After welcoming my son into the world, I confidently declared that my heart was full. Unfortunately, my vagina was a different story.
At my six-week postpartum checkup, my doctor casually remarked, “Well, that’s unfortunate.” These were not the words I wanted to hear as I sat there with many stitches still healing in a very sensitive area. I hadn’t even mustered the courage to inspect the damage myself yet. It was nearly as alarming as the moment when she asked, “Where’s the other needle?” while working on my stitches. The thirty seconds it took to locate that needle felt just as harrowing as the delivery itself.
To be fair, my doctor is fantastic. I experienced a shift change during labor—an unexpected twist—while my baby patiently waited in the birth canal for a couple of tense hours. The new doctor walked in, introduced herself, and delivered my child just moments later. That’s some impressive service!
So, what was the issue now?
“The stitches in your labia didn’t hold,” she informed me.
Great. I immediately realized I shouldn’t have attempted those squats so soon after giving birth. As a diligent postpartum patient, I’d wanted to strengthen my pelvic floor muscles to avoid embarrassing mishaps every time I laughed, coughed, sneezed, or stood up. Perhaps I had overdone it?
“Here, take a look,” she said casually, handing me a mirror. I’ll spare you the graphic details, but suffice it to say, the left interior side of my labia was no longer aligned. It was as if I had my own little labial appendage.
“I have a flap,” I said, incredulously.
“Well, we can always fix it when you have your next one!” she replied.
Excuse me? I have to endure this whole process again just to repair my vagina? After the appointment, I sat in my car, resting my head on the steering wheel, and sobbed for a solid minute—my six-week-old son wailing in the backseat.
I mourned my pre-baby vagina, which represented the significant shift motherhood had brought—not just emotionally, but physically. Venting to my mom friends about my woes was fruitless; when we gathered and shared birth stories, my flapping labia didn’t even register on the scale of chaos. One friend had a fourth-degree tear, effectively merging her vagina and butthole. Another spent three days in labor before delivering a ten-pound baby. My intact perineum didn’t seem to earn me any sympathy.
On the bright side, my husband has never mentioned it (to my knowledge). Given that I won’t be auditioning for any adult films, I can assume I’ll avoid public scrutiny.
Still, I wish I could dismiss it like some women do their stretch marks—the battle scars of motherhood. But I don’t feel like a fierce tiger; more like one of those bizarre hairless cats—strange but oddly endearing. Just when I start to accept my postpartum body, that little flap will snag in an awkward way, reminding me that I’m no longer the sexy woman I once was.
I know, I know. You’re probably thinking, “But you’re still beautiful! Motherhood is empowering!” Some might suggest I embrace the changes (or just toughen up). While I understand that stretch marks and loose skin come with the territory of pregnancy, a labia flap is not something I signed up for.
Sometimes, accepting my postpartum body just isn’t feasible.
So, I made the decision to get pregnant again just six months after my first child. Now, when someone questions the age gap between my kids, I candidly admit that I wanted another baby to fix my deformed labia. It’s a surefire way to silence any nosy inquiries.
Alright, that isn’t the sole reason, but when I find myself overwhelmed with the chaos of raising two little ones, it brings a small sense of comfort. I may be sleep-deprived for years, buried under piles of diapers, and might not have an intimate life until they’re out of the house.
But at least I’ll have a functional vagina. And this time, those stitches had better hold.