Ever since I got pregnant I sort of had this idea in my head that I’d want to write an essay about how I’ve gone about reconciling my past as a self-identified slut and transitioned into being a mother. But the words wouldn’t come to me when I was pregnant, so I figured I’d get to it once I actually had the baby and experienced motherhood. So I waited and waited, and now, six months later, I’m still unable to write about it. It’s not because the subject matter is too difficult or too sensitive. It’s just that I’ve come to realize something: What is there to reconcile?
I’m actually a little bit disappointed in myself that I thought I’d need to make some kind of explanation about why I was one way when I was 27 and then a totally different way at 32. It sort of goes against everything that I’d believed in regards to sex-positive feminism. The reason why I wrote about that one aspect of my life so often was not to brag about being a wild, crazy, out-of-control, party, sex animal, but rather, to own the normalcy of it.
So why would I feel the need to make peace with a part of my life that maybe bothered other people but never bothered me? I never ever thought that being a slut was a weird or terrible thing that ruined a woman’s chances of being taken seriously as a wife or mother so there’s really nothing to report on how I managed to overcome my disgusting embarrassment of a life in order to achieve true happiness and reclaim my dignity.
And guess what: There is nothing dignified about childbirth and early motherhood. (Much like being a slut, lots of people see your tits, except at this stage in the game, they don’t look as good.) I guess it would all be pretty mortifying if I weren’t already so shameless. Thankfully, I got a lot of practice with that back when I was a slut.