Ahh, having a baby. That glorious, sacred beauty of ushering new life into the world, when the miracle your body nurtured for nine months slips into your arms and steals your heart.
It truly is a blessed event—choirs of angels singing, rays of light streaming onto faces fresh from God, etc., etc.
But as any mom will tell you, that’s only the tip of the proverbial delivery iceberg.
Because after that baby has been met and swaddled like a real-life burrito and snuggled into a plastic viewing apparatus on wheels next to her bed, that mother has to tackle veritable hell on earth: the first trip to the bathroom after pushing a baby out of her actual body.
I’ll never forget it with my first; after 35 (yes, THIRTY-FIVE) stitches following her rather hurried entry, a kind nurse shuffled me across the length of my postpartum recovery room to the bathroom and clucked some gentle, apologetic encouragement into my ear. She handed me a clear plastic squirt bottle, a pad the size of Vermont, a can of Dermaplast, a tub of witch hazel, and a gauzy mesh underwear-like something.
And then, with horror, I understood. This is the part no one warns new mothers about, the dark underbelly of having a baby. And save for that first time or two post-delivery when angels called nurses help us in our most vulnerable moments, we’re left with only an arsenal of strange medical supplies and our grimacing determination to make heads or tails of it and survive.
The people behind the Nose Frida (sucking snot out of baby nostrils since before it was hip) understand—and the company’s new ad campaign for its smarter postpartum products is an all-too-real glimpse into those raw postpartum pees.
Admittedly, that brought me back to those painful moments when my unmentionables felt like a meat grinder had gone through them instead of the sweet baby at my bedside, this ad is basically genius.
We all remember the feeling of filling that useless peri bottle at the sink (here, let me awkwardly spray warm but not too hot so as not to inflict first-degree burns on my third-degree tears water on parts I can’t even reach). We all remember the glorious relief of the freshly-sprayed witch hazel pads delivering their sweet relief. We all remember how it felt to be so utterly and impossibly undone.
So hats to you, Frida Mom. I simultaneously adore and abhor this look into the real life of new moms, and I think that makes it an advertising success story.
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