My mummy-tummy tourettes

Posted Friday 23rd November 2012   By Ericka Waller

Why do I feel the need to share so much personal information about myself, to anyone, all the time?

So I just read Jamie’s (excellent) blog post about being a blushing SAHD dad who has to hear FAR too much about the mums he spends time with. It got me thinking.

I do that. A lot.

I can often be overheard in the playground lamenting my “ski-slope” breasts or the “bowl of porridge strapped to my belly” where my abdominal muscles used to be.

And the more I talk about it, the worse it gets. It’s like I have some kind of tourette’s syndrome.  I can’t stop myself from telling people things like “When I bend over, the skin on my tummy looks like a pair of dangly testicles.”

And it just keeps coming.

“I keep weeing after I think I’ve stopped.” “I have a hostile cervix!” “Can you see my piles through these leggings?”

In my head I am screaming at myself to shut up, but what comes out is “My hairy nipples are cold!”

Maybe it’s because I never felt I got the recognition I deserve from the husband. In all three labours he asked the attending midwifes if, in their opinion, giving birth was less painful than snapping a cruciate ligament – as he once did playing football. Obviously it looked it.

Maybe I’m just desperate for someone, anyone to say “OH my god that sounds HIDEOUS, you are AMAZING” but that never happens. Instead it becomes one of those competitive mum moments and everyone starts chipping in with “Well, I tore front to back” or “That’s nothing. My baby was 15lb. I whistle when I walk now.” or “My stretch marks make me look like I had sex with a tiger” or “I carry half the swimming pool out with me, up there.”

That seems to be the moment Jamie walks in.

Sorry Jamie. My breasts really do look like ski-slopes though. And it could be worse. I only talk about these things. I’ve not got to the stage where I actually show people my war-wounds.

If you dare compare an old football injury to the pain of labour I may be tempted to however.

 I just can't seem to stop myself from talking about it. It's not pride, it's ... my mummy-tummy tourettes