Introduction

*** I started writing a book about my experience of motherhood. It seems logical to put some of that content on this blog so I may be encouraged to continue with my birth story and beyond. Below is the introduction. ***

About 9 weeks after I giving birth my best friend called me up and demanded I leave the house, sans baby, to relax and spend some time with her.  I was so very excited at the prospect of getting away.  Now I had left the house before without Potato, but for very specific functions and didn’t really get to let my hair down. For all those non-mothers out there I will disclaim, I love my child more than anything I have ever known, more than I thought I had the capacity for or that such a capacity existed to love another. I would easily kill and die for this precious thing. That said, she was making me insane and I needed time to remember that I am me and not just mom a.k.a. her feeding machine. I needed independence. 

Anne picked me up and as she walked up my porch I was reminded of the girl from ten years ago, even further back, the girl from high school. I became flushed with mourning for those times gone by, the type of fun we had that will never be again. As she says, being a parent is fun, just a completely different type of fun. And though I hadn’t given it much thought, seeing her after such a long stint of not seeing any of my friends really brought back the days of youth and little responsibilities and for some reason it stung. She stood on the porch smiling at me and I relayed to her my thoughts and ended by telling her, “You should just leave.” Anne let out one of her hearty laughs and reminded me that it gets better and that I just have been so long without the company and conversation of adults that, like any new mom, it’s getting to me. 

She came in and started to chat with my husband. I rudely ended abruptly, stating, “No no no, you two can’t hang out, this is for me!” I grabbed Anne by the arm and marched her outside. “Where do you want to go?” she asked as we got into the car. “I really don’t know, just away from her,” I replied.  

We never ended up going anywhere, that is we never got out of the car to sit anywhere. We just drove and started talking. We drove up Woodward from Ferndale to Pontiac then back down again to Detroit. Just cruising down Woodward never thinking to stop, we couldn’t find a break in the conversation that had enveloped us.  Anne reminded me that I never told her how my labor went.  And so I did.

The conversation was explosive. I remember how wonderful it was to share this with her, my best friend who became a mother almost a decade before me. I thought I appreciated what she went through, how difficult it was for her. But I didn’t, how could I? You really can’t, even with the best intentions, imagine what the process of becoming a mother is like unless you go through it. 

At some point, as we talked, it occurred to me how important it is to share these stories and how rare it is, outside of birthing groups etc., that these stories are fully shared. As I mentioned to Anne, people don’t really tell you what to expect through pregnancy and labor. Details are mentioned, even some very personal and profound ones, but a lot is held back-especially the emotion. The result of which is that new mothers are really not sure what to expect during delivery. We know the end result will be, God willing, an amazing experience, a room infused with love, falling in love that is, welcoming a new member of our planet, our race, a whole new being. But all you hear about labor (so aptly named) is that it is excruciating, long and that you should always have the utmost respect for the woman who brought you into this world.  

After my birthing experience I joked around about feeling like I had post-traumatic stress disorder due to it.  But I wasn’t really joking, though it became clear that saying such things in a serious tone was somehow wrong.  At first I thought, I must really be a wimp, I don’t hear other women say they are this traumatized. But after some time it occurred to me, again like so many things women suffer through, that it was not socially acceptable for me to say and/or feel the way I do but that I am likely far from the only woman who feels this way. But we are shamed into silence. And it is assumed we will do this again, “at least one more time”.   

When you are pregnant things are certainly fleshed out, so to speak, more fully. And maybe, again, unless you go through it you can’t know, and that’s why it’s not spoken of in such minute details.  But I remember wishing I had a better idea of what I was in for before it happened. Usually having knowledge of a thing takes a lot of fear out of it, at least for me it seems. That said, after having one child I am petrified of becoming pregnant a second time and having to endure, and hopefully survive, labor a second time.   
So here it is, the story of Potato’s birth.  I hope it makes you laugh, informs you and maybe makes the whole prospect less frightening, or if you have already gone through it, I hope it fills you up with a sense of camaraderie. If you haven’t gone through it and never will, I hope it reinforces the incredible amount of dedication and respect you should already have for your mother, even before all she did to ensure your survival, so much was sacrificed to bring you into this world. You may have told her you never asked to be born, but chances are, she didn’t ask to birth you either.