Image via Getty

Image via Getty

So, the world wide Royal Crotch Watch has come to an end. Kate and Will have added a beautiful baby girl to the family, to join older brother, George.

Like everyone else, I ooohed and awwwed over the first picture of the baby. She’s lovely.

Even more stunning, is Kate, wearing heels, and a white and yellow dress. How the HELL did she manage that?

I mean, I get that she has a platoon of hairstylists, make up artists, and God only knows what else at her disposal to make herself look wonderful, but for cryin’ in the mud, the woman just pushed an eight pound, three ounce baby out of her vagina. And then a mere ten hours later, looks like she spent the day in a spa, and got a baby as a thank you gift. Good God.

There’s no make up artist on the planet that could’ve made me look vaguely presentable ten hours after giving birth. Not even with some serious spackle, triple layers of Spanx, black magic, and probably a small animal sacrifice or six. Just. Not. Happening.

Ten hours after I gave birth, I was still trying to pee. Without crying.

Pooping? Don’t. Want. To. Talk. About. It. I was gingerly mincing my way across the cold hospital floor, with a maxi pad roughly the size of a crib mattress anchored into place by the oh, so attractive mesh panties that any woman who’s ever given birth knows about. (Comfortable as hell, those things. And sure beats ruining your own underwear, am I right?)

Sitting down took planning, effort, and time. I was giving thanks to whoever thought to freeze maxi pads to make perfect ice packs for the hoo ha. (Seriously, whoever you are, you are a blessing straight from the Universe. Women all over the world bless you.) The folks told me that the swelling in your hands and feet go down after the baby is born were damn liars. I was more swollen AFTER the baby was born than before. Seriously, I could have worn my husband’s sandals over my fat Shrek feet. Heels? No way in hell.

Sure, folks talk about the new Mommy glow, but I looked like a flushed version of the Stay Puffed Marshmallow Man. With frizzy Annie hair. One of my kids asked me why I still looked pregnant, and wanted to know if the doctor missed a baby. I may forgive her sometime after she has a baby of her own. (Maybe.)

Kate looks like she is perfectly ready to pose for a magazine cover, or attend a ribbon cutting event at a local playground or something. I don’t look that good on a planned date night.

But, as glorious as she looks, part of me feels badly for Kate. I mean, the idea of having an army of folks swarm over me, right after giving birth, to make sure that the hordes of cameras waiting for me outside are pleased by what they see? It makes me cringe. And, no matter how good the drugs may be that Kate has access to (I’m suspecting powdered unicorn horn, a few drops of dragon blood, and some fairy dust) Mother Nature calls her debts due.

I’ve no doubt that Kate was standing there, achy and swollen and sore, saddled with a diaper with wings, a peri bottle and a few extra pairs of super comfy mesh panties hidden in the bottom of her purse, she was probably wishing she were already home, snuggled up with her new baby girl, probably with her young son tucked in beside her, getting to know his new sister.

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