An open letter to my bladder

Dear bladder,

Hm.

We need to talk.

I never had much of a problem with you before -- we were always good. You did your job, and I'll admit, I probably took you for granted a little. I feel badly about that, and I'd apologize if I thought you'd listen. You've taken your revenge a little too far, though.

The first indication that something was wrong was early on in my pregnancy with boy. You started to let me down. It wasn't all the time, and it wasn't by much, but those small betrayals didn't go unnoticed. The doctors tell me that pressure from the growing baby means that there's a strain on a body's bladder. I get that. But even on days I was drinking less water than usual, you were hyperactive. One day I actually logged every time I ran to the bathroom. In one day, I visited the powder room 23 times. TWENTY-THREE. And that was while I was AWAKE. I know they say it's good for a pregnant woman to walk for exercise, but come ON.

If that was your only transgression, I might have let it go. But we both know it wasn't.

(Sigh.) Bladder, you've got to start holding it together. Or should I say, holding it IN. Seriously. I thought it was bad enough the first pregnancy -- but with this one, I've had a cold for three weeks, and when I cough or sneeze, there's more being expelled than germs from my face, if you get my drift. It's never been bad enough that I caused a public scene or anything, but it is uncomfortable. As it is, I'm considering buying stock in Kimberly-Clark, the makers of Always pantiliners.

It's not just you. You're one of a dozen or so organs that have thrown me for a loop since I became a mother. But your betrayals are definitely among the more embarrassing I've experienced. I don't want to hear about Kegels -- they've never seemed to help, and besides, that's just shoving the accountability back to me, when this is your screw-up. And I don't want to hear you start talking about urologists, either. You think a pregnant woman hasn't already lost enough dignity, what with the knees in the air and the thin paper sheets and the constant lights being shined on parts of her body that only her husband should see?

So please -- get it together, bladder. I've got enough to worry about.

If you want to talk, I'll be in the powder room.

Sincerely,

me.