I found myself today, for the umpteenth time since getting pregnant with Natalie, reading a birthing story online, all the while shuddering in horror and praying for Dan to walk in the door with a crowbar and pry my eyeballs away from the screen. It’s rather hard to appreciate the miracle of life when it’s described as a series of excruciating pains, awkward bodily functions, and positions that suggest the mother has officially renounced her dignity. Plus, no matter how special and unique your baby-having experience may have been, I’m still not [at all] interested in a grand tour of your womanly regions!
Maybe I just don’t have the proper respect for such things. After all, I spent the “breathing” portion of Labor 101 giggling into my jacket. (You try keeping a straight face in a room of purple-faced women gasping “Ooo-ooo, eee-eee!” as if their lives depended on it.) And Natalie’s birth basically consisted of a leisurely breakfast with Dan, a supposed-to-be-quick stop by the hospital, and a simple surgery. No screaming, no squatting, no squeezing — no gruesome or terrifying details to brag about later.
Online stories containing the words “perineal tear” aren’t the only features of childbearing that make nunhood sound appealing to me; I’m also quite horrified by curtain-inspired maternity wear, yoga labor positions like The Incontinent Cow, and breastfeeding in public. (Yes, I know that’s a right being vigorously defended by many topless mothers, but having a baby somehow failed to turn me into a nudist. Call me old-fashioned.)
Here’s the point where I would just end up paraphrasing my parenthood entry, so I won’t. Instead, I’ll just remind all of you in the blogosphere that it is possible to become a mother without dressing like a wall-hanging, undressing like a Vegas showgirl, or telling the whole world how many stitches it took.
