Somebody Needs to Call a Plumber

Somebody needs to call a plumber. Shit is starting to leak.

The first pregnancy left its mark; literally. There are stretch marks that are etched into my stomach like translucent worm-shadows. They glint in the sunlight and remind me of just how monstrous my growing belly will get.

My boobs…my poor, poor boobies that used to be perky and young, are now resembling deflated balloons. They look like those sad Mylar party balloons, a couple of days post-party. They aren’t dead yet– but they float sadly, crookedly, trying to will themselves back to their former position of height. They aren’t ugly, they’re just sad. I want to pat them and reassure them they’ll be returned to their former glory, by way of boob job. They just have to pull themselves together for one, maybe two, more pregnancies.

But really the biggest, most pressing problem is the leakage. Every time I sneeze– I pee. Every time a cough catches me by surprise– I pee. If I laugh too hard– I pee. You get the pattern. I pee. A lot. All of the time.

Furthermore, my eyes are leaking. Has anyone else seen that commercial with the homeless animals– Sarah McLaughlin singing “In the Arms of the Angels” in the background? It makes me want to die. It also makes my eyes leak. Commercials, stories, songs…one really old couple, helping each other cross the street– they all cause extreme leakage.

I also have future leakage to look forward to: the kind that comes out of your nipples when your body starts “playing house” in the third trimester. I feel like by the end of this I’m just going to be a fat, constipated blob with all sorts of liquids pouring from my orifices. I should just give up at that point and plant myself in a kiddy pool so I don’t have to bother trying to plug up all of the leaks.

Someone– please send a plumber.