed sleep, and wine guzzling life that we are used to.
The moms, now sober and ready to go home to their babies, apologize for all the baby talk. They don’t want to be THAT WOMAN. You know, the one we all looked at some point in our lives and wonder how she got to the point where all she could think/feel/see was poop/baby talk/daycare. Then it hits me. At not one point during the weekend did I feel they were THAT WOMAN. I was enthralled, fascinated, disgusted, involved and curious. But never annoyed. Maybe I am one step closer to the idea of motherhood.