Blood, guts, and shrieks, oh my. Child birth can be such a beautiful thing… But oh so terrifying.
The Child and my Beloved had skedaddled to the park for an hour – THANK YOU, GOD – so I grabbed the stash of chocolates that no one else had yet found – THANKS AGAIN, GOD – and hit the sofa for some mindless net surfing and sugar-high-ing.
The first article I saw was about a woman who had just given birth but managed, somehow, the stupendous achievement of looking AH-MAY-ZING one hour later. She looked so amazing, in fact, that someone took a photo of her and flung it around the internet for the world’s admiration.
Okay, so she looked glorious, and she was half-naked and smiling in some frilly white-knicker concoction. Good for her. But for feck’s sake, she’d just spent nine months growing a human, who is probably the size of a couple of pumpkins, and then however many hours screaming and bellowing as she pushed that two-pumpkin-human out of her down-belows. Unless she did one of those silent birth things – WHO DOES THESE AND HOW? – and didn’t scream or bellow. It doesn’t matter, really, the woman had a baby and that is the shining achievement, not how she looked one hour later.
Isn’t having a baby enough, nowadays? I seem to recall, hazily thank goodness, that labour and birth was more than enough achievement for one day, but I am not one of those I-AM-WOMAN-HEAR-ME-ROAR types about birthing. I’m the one who went green as other mothers blithely told me their birthing war stories – blood, guts and zombies – and wished, hopelessly, that the goddamn stork was the delivery mechanism, not me.
In the birthing suite, before things turned all Horror Movie, I could hear another labouring woman screaming in agony.
“What is that noise?” I asked my Beloved, palely.
He looked panicked. “What noise?” he said, ridiculously.
“That HOWLING AND SCREAMING,” I yelled.
My Beloved put his best poker face on and stared at me unblinking. “Ah, that noise,” he said. “That noise is a cat.”
I began to pace, as the woman in the suite next to me erupted into a crescendo of auditory agony.
“That is not a bloody cat,” I said. “That is a woman giving birth.”
My husband said nothing.
“WELL GO AND TELL HER TO STOP,” I said. “She is making me VERY nervous, and it’s EXTREMELY inconsiderate of her. HURRY UP!”
Maybe she was birthing a seven-pumpkin baby, so I can’t really blame her, but, my good-ness, she set me on a terrible path.
My husband silently considered how to placate both me and the screaming Cat Woman. Cat Woman kept yowling. Maybe she was birthing a seven-pumpkin baby, so I can’t really blame her, but, my goodness, she set me on a terrible path.
“I can’t do this,” I whispered. “I don’t want to do this anymore. I want to go home NOW. I DON’T WANT TO BE HERE. TELL THAT CAT WOMAN TO STOP!”
My Beloved stood in front of the door. “You can do this, sweetheart,” he said.
“No,” I said, “I actually can’t. And don’t tell me I have to. WHY DON’T YOU DO IT!? WHY DO I HAVE TO DO IT!? YOU DO IT! YOU DO IT!!!! WHY DO I HAVE TO DO EVERYTHING? YOU HAVE THE BABY, I’VE DONE EVERYTHING ELSE!”
Clearly, it was the beginning of a very downward spiral. It went on. And on. For hours. It got worse. There was blood and guts and zombies. Some Dracula and a few clown masks. Basically, it was all your horror movies rolled into one.
And then, at the end, there was him. The Child. Our Grace. The most beautiful thing we’d ever seen. As beautiful as the day. A couple of pumpkins’ worth. Amazing.
And I looked like hell, for days, years even. I spent all my time in ugly flannelette PJs, feeding the Child, who had an abnormally large appetite, and not sleeping because he never slept. Ever. And I didn’t give a hoot, because I’d grown my own pumpkin, survived the horror movie birth and he was mine.
Well, I probably did give a hoot, actually, but I was too sleep deprived to do anything about it.
So there’s that, I guess. All of that.