I never thought I would birth children (and I haven’t, yet). I always knew I wanted to be a mom, but between medical complications, concerns about population growth, working in the foster care system, and a whole lot of trauma, I was intent on adopting for years. Then last year I went to my partner’s concert (he’s a professional musician), and while watching him play the marimba I had a very clear thought: I must have this man’s baby inside me. This was alarming because 1. I had only known this man for about 3.5 months, 2. I was convinced I would not, and probably could not, have kids, and 3. Wouldn’t that destroy my perfect vagina?
I am a feminist, and I study feminist philosophy and methodology, but I have some serious flaws in my thinking. For example, I’m pretty sure that the idea of a vagina snapping back to pre-baby size after birth is a myth to keep women having babies. You’re telling me that my vagina will rip straight through to my asshole and then heal itself like that never even happened? I do not believe it.
This is important to me not just because that process sounds horrific, but because a significant amount of my self-worth is in my sexuality. If you’ve read my other pieces, you’ll know that I could be described as competitive about my sexuality. I am fairly obsessed with the idea of being the best fuck, and I’ve often thought that being good in bed was my only redeeming quality. Years of trauma and mental illness taught me that sex was all I was good for, so I had better be the best at it. Luckily, I’ve been pretty successful at achieving this goal, and my self-worth as a sexual being has rarely been threatened (unless someone breaks up with me or doesn’t text back or isn’t instantly infatuated with my sexual skills… maybe “rarely” is the wrong word…).
The biggest threat to my (admittedly misplaced) self-worth is childbirth — my body will change, my vagina will change, and I just won’t be me anymore. When I try to discuss my fear with other people who can have children, I feel like my concerns are often dismissed with vague claims like, “oh it goes back” and “people have sex again after having babies.” I know people *do* have sex after having kids; I’ve seen the Duggars, but I’m not convinced sex with her after 18+ kids doesn’t feel like throwing a hotdog down a hallway, and no one else seems to be worried about that. If people are worried about their vaginas after childbirth, they certainly aren’t talking about it.
Recently, I found a kindred spirit in Maggie Nelson. Her book, The Argonauts, is incredible. If you haven’t read it yet, stop what you’re doing right now and start reading this book. The Argonauts has so many insightful ideas about gender, love and motherhood. Nelson’s use of critical theory with personal reflection creates the perfect memoir. I found the author’s honesty easy to connect to, especially in her reflections about her own body and motherhood.
Nelson describes concern for her sex life with her partner when, long after childbirth, her insides still feel different. She asserts that letting the baby out of her body means “falling forever, going to pieces” (p. 83). While Nelson does not connect her concern of “falling forever, going to pieces” to concerns that a person would not find their partner sexy after seeing them in childbirth (involuntarily shitting, stretching the vagina to the size of a baby’s head), I think the worry of letting go of your own body in this sense is not entirely different (p. 83).
I discussed The Argonauts and the idea of “falling forever, going to pieces” in childbirth with a mentor who is a mother by childbirth. She confessed to me that her sex life has been different since having children. She said her sex drive has not come back to how it was before childbirth. Her honesty is both relieving and terrifying to me. I always appreciate when womxn are willing to share their real, personal experiences, but this wasn’t the response I was hoping for. I keep hoping that when I express my concern for my body after having children, someone will say, “oh I hear you! I could not believe it either, but my vagina is better than ever!” instead of the same dismissive and unenthusiastic response. Hearing, “yeah it’s rough,” was not exactly reassuring.
At the same time, I was glad to hear any genuine response at all. People, particularly those who can birth children, often don’t discuss personal/sexual/medical fears, changes or desires as they are experienced in real life. This leads to a lot of confusion, unnecessary secrecy, myth and taboo around situations that are probably normal. Although I often feel like a weirdo, I know I can’t be the only one who cares about being a sexy mom.
A few weeks ago I finally listened to “WAP,” the song in which Cardi B and Megan Thee Stallion discuss their wet vaginas and general sexual prowess, and I thought, “wait, Cardi B is a MOM.” I don’t know how Cardi B birthed her child, but she was pregnant, and whether vaginal or C-section, delivery takes a toll on the body. And yet, here Cardi B is, bragging about her “little garage.” She publicly twerked while pregnant. Cardi B has not given up her sexuality at any point of becoming a mother. She clearly is not concerned about her vagina being too stretched out or her body being ruined, or at least she doesn’t address these concerns in her public persona.
I haven’t solved the mystery of what happens to a vagina (or more pertinently, *my* vagina) after childbirth, and I probably just won’t until I suck it up and have a baby myself. But it helps to have womxn role models out there like Cardi B refusing to be unsexed by motherhood. We have to start talking about our bodies and experiences so we can have more knowledge, healthier relationships with ourselves and deeper connections with others. My next pieces will dive deeper into Cardi B’s role in my philosophical enlightenment, Maggie Nelson’s writing on the sodomitical mother, why being a sex object isn’t necessarily a bad thing, and my obsession with being a MILF. When no one else will say it, I honestly will.
