My husband and I never took a child birthing class. I know, the horror. I’m surprised they even admitted us to a delivery room, simpletons that we were.
I wanted to take one, but every time I thought about pushing a child through… there, I started crying. Not that there was anything unusual about that in my hormonal condition, but still.
By the time I finally got my act together enough to look into classes, there were only two Saturday sessions remaining before my due date, and we were going to be out of town both weekends. Fate had spoken. Instead, the hospital mailed me a packet of materials from the class, which I refused to open once they actually arrived because I cried every time I looked at the cover of the pamphlet.
My daughter is now eight months old, and I have given it enough time and space to look back on that blessed event and quite honestly tell you that it wasn’t as horrible as I thought it would be. No, in fact it was much worse.
But after my daughter was placed in my arms, amazingly the pain started to fade just like they said, and I found myself thinking insane thoughts like, Surely it wasn’t as bad as I remember. I imagined that, right?
All I’m left with now is a beautiful baby and a few, ahem, personal side effects that no one likes to tell you. Since none of these happened to me before I pushed a baby out of me, I have no choice but to blame childbirth for the following:
1. Pain is Always at Zero Unless I’m Pushing Out a Baby
When I first arrived at the hospital, clutching my stomach and 38 weeks pregnant, they asked me to rate my pain on a scale of one to ten.
“Um… a four?”
Childbirth has ruined me on rating pain. If labor is a 10, then everything else ever until the end of time is a zero, maybe even going negative.
Labor really just belongs on its own scale of pain, and now I can no longer complain about any type of discomfort, however larger or small, or I feel like a huge wimp because remember that time I pushed out a baby? Take your sad little stubbed toe and sit down.
2. I Have No More Dignity
One thing that always embarrassed me about labor was the idea of a bunch of strangers standing at my bottom end while I had my legs spread eagle. Well, let me tell you: a baby isn’t the only thing that shoots out of you when you give birth. Along with that 7-pound gift from God comes your dignity forever and ever amen.
I had a doctor, three nurses, and a med student, and they could have brought the janitor in for all I know. And I didn’t care, then or now.
I breastfeed my daughter, and let me tell you: more people have seen my boobs in the last 8 months than have seen them in the last thirty years, and it doesn’t bother me one bit.
There’s just something about lying on your side on a hospital bed in the fetal position wearing a gown that doesn’t close in the back that makes you reevaluate your stance on modesty.
3. There Is No More Control… Down There
If I had a dollar for every time I’ve either peed or pooped my pants while doing everyday life things, I would have at least enough for a few Starbucks drinks. Venti size.
I’ve peed while laughing, while coughing, while going from sitting to standing (???). And let’s not forget about the times I pooped my pants while running. Yes, that’s "times," plural. I won’t go into detail, but let’s just say I’m down a few pairs of underwear.
All I have to say is, I blame childbirth.
Best of luck to you, Jenny. Anyone brave enough to do this crazy childbirth thing more than once, let alone six times, needs some kind of medal. And, let’s be honest, probably a pair of Depends.