My birth story: coming tomorrow

So I’ve decided to share my birth story!

And I’m just warning you–it’s not a pretty story detailing how calm I was as I played my hypnotic music mix CD’s and how ethereal I felt as I engaged in this thing that women have been doing for millenniae and how connected I felt to the earth or some such thing.

I mean, I hoped that would be my story, and after taking a 9-session 27-hour Bradley Method natural birthing class, practicing relaxation and hearing about my amazing sister Heidi’s second birth (a water birth) during which no one could tell when she was having a contraction (yes, she was that calm), I was like, “oh yeah. I want to do that!”

I mean, I knew it would be painful, but I felt ready. Ready to have my strength tested and reach beyond the pain into an inner place of peace.

It turned out . . . a little differently.

I still remember my first Sunday back in church, when Alice was 10 days old.

“How did it go?” people asked me.

“Well . . .” I summarized, “basically I yelled “F***! F***! F***!” the whole time.”

Yes, I said the f-word in church. Multiple times, and I think in a loud voice, too.

I also added “Please remind me NEVER TO DO THAT AGAIN.”

Anyway, I recently read this article, which cracked me up and reminded me that I had never shared with you guys about my experience. Plus, Alice will be a year old in a month! So why not go back in time and finally share the nitty gritty with you guys. If you’re a dude, squeamish, or about to give birth for the first time and maybe not wanting to hear about some of the not-so-fun stuff (Veronica, Erica, Kelsey–I’m talking’ about YOU!), feel free to click away.

But for the rest of you: my story is not intended to discourage, frighten or advise. Every woman has a different experience–some are shell-shocked by it, some feel closer than ever to God; some scream, some are quiet, and I even hear that for some it’s a completely pleasurable experience. This is simply my story, and in the effort to finally make peace with it, I’m going to tell it as truthfully as possible.

Love you all and hope to see you back tomorrow!

Task Mama or Love Mama?

If I sing Old McDonald a million times and entertain Alice with a million rhymes, but do not have love, I am only a resounding gong or a clanging cymbal. If I can fathom all mysteries of the baby mind and understand everything there is to know about Alice’s development, how to discipline and how to raise her up, and if I have a faith that can move mountains of diapers, that trusts that any hardships are just a phase, but do not have love, I am nothing. If I give all my time and energy to my baby and give over my body to carrying her, changing her, nursing her, bouncing her, and making 100% organic baby food that I may boast, but do not have love, I gain nothing.

Love is patient, love is kind. It does not envy other mamas or their babies, it does not boast, it is not proud. It does not talk ill of babies or the task of motherhood, it is not self-seeking, it is not easily angered, it keeps no record of hair-pullings, cup-throwings, late night wakings, fussy mornings, or Mama-scratchings. Love does not delight in evil but rejoices with the truth. It always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres.

. . . And now these three remain: faith, hope and love. But the greatest of these is love.