So, I had a baby.
And she’s lovely, and wonderful, and she smells like fairy dust and cookies.
She is delicious.
I could eat her.
Childbirth was magical.
My body became an embodiment of the soul of mother nature, my insides twisting and turning to release this new force of life into the world.
It was totally bloody, gory and hurt like hell.
Now, I am usually first in line to spend the day pantsless and drugged up in a reclinable bed eating my weight in red jello, but…did I forget to mention…I am allergic…to epidurals!?
Mother of Christ.
Of all things unfair in the history of the world (Anoop going home, Janice Dickenson leaving ANTM, and the fact that the McRib is still just a seasonal menu item), an epidural allergy!?
Why don’t you just punch me in the throat and cancel Dirty, Sexy Money just as Patrick was about to go public with his hot transsexual girlfriend….oh wait.
So, it was a long, painful day.
Made more painful by the lack of mini bar, the hospital wifi’s nazi ban of twitter and facebook, and the two carry out boxes of all you can eat Mandarin food from the hospital cafeteria my husband ate in my room.
Which was fine. I was too busy crunching ice chips and visualizing his death by random bald eagle attack to want to eat solid food…for an entire day.
You get me every time.
Other than starvation, things were going swimmingly, just idling the hours away on a plastic puppy pad as I ooze liquids and expletives with each contraction.
And then…things happened, and her heart rate dropped to almost nothing, and they couldn’t get it back, and it became some kind of bizarre haze of activity, with nurses running everywhere, and oxygen masks, and stirrups, and whispers of wheeling me off to a scary OR somewhere becasue I was only dialted to 7 and she needed to come out now.
I was hysterical.
Just when they were about to wheel my terrified ass from the room, by the hands of God, my OB checked me once last time, and in the span of 45 seconds, I had dialted from 7 to 10, and holy fuck, the baby was coming out, now.
And she did.
She flew out in 3 pushes.
Leaving a track of umbilical cord and torn skin in her wake.
But I didn’t care.
She was alive.
And, she didn’t have a penis.
Sure, I can’t sit or poop without crying, and I spend my evenings giving the shower head the business end of a downward facing dog.
But, I can sleep on my stomach, enjoy a cold beer on my deck and eat questionable, room temperature lunch meat.
Plus, I have my girl.
And things feel sore…and exhausted…but totally complete.