Set Up the Guest Bedroom, Here Comes Cousin John.

So it's been over two years since my last post. After giving the big wet french kiss of life to this dormant blog, my very first topic will be the inevitable physical result of my first pregnancy. Now how's that for a re-birth?!

Here's the story:

This morning I was rummaging around in my underwear drawer for that one piece of clothing I swore I'd never own. That's right: The Granny Panties.

You know you're officially out-of-the-running when you actually prefer Granny Panties to any other kind of undergarment. Those black lacy ones, the tiger-print thong, and yes, even that semi-transparant pair with the lacing up the back all get pushed aside in search of the ultimate undies. To my husband's utter dismay, these days, they've got to be big, they've got to be butt-ugly and they've got to be caucasian-colored. (I won't say 'flesh-colored', since there are about a million different colors of flesh in the world - these ones are made to match the flesh of a pasty-white person with a vitamin D deficiency, IE me.)

So when was the moment that I started to prefer Granny Panties over the more attractive - and most certainly more uncomfortable - kind? I remember it precisely: it was in the exact same week that Cousin John came to stay.

Cousin John and I are not exactly related, but we are stuck together for eternity. You see, Cousin John is my hemorrhoid, the prize souvenir of my first pregnancy. My husband and I decided to personify it by giving it a friendly name, which for some reason made me think the excruciating pain would be easier to bear. Only problem was, Cousin John was not friendly. He was a pain in the ass.

Cousin John always arrived unexpectedly and had the worst possible timing. He never called beforehand, used up all the toilet paper and overstayed his welcome on at least three separate occasions. My husband not only had to compete with him for my attention, but he also managed to remain celibate for the duration of Cousin John's stay, for which I am eternally grateful. I tried to confront Cousin John with the problem, and eventually he did go away, but before long he'd turn up again via the back door, peeking his head round the corner and going 'Heeee-eeeere's Johnny!'

Another reason why we named my hemorrhoid was so that we could discuss it freely around other people without making it painfully known why I had been sitting on a child's inner-tube all evening. It would sound something like this:
Husband: 'How's Cousin John doing?'
Me: 'He wants to dig a new hole in my backyard.'
Husband: 'Hmm. That's not good.'
Me: 'I know, I told him I already had one.'
Husband: 'What's he going to do with all the dirt?'
Me: 'Probably make more piles...'

So only my husband and I could comprehend the encrypted meaning behind these conversations about Cousin John. No one had to know about my embarrassing visitor and when people asked why I moaned so much and scrunched my face up and turned bright red every time I tried to sit down, I just told them I was sure I was about to go into labor. That usually shut them up.

It's been over two years since Cousin John last showed up, but he left his mark on my very existence. Although I'm pretty sure he's gone for good, I have to rule out even the slightest possibility of his unwelcome return. I will eat the fiber, I will drink the water and I will don the Granny Panties once again. Today, and forever more, I'm left with a drawer full of unmentionables that I will never wear and an sudden craving for laxatives.