That time Princess Kate Absolutely Killed it at Birth

Kate, Kate, Kate...

I know we have all seen the pictures. Girlfriend is seriously looking good for someone who pushed a human out of her baby chute only seven hours prior to those suckers being taken. She looks like she stopped by the hospital to grab a baby real quick on her way to brunch with the girls.

Kate is killing this childbirth thing. She looks like a baby gently fell out of her while Will was attentively reciting poetry by candle light and a woman in an evening gown softly played a harp in the corner. I bet her butt doesn't even look like a vineyard.

Spoiler alert to anyone who is not familiar with how non-famous people have babies: I was discharged 30 hours after I had Avery. I was wearing gigantic pajama pants (that I still wear), had my hair up in a greasy ponytail, was packing serious heat in my bra because my milk had come in and my knockers were firing off milk pyrotechnics at every exposure to the open air, and I felt like I was growing fur on my teeth (I did brush them, but they felt like it anyway). I also made Brad stop for a six pack of nuggets on the way home because although I wanted to get my pre-baby body back, I didn't want to start working on that until tomorrow. Basically I looked like I was from hell.

I know women who have burst blood vessels in their eyes, who have taken epic dumps on the table in a room full of people, and who have full on shredded their vaginas. Like, full on.

But not Kate.

Kate doesn't even look like she's concealing a gigantic pair of mesh underwear with a foot long frozen pad stuffed down in it. She doesn't look like she just sweat out half her own body weight or had a big poo in front of a room full of people. Kate is the owner of a cast iron vagina.

Nay.

Kate's vagina is an inverted unicorn horn.

This is what separates the royals from the commoners, ladies. This shit right here. I was a two person assist for about a week after I gave birth. I could barely get around in bare feet because I felt like my insides were hanging out. Girlfriend saunters out with her fresh from the oven bun, in heels. HEELS GODDAMMIT.

And do you know what? I feel like I should probably be jealous, because her hair is blowing in the wind (someone is probably hired to follow her around with a fan), and she looks like she smells like vanilla, and also she is married to a prince, but all I really want to do it high five her and give her the "proud of you" nod.

Because women know things. Even when you don't think we know, we know you don't think we know... because we already know. You know?

Those of us in the birth club know that she was probably gritting her teeth with sweat running down her neck and her husband holding her leg only a few hours prior. We know she hated that prince for what he did to her (no matter how bad you want a baby, when it's making its way on down, you would punch the Pope in his juniper berries and don't try to tell me you wouldn't). We know that she worked and screamed, and had a slippery, gooey baby placed on her chest and she probably wept because it was the best thing she has ever done all over again. Just like all of us who birthed our babies. Exactly the same. Hateful and sweaty and a little bit primal and a whole lot of amazing because holy shit our bodies just did that, WHAT EVEN IS YOUR SUPER POWER, MEN?

And then she had a team that made her look as put together as possible on her way to the car so that a bunch of dicks could take pictures so that the world could gawk at her, but she hauled that shit off in the porch and demanded her stretchy pants as soon as she got through the great big palace door.

We know what's up, Kate. We're all women. We know all the things.

So Kate looks amazing seven hours post birth. Does it make her more of a mother? No. Will any of us ever look like that seven hours after shitting a bowling ball that has been set on fire? Probably also no.

While we are not all equals when leaving the places where we give birth, we all still do have so much in common with our sister from another mister, the Duchess of Cambridge. And think about it this way, as beautiful and majestic as she is, and as amazing as she is at cosmetically recovering from human baking, at some point in the last few days, just like all the rest of us who had a vaginal delivery, Kate was afraid to poop.

Solidarity, sister. You are kicking ass and taking names at this mothering gig. We salute you. And we get it. Well, most of it. Not the hair part, but the rest.