I’m grateful to be finishing this year off with a strong pelvic floor. If you don’t want to hear about my groin, then this post is NOT for you.

It all started during our slog of a conception effort for RB. I pulled something, bad. 

It was a very sharp pain that went away, but kept coming back at random times: unloading groceries, rolling out of bed, rolling off of Captain.

I tried physical therapy while I was pregnant, but it felt a little worthless. How could I strengthen anything when every day RB was getting bigger and telling me to sit on the couch and eat ice cream?

I figured I’d go to PT after RB was born.

RB was born. Flew out. Not sure what kept her in so long. So I wasn’t in any pain and thought,

“I’ll go to PT someday.”

Then the next thing I knew I was busy hoarding toilet paper and cookies and my pelvic floor was left to fend for itself. 

Then it was this September. Our health insurance deductible was maxed out and I was still getting sharp pains. I needed to sign up for PT or get off my squatty potty.

And it was not just because I needed blog material. Although that isn’t the lowest reason on the list for my return.

I don’t know how many of you have filled out an intake form for pelvic floor physical therapy before, but it’s a lot. It’s the 5 page history of my crotch the world never needed.

I wrote the truth, but then I was tempted to cross things out. I show Captain. It’s too late. Nothing screams poetic license like a second draft of a medical history.

Yes I could’ve just printed a new form, but I couldn’t be bothered. My physical therapist got the whole truth.

She was lovely. After BB was born, I needed a lot of internal work. See previous pelvic floor post here.

Five years later, I needed more strength. So for the most part I got to keep my clothes on.

The days I kept my clothes on, I went straight for a table in the main room where several other people were doing PT. My therapist would ask if I had any pain that week.

In a quiet voice I told her that I rolled off of Captain with no sharp pains. She declared,

“There’s no TMI here!”

I feel like there’s no TMI between her and me. She’s read my vagina’s biography. But it sure feels like the 80-year-olds across the room may not be interested in what my crotch has been up to.

I graduated from PT three weeks ago and so far so good. TMI or not.

From my pelvic floor to yours, Happy New Year!