After welcoming my son into the world and embracing motherhood, I can confidently say my heart feels complete. However, my vagina tells a different story.
During my six-week postpartum checkup, my doctor started the examination with the words, “Well, that’s unfortunate.” Not exactly what you want to hear when you’re still grappling with numerous stitches in a sensitive area and have yet to muster the courage to inspect the damage yourself. It was almost as alarming as her asking, “Where’s the other needle?” after stitching me up. The thirty seconds it took to locate that needle felt just as intense as the labor itself.
To clarify, she is an excellent physician. I experienced a shift change during my labor—what a delight!—and my child lingered in the birth canal while my first doctor transitioned out. The new doctor introduced herself and delivered my baby shortly after. Now that’s what I call dedication.
What’s the issue now?
“The stitches in your labia didn’t hold.”
Great. I knew I shouldn’t have attempted those squats so soon after giving birth. Eager to strengthen my pelvic floor and avoid any embarrassing moments like peeing myself when I laughed, coughed, or sneezed, I may have overdone it.
“It’s not too bad,” she casually said, handing me a hand mirror to examine for myself. Without diving into graphic details, I discovered that the left interior edge of my labia, which should have been smooth and continuous, had essentially split in two. The top portion was now a separate entity entirely. I had developed my very own labia flap.
“I have a flap.”
“Well, we can always fix it when you have your next child!”
Wait, what? I have to endure this entire ordeal AGAIN just to fix my vagina? After the appointment, I sat in my car, resting my head on the steering wheel, and cried for a solid minute—my six-week-old son was in the back screaming his little head off.
I mourned my pre-baby anatomy, which symbolized the significant transition into motherhood—the physical and emotional changes that had transformed my life.
When I vented to my mom friends about it, I found little sympathy. During our gatherings, discussions about breastfeeding, co-sleeping, and teething would inevitably lead to “Who has the wildest birth story?” My labia flap didn’t even make the cut. One friend endured a fourth-degree tear, stating, “My vagina and butthole became one.” Another was in labor for nearly three days before delivering her ten-pound baby. Since my perineum remained intact, my concerns fell flat.
On the bright side, my husband has never mentioned it (to me). Given the unlikelihood of becoming a vagina model or a porn star, it’s safe to say I won’t face public scrutiny or embarrassment over it.
Nonetheless, I wish I could say I no longer worry about it or view it like some women do with their stretch marks, as badges of motherhood. Unfortunately, I don’t feel like a fierce mother tiger. My anatomy resembles one of those peculiar hairless cats—cuddly but undeniably odd.
Just when I start to forget about it, when I’m finally comfortable with my new postpartum body, that little flap will snag or tug in an unexpected way, sending a twinge of discomfort that reminds me I’m not the same sexy woman I was before motherhood.
I know what you’re thinking: “But you’re still attractive! Motherhood IS beautiful!” Some might urge me to embrace it (or toughen up). I believe that certain changes—like stretch marks or a looser vagina—are part and parcel of pregnancy and childbirth. However, a labia flap feels like an unwelcome addition.
Sometimes, accepting your postpartum body simply isn’t an option.
So, six months after my first child, I found myself pregnant again. Whenever someone inquires about my child spacing, I tell them the truth: I wanted a second child right away because I couldn’t bear my altered labia and wanted it fixed, ASAP.
It’s a conversation stopper.
Okay, okay, that’s not the sole reason, but when I feel particularly overwhelmed by the challenges of having two children under two, it provides a small sense of comfort.
I might not sleep for years. I may be drowning in diapers for what feels like an eternity. I might not have any intimate moments until they leave home.
But at least I’ll have a beautiful vagina. And this time, those stitches better hold up.
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Summary
The author reflects on her postpartum experience, dealing with the physical changes to her body, particularly her labia, after childbirth. She shares her feelings of loss and frustration over her altered anatomy, as well as the lack of empathy from her peers. Ultimately, she decides to conceive again, partly to address her concerns about her body.