One of the great things about parenthood is that you lose all sense of shame.
It begins right away. I mean, a small group of people just saw you push a baby out of your vagina (or, in my case, saw a baby extracted from your abdomen). And since I was breastfeeding, there was also a steady stream of lactation consultants and nurses coming into my hospital room and grabbing my breasts to show me the right way to do it. By the time my six-week postpartum exam rolled around, I was like, "Sure, everyone else has had a peek, go right ahead."
The other thing is that you will do anything, and I mean anything, to make your kid smile (or at least make them stop crying), even in public. Before Khan, I might have belted out Cheap Trick's "The Flame" in the privacy of my driver's seat. Now I will happily sing it in front of anyone, because he likes it (he is only one who likes it- he hasn't been around long enough to be able to differentiate between good and bad singing).
I also sing "Old MacDonald" and "She'll Be Coming 'Round the Mountain" in checkout lanes, and I've done This Little Piggy and Criss, Cross, Applesauce in restaurants. I've come close to exposing myself to everyone at the pool when Khan nearly yanked my bathing suit down.
But who cares? My kid is happy. That's all that matters.
This laissez-faire attitude extends to my appearance. So what if I haven't shaved my legs in a week? Maybe my hair has cottage cheese in it, and my toenail polish is chipped, and there's crusty dried oatmeal on my sleeve. Maybe I still need to lose twenty pounds of baby weight. I have a one year old. What's your excuse? My kid looks cute, and as long as he looks cute no one will be paying attention to me anyway.
I haven't felt this free to act silly in public since I was in high school. And I haven't cared so little about how I look since I was Khan's age. So maybe having strange women squeeze my breasts was worth it.
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