A bottle of wine, a group of friends and a gush of terrifying truth

Spending an evening with a group of mostly mothers and a bottomless bottle of wine can teach a married, childless woman such as myself a few things.

Most of these “things,” as we’ll continue referring to them, result in giant backward steps away from the idea of motherhood. Others are less daunting, more enlightening. But all of them are proof that if you want the real deal on any given subject, you’re likely to find it in a friend’s kitchen, swirling in a glass of red wine.

Let’s start with the childbirth scare tactics. It started so innocently. There we were, me and my oldest girlfriends, revving our ladies-only talk with an ever-reliable topic: the early signs of aging.

We griped about lines around our eyes, a loss of elasticity in our arms. If I didn’t feed my family for a month, could I afford Botox? That kind of thing.

Then the discussion took a turn. A crazy, NASCAR kind of turn. Let’s just say I heard a little voice in my head say, “So, that’s why vaginal rejuvenation numbers are up.”

Girl talk is the best, mostly because a good chunk of it is confessional. It’s like the whole, “Forgive me Father for I have sinned” bit, except without the Hail Marys, and the wine doesn’t have a one-sip maximum.

But, before the confession comes, there’s usually a signal, some kind of verbiage or body language that signals safe territory. Apparently, where 30-something moms are concerned, sagginess above the neck is a conversation green light for sagginess below the belt.

You can imagine my surprise when more than one head was nodding after a friend compared her post-baby-birthin’ nether regions to Dumbo ears. And here I thought actual ears that resemble Dumbo ears would be the worst-case scenario.

As they bonded, I pored over the thought. And then poured over the thought. More wine, please. That little voice was back, this time toasting my private parts. Not the first time that’s happened, but if babies are in my future it could be the last.

That was the conversation happening in my head as wild laughter erupted around me. As I soon learned, I’m lucky there weren’t bladders erupting around me. Yeah, that happens postpartum, too.

Talk about a stretch from the topics discussed during an estrogen-only night with my childless, career-women friends: wage gaps between the sexes; Roger versus Don on “Mad Men”; and, of course, all the medical warnings on our birth control pills.

That’s all good and fun, but it’s a show I can partake in any day of the week. Listening to mothers dish was far more entertaining, albeit frightening.

But it’s the only way to hear nongeriatric women contemplate the difficulties of controlling urine. Turns out it’s almost as hard as controlling children.

That’s why terms such as “kid-clean” exist. See, there’s an adult’s standard of a clean room, and there’s a kid’s standard, my friends explained. The latter wouldn’t exactly pass the white-glove test, but it sure leaves the kid happy.

Kid-clean turned my thoughts to kids today in general. Their iPhones, Instagram accounts with nothing but self-portraits, or “selfies” — because we don’t have enough abbreviated words — and sports trophies just for participating.

After hearing just a sliver of the physical sacrifices women make to bring these “little miracles” into the world, “kid-clean” wasn’t sitting too well with me.

Sure, it’s just a bedroom, but if childbirth introduces women to a cosmetic procedure called “vaginal rejuvenation” and prevents them from laughing too hard in public for fear of having an accident, the very least moms should do for themselves is enforce a term called “It’s-my-house-so-do-it-or-get-grounded-clean.”

If they can’t bring themselves to practice that concept, I hope mothers can at least raise their glasses and “cheers” to it.

Contact Xazmin Garza at xgarza@reviewjournal.com or 702-383-0477. Follow her on Twitter @startswithanx.