- Losing sight of my vagina. Like with God, I wonder if I can’t see it, is it really there? After peeing, I wipe the place where my vagina should be. It becomes an act of faith.
- Why, when my breasts are so sore and firm and zingy from the milk ducts busily burrowing out space, is my toddler boy suddenly obsessed them, finding all ways to make contact? “Can I touch your breasts with my arm? Can I hug your breasts?”
- Abandoning the “I can do anything while pregnant” pride. I drop a dime while fumbling for change in a checkout line. I just look at it ’til the person behind me realizes I’m not bending down to pick it up. He gets all flustered, then picks it up for me, pleased as punch with himself for being a gentleman.
- Crying as I grip the bathtub, hovering over my son’s potty to get a deep enough squat to work through the constipation, afraid I am pushing hard enough to induce my own labor or at least get a hemorrhoid.
- Sex becomes fun again because it’s hilariously acrobatic by necessity and the stakes are so low. No orgasm pressure, no need to be sexy; let’s just see if we can make genital contact. Everything else is bonus.
Minna Dubin is a writer in Berkeley, CA. She is the founder of #MomLists, a Bay Area literary public art project about early motherhood. Her work has been featured in MUTHA Magazine, Story Club Magazine, GAMBA Magazine, and *82 Review. She was a 2016 Artist in Residence at Lacawac Sanctuary and Field Station. When not chasing her toddler in circles around the dining room table, she is eating chocolate in the bathroom while texting.