I’ve learned not to discuss the birth of my son with other mothers. It pisses them off. I stay silent while others discuss their pain wracked hours and days of labor. Occasionally, a mom will ask, “How long was your labor?”

“Three and a half hours,” I say meekly.

“You’re kidding!” the mom responds. “I pushed for longer than that! How long did you push?” I’m not quite sure why a flash of anger flares, but it invariably does.

“Twenty minutes,” I respond.

The head shakes. Conversation shifts from me to the rest of the group. My labor doesn’t count, too easy. I don’t have a war story to share.

I used to explain that the pain went from 0 to a 100 in the blink of an eye. I took a warm shower at the hospital and all over body shakes pushed me from standing to flat on my face, hugging the tiles. I vomited and shook and begged for drugs, but the shot arrived too late. I didn’t know it would all be over soon – I assumed I had hours and hours to go. I don’t recite this litany anymore; nobody has any sympathy for me. To be honest, even the nurse in the delivery room looked a bit disgusted that I complained about the contractions.

I get it – I’m quite grateful my labor and delivery was short. I felt great almost immediately after Nick’s birth because my body wasn’t tired out from a long ordeal. But my experience still counts. I still did it. I gave birth.

By Marianne Lonsdale

Labels: Marianne Lonsdale

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# posted by Writing Mamas Salon @ 11:20 PM