Welcome to Everything Is Embarrassing with Sam and Haely. Consider this our little corner to share our most awkward, questionable parenting moments so you’re able to feel better about your own life. If you want advice, we aren’t it — we’re just two moms with aggressive top knots, open hearts, and bribery candy trying to figure out this parenting circus and remind you that YOU’RE DOING GREAT. (Actually we have no idea but just go with it.)
And now, to the moment at hand, in which Sam boldly reenters society after the birth of her second child. (Co-written by Sam and Haely.)
Sam: I’d just had a baby, my second little boy. I gained about 40 pounds in this pregnancy, which felt a tad oppressive on my petite frame but MAMA HUNGRY.
Let’s be honest, my boobs were the real star of the show. A perky double-D (typically a barely B), they never bounced like this before. It was just four weeks since my animalistic birth (let’s not go there yet, we’ve just met), and I was feeling pretty damn good. My tummy was starting to noticeably deflate, the girls were full to the brim, and I had that new-mama glow that comes from shedding liters of sweat into your bed sheets each night. I was totally nailing this second kid thing.
When my husband lightly suggested I needed to leave the house, I didn’t argue. I had showered the day before, or at least the day before that, and anything was possible in Los Angeles! I peeled off the girdle (now lovingly branded my “belly band”) engulfing my entire midsection, and shimmied out of jeans that may or may not have been my husband’s. Tits out with a lustrous post-pregnancy top knot, I was feeling myself. As I walked out, I caught myself in the mirror and thought: Mama. Is. Back.
I strutted down the street offering friendly smiles to locals and maybe a subtle wink at a shirtless millennial on a beach cruiser. I was a free [married af with two kids] woman in the world! Eat your heart out, Venice!
I approached my beloved coffee shop and couldn’t wait to say hi to my favorite barista, Clay. As I was about to swing the door open, a woman about my age briskly stepped in front of me. She was holding a small dog with rhinestone-encrusted collar, and held the door open. I nodded my silent thank you, stepped inside and she followed behind.
When I casually turned around, BAM: direct eye contact. Smiling at me. The kind of eye contact where you look away then look back and they haven’t broken the gaze. Maybe she wants to know about my skincare, or my outfit? You got it girlfriend. Happy to share my incredibly complex routine: 1) cleanser, 2) rose water toner, 3)-7) four hyperspecific serums each containing a variant of hyaluronic acid, 8) air dry while doing 10 daily gratitudes, 9) water mask, 10) facial oil, 11) jade roller. Look, I get that I’m on fire Karen, but take it easy with the stare down.
“Hi,” she says. I smile back. “You look amazing,” she continues. “Aw, thanks,” I reply modestly, secretly soaking up every second.
“How far along are you?”
WHAT THE ACTUAL F*CK, KAREN.
The world stops. I want the floor to swallow me up. Everything goes in slow motion, like that scene in Old School where Will Ferrell gets a tranquilizer to the jugular. I come to with Clay staring blankly at me, waiting for an order. No whistle of the espresso machine could drown that out. He heard everything. Everyone did.
'Good luck,' she says. Clay looks confused because the last time I was here, I was so huge I had to ask a stranger to tie my shoe.
How f&*$@g far along am I?? “Umm… you know, just a little bit.” Hoping she will walk away before I dissolve into a weeping heap of hormones. Why can’t I just correct her? This rhinestone betch needs to know that I just had a freaking baby, she’d know not to ask someone that.
But I keep it going, adding salt to the wound, “Thaaank youuuu.”
“Good luck,” she says. Clay looks confused because the last time I was here, I was so huge I had to ask a stranger to tie my shoe. I quickly order my drink, skipping my standard pain au chocolat and brush past Karen as I leave that godforsaken coffee shop for my walk home.
I make my way back to my familiar block, less bounce in my step and suddenly more aware of the gaping hole between my abdominal walls. As I step in the house, I see my husband sitting on the coach and demand to know: “Babe, do I look pregnant?” “Nahhh,” he says with discernible doubt. It didn’t matter that he didn’t look up; it was all I needed to hear.
Back in the safety of a pants-optional abode, I eyed my compression garments and wondered just what we thought we were going to accomplish together. The belly was continuing to evolve, yes, but my husband didn't care, so why did I feel so deflated? Clay definitely didn't care. I could see the trap, in which I second-guessed stepping outside the house at four weeks postpartum without technical hosiery, lest a clueless dog lady draw the wrong conclusions. But then again I wasn’t the one dressing my dog in rhinestones for a beach cafe specializing in serving pour-overs to people in flipflops. This was Muscle Beach, and Muscle Beach has a place for every body!
Home, regrettably without a pain au chocolat, you know who gave the least cares? My squishy 4-week old, whom I immediately scooped up and inhaled, kissing his little crescent rolls. How far along am I? Turns out I’m pretty f*cking far gone on this bebe, Karen.
The last word from Haely: 8/10 embarrassings; Karen deserves a unicorn frappuccino to the purse.