Showers. Such a simple concept. You get in, you get wet, you lather with your expensive body cleansing products (**EHEM**, Suave for kids. Strawberry, amiright?!), you rinse, you get out. Boom. You’re clean, and hence more likely to make and keep your friends.

Unless you’re a new mom.

Then, showers become this stressful, drawn out process that either ends in you becoming so fresh and so clean (clean) or becoming this wet, still greasy, sopping mess of mad that tracks water and suds all over the house in a failing attempt to maintain control of the love nuggets that are undoubtedly screaming and/or wearing your high heels while pulverizing Apple Jacks in to every thread of your bed sheets. And you bet your a** you will sleep in those Apple Jacks tonight, because expending the effort it takes to clean the sheets ON TOP of mopping up the shower water and harnessing the spawns is just too much for your brain to handle.

But when “Cathy Cashier” starts to stare at your greasy top knot while you are waiting in line at Target, it’s time to consider a good wash.

Unfortunately, showers for a new mom = destruction and possibly death. Here’s why:

A new mom is physically unable to take a quick shower. First off, it just took you 2 hours to complete the morning duties and wrangle the house JUST enough to even THINK about hopping in. Not to mention,we’ve got a lot going on right now that needs cleaned with time.You don’t just grab the ole Loofa and start scrubbing, that s*** needs care. Like Whirpool delicate cycle type of care. And, if I’m being honest, I wish I had the type of money to wash with silk. Pure, unadulterated silk. There, I said it. And we don’t have this type of time or resources. We’ve got to get to gettin’ because that little newborn nugget is going to start screaming in 3…2…1…

Now, even if you HAPPEN to get your delicate parts washed in time, you still have to tackle the hair. Allllllllllllllll that freaking hair. What is it about post-partum hormones that makes you pull out entire chunks of your mane? I’m talking CHUNKS. It looks like a black cat curled up and died in the bottom of my tub every time I add that Frederic Fekkai (**AHEM** Suave for Kids). Washing my hair alone takes 20 minutes: 2 minutes actually washing it and 18 minutes untangling the chinchilla that has entangled itself in between my fingers and wedding ring. And then, despite all of your best efforts to STICK THAT MASSIVE HAIR WAD to the side of the shower so it doesn’t go down the drain, enough of it will still clog the drain so that the last 5 minutes of your shower will actually become a bath. A cold, dirty, hair filled bath for your cankles.

Oh, but were you excited to let the gentle stream of the warm water relax your aching muscles? Don’t get too excited, because unless you wear your bra in to the shower (and you probably should), then those tiny, warm droplets will actually turn in to freshly sharpened razors that will LEGITELY cut your nipples off. Protect those mammary glands at all costs, new mommas.

And then….the 3 year old. Oh, hell, the 3 year old. First, while you are trying to salvage some of that lost hair by attempting to stick it back on your scalp (hey, you HAD to try it. Just to see…), she will probably strip down naked, smack the shower curtain, and proclaim that she, too, will be joining your shower. No. Just no. Mommy is knee-deep in chinchilla water, just stay away. When Daddy cleans the drain, he has to bring that s*** down in a Target bag. Her response will probably be “Ok, I’ll just stand here and watch you then”. Ummmm….what?! Weird. And after her 97th attempt to open the curtain and climb her tiny, naked butt in, you will just hold the curtain shut and don’t speak or move, hoping that the T-Rex method will work JUST THIS ONCE. It won’t, but you gave it hell.

In the meantime, you have moved on to shaving your legs. HAHAHAHAHAHAH JK. Shave our legs? No.

And then, the oldest spawn will probably get in to shenanigans with the infant. “Open your mouth, Leyton. I SAID OPEN YOUR MOUUUTH!!“ If that doesn’t send your jiggly, sudsy post-partum body a’ runnin’, I don’t know what will. You try not to slip in the water you are splashing all over the bathroom in an attempt to seize the blueberry Mini Muffins that are being force fed to the human without teeth or the ability to chew. “I just didn’t want him to be hungry!” will be her defense. That’s totally safe, Everlee, thanks for your help. In retaliation, she will probably wait until you return to said shower before she pushes the baby’s napper allll the way out of the bedroom and in to the hallway and then return to the room and shut the door. This will send you in to panic mode when you peek out of the shower curtain to investigate WHY the infant has been so quiet for so long. Oh, right, he’s missing. Sweet.

At this point, you just cut your losses. You have not yet made it to the body soap stage, but this freaking shower is DONE. That was the most stressful 30 minutes of your life. And “Stuck-Up Sally” at Target will just have to get over your stank. And when you look in the mirror after said shower to attempt to brush your “hair”, you are left with an image that looks more like Danny DeVito than your “used-to-be-luscious” locks. It’s alright though, just put on that Target beanie and walk towards the light. You can rock that. Sans makeup, too, because Lawd knows that would be an additional 30 minute escapade and ain’t no body got time for that.

But don’t worry…later that afternoon your dear ole Ball n’ Chain will come home from work and hop RIGHT in the shower for a peaceful 15 minutes of warm quiet time while the tiny human leeches completely ignore the fact that he’s showering and instead use YOUR body like a jungle gym on the couch. Just breathe, Momma, and try not to kill your husband at this point. TRY. HARD. This is going to take just about the same amount of effort that it takes for you to climb your “fluffier-than-normal” body over the back of the couch to stretch your Go-Go-Gadget arms just enough to plug in your cell phone charger. Ya know, in the instance that you need full battery to call 911 for unmentioned reasons. And you know just as well as I do, that’s a crap ton of effort.

So alas, every time your body starts to smell like a corpse, you enter this mental dilemma: Do I even have the strength to attempt to clean my body and keep my friends, or do I just throw in the proverbial towel (or an actual towel), change my underwear (POSSIBLY my pants, POSSIBLY) and say “F it”? The latter. I choose the latter.