Painting a pretty picture in words is easy when you leave out the gory details. I tell my son the pretty parts of his birth. What I don’t tell him is momma looked more like this:
Photo Credit to Hotnewton
This is before the spinal, of course. And her hair looks much better than mine did. I vowed to myself that I would not become one of these women:
I wouldn’t kick my son out of his home by growling and screaming in a demonic voice to “Get it out of me.” I couldn’t be that lady. But I was another kind of lady. The cussing and swearing kind.
Every time a contraction hit I would start out with either two phrases. One being “Oh GOD, OH GOD, HERE IT COMES AGAIN!” or “HOLY MOTHER OF GOD!” I would then follow with a Quentin Tarantino profanity laced dialogue causing all around me to blush, especially my mother. During the spinal I did apologize to the nurse, who was two inches from my face, for being such a “weenie.” Then came relief which left me feeling:
The big story I leave out from my son’s birth is what I did to my OB. I had two and the one who made the decision to induce my labor came to check on me during the labor. His first fatal mistake was bringing in a group of doctors in training into the room. No one wants a group of strangers staring at them while they are in labor. It is rude. This is what I saw from my point of view:
And I’m in hard labor. Back labor, front labor, and whatever other kind of labor there is. A train was coming through my lady parts. It hurt. Then the doctor made another fatal mistake. He asked how I was doing? I was crying and I said it hurt. I told him it felt like I was peeing on myself, I whimpered through my tears. He laughed. Do not laugh at a woman in labor because she will give you one of these:
This is exactly what I did to my doctor. I apologized the next day and he apologized for laughing at me. So we made our mistakes, admitted them, and made our amends. Still, I don’t tell my son about this.
Birth wasn’t a magically happy ordeal for me. Seriously, a train is barreling through your lady parts. And I only had a four and half pound train. So, I send my sincerest congratulations to the ladies who deliver and suffer with 8, 9, or 10 pounds and plus trains going full speed through your va-jay-jay. You’re braver and stronger than I.