This story has come from reading the lovely Whinge Whinge Wine’s latest post about pelvic floor dramas(you can read it here) which reminded me about a traumatic experience on a trampoline post-baby.
This post contains a lot of TMI – you have been warned. Pre-childbirth I never paid attention to ladies pissing themselves; and when I gave birth to nine pounds of baby via the sunroof I thought I’d been lucky (said no c-section mum, ever).
As far as I was aware I’d never wet myself; my vajojo was intact and I could be (and was) smug about the fact my pelvic floor was intact.
I first noticed things weren’t right when I pushed the boy in a pram up a steep hill; when I made it to the top I broke out into a cold sweat and I had to check no wee had indeed fallen out.
It was a strange sensation – like a warm, numb feeling somewhere amongst my mashed-up insides.
Around eighteen months post-Caesarean I was invited to a local fitness class with a friend – she had told me it was set to music, great fun and an amazing workout. As much as I’d rather exercise my hands lifting pizza to my mouth I thought I’d better show willing.
So one miserable Winter evening I hauled my fat carcass along to a local ladies-only gym.
The lady checked us in at the front desk; she told me not to be nervous and that I would find facilities in the bathroom if I needed them and not to worry if I had an accident.
Eh? I thought nothing of it, maybe I’d misheard her.
So when the doors opened and I walked in and saw twenty mini trampolines in front of me I died a little bit inside. Every other person was a maximum of 8 stone and in peak physical condition.
I escaped for a pre-class wee. There was a little display of Tena Lady and Vaj freshener. What the actual fuck.
Holy fuck. Maybe this wasn’t a good idea; I’m all for breaking the fat girl stereotype and proving that I’m actually not bad fitness wise but this looked like torture.
In walked the instructor, barely out of her teens and wearing the tiniest shorts and crop top I’ve ever seen.
Instantly I disliked her, with her solid abs and non-existent arse. Bitch.
And she called everyone ‘guys’. She was way too happy for my liking.
The music started. A happy hardcore version of Dolly Parton’s 9 to 5 blared out and off she went like some weightless fairy on acid.
It was HARD. I couldn’t keep up, my fat feet couldn’t match her pace and I was just busting out some half arsed moves reminiscent of an elephant on speed.
And then it happened.
We were (supposed to be) doing fast jumps and then really big side kick jumps, I felt the familiar cold sweat feeling coming back and a funny sensation in my vajojo.
I should have stopped. Why didn’t I stop.
My trousers felt funny. A sort of weird warmth. A damp warmth.
What the fuck? What is that?
Oh, sweet Baby Jesus.
It’s piss. My own piss, running down my legs.
I looked down at the trampoline. I could see drips of wee escaping from my leggings. There was a pool forming. A tiny little pool of piss.
Time stood still. I quickly evaluated my (limited) options:
- Carry on bouncing in my own piss, and try to style it out. But I couldn’t feel my bladder and I had no idea how much fluid had the potential to fall out of my lady parts. It could be a few splashes, a stream or a lake.
- Stick my hand up and admit to Miss Tight Abs that I’d pissed myself. Suffer the humiliation of admitting my pissy knickers to a roomful of ladies with an average of 0.01% body fat.
- Run. Run like the wind. Bolt for the doors and never look back. And hope no one notices the little pool of piss I left behind.
And just like that, I decided to leg it. I leapt off the trampoline, grabbed my crotch MJ style (to hide the damp patch, not busting a move) and bolted for the door.
“See you next week” said the lady at the front desk.
Not fucking likely, flower. I never went back.
From speaking to lots of ladies and medical professionals I’m assured that statistically most ladies experience this postpartum. Anything from the odd dribble to a full-on flood, perfectly normal.
Ladies – there is no shame in never trusting a sneeze or a laugh ever again; go forth and buy some Tena Lady, and consult a doctor if things don’t feel right.
I fully admit that I will probably never bounce again; unless there is Prosecco and I’m so pissed I don’t give a shit.
But don’t feel alone, and don’t feel ashamed – I wish I’d known how common it was, and I hate the British-taboo attitude to afflictions of the lady parts.
And never EVER attempt a fitness class on a trampoline without a nappy on.
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