by Daniela Syrovy

In the words of Britney Spears, “Oops I did it again”. Just as I was gearing up to workout and get my pre-preggo body back and kick some serious ass, I went and got myself knocked up… again.

Now I’m three weeks in on the other side. Baby was born on Halloween at home. If I thought the first labour was tough (you can read about it here, this one was on steroids in comparison. Contractions were so intense I thought I might pass out. I thought perhaps I was giving birth to the devil incarnate. My brain was going to explode and die and I almost vomited in my mouth several times from the pain. But then poof! she was born. Another gorgeous girl – we named her Viiva and for a split second I forgot what it was like to have a newborn. It started all over again. Engorged breasts, check. Massive under eye bags, check. Mustard-coloured seedy shit diapers, check.

I’m in newborn land and it’s not pretty. Or, I should say, I’m not pretty. When did I last wash my hair? You don’t want to know. My stomach resembles a giant vat of goopy cottage cheese pancake batter that a werewolf clawed at. Floppy is my new middle name, and I’m actually contemplating cutting my hair short. Yes the dreaded mom cut has seeped into my subconscious as acceptable. Wha?! Did I just write that? Hell no…I’m a MILF. I’m determined to bring sexy back.

At least Viiva is sexy. Even her name is sexy. That’s a start. Is it normal to be jealous of your newborn’s looks?

I’ve gone half insane. At least I remember to take my multi-vitamin every morning (hoping the entire time that it will magically turn me back to pretty). Nevermind that most days I wish the omega 3 and vitamin C pills were actually Prozac.

Two babies under two years old is just wrong. It really is for the clinically insane. Typical scene: Suri (18 months old) is restless and bored as I’m stuck nursing every two hours. In an attempt to occupy Suri and do something pseudo productive, I decide to make an apple crisp (seems perfectly logical at the time) and prop the toddler up on a step stool to watch. Ten minutes later the kitchen is covered in oats, flour and sugar. Suri has stripped down naked refusing to wear anything except her winter boots, running from one side of the house to the other. Covered in flour and oats, she’s running and screaming at the top of her lungs. Me, I’m nursing.

Into this scene arrives my midwife for a check-up. After a few reassurances of, “yes, yes everything is perfectly fine” and a few apologies of, “I’m so sorry the house is a bit of a..umm mess” and a few more, “Suri!!!! Stop it”. I decide that it’s okay. It’s okay that my toddler is naked, running and screaming. It’s okay that the kitchen could star in a horror flick. It’s okay that I look diseased and infected. Its all good because I just pushed a human life through my vagina and really is there any feat more incredible than that? It really is the most mind-blowing thing you could ever do with your body. It’s a new kind of love and a crazy rollercoaster adventure unlike any other you’ve had. Trust me, no bar night, Miami trip, karaoke, or Greek island cruise could beat it. Well, maybe the Greek island cruise could.

Despite having officially sworn off sex (that’s a column for another day), I do catch myself daydreaming about how amazing it is to be a mother, and how I’m the luckiest woman alive to have two healthy beautiful daughters. Two is a nice number ..I think it’s enough. My hubby wants about ten so we’ve got some negotiating to do. I’d better be careful not to get too romantic about the whole birthing thing otherwise before I know it I’ll be singing to the man, “Hit me baby one more time”.