The Longest Shortest Time

When I Say Childbirth, You Say . . .

inutero

On the first day of our natural childbirth class, our teacher, Michelle, asked us to go around the room and say the first word that came to our heads when she said “childbirth.” We began with a skinny goateed guy who paused for effect before saying, “Miracle.” That’s where we started. Miracle. How can you possibly follow miracle? If you had any negative thoughts about childbirth, forget it. You’d sound like an asshole.

“Sure,” Michelle said to Miracle. “That’s something you might think. What else?”

The words that followed were things like amazing, exciting, incredible. And they were lies. Sure, maybe these words were among the many words these people thought when they imagined the imminent birth of their children. But the first things that came to mind? No way. Michelle didn’t even seem to believe them. “Uh-huh, uh-huh,” she said, seeming to be fishing for something different. “And what else?” I nervously awaited my turn, trying to decide whether or not to be honest with my answer. Maybe if that nerdy-looking guy before me said something a little less sunshiny I’d go for it. “I don’t know,” he said, squirming. “I’m shy.” Michelle just let him off the hook with that. I’m shy. Seriously? That’s all you’ve got?

Okay, I thought. Screw it if I’m the only person scared out of my mind of childbirth. Everyone else had used up all the happy adjectives I could’ve thought of anyway. Michelle looked at me, waiting. “Big head,” I said. “Pain.” I’d been warned multiple times by my mother-in-law that my husband was born with a huge head. That it tore her in crazy ways. That all of his half-siblings from his dad had gigantic heads, too. One sister’s was so big that she used to topple over from the weight of it. I explained this all to Michelle. And how I’d really rather keep this baby inside me than rip apart at the seams. Michelle seemed overjoyed to hear someone mention fear. She used it as an opportunity to launch into her overview of pain management. She showed us a stuffed fabric pelvis and slid a plastic babydoll’s head through the opening, showing us how it works when things run smoothly—and also how they work when things get stuck. She gave us a whiteboard presentation with an outline of the three stages of childbirth. Before we moved on, she paused to see if we had any questions.

One guy raised his hand. “Can we, uh, take the baby to a concert?” he asked, pointing to his wife’s bulging belly. “Like, is it gonna hurt his ears?”

“Well,” Michelle said, looking perplexed, “if it’s too loud for you then it’s probably too loud for the baby.” She scanned the room. “Anyone else?” Nope.

Next up was a film. An explicit film on natural childbirth. You see the woman in gut-wrenching pain. You see her screaming and saying she doesn’t think she can do this. You see the tough-guy husband showing her a picture of her cat (“Look at Fluffy, concentrate on Fluffy.”). You see him breaking down and bawling. You see her somehow—impossibly, horrifyingly—pushing the baby out. I glanced around the room. Miracle’s partner, along with all the other women who’d said happy things about childbirth looked like they might throw up. The dudes didn’t look too psyched either.

Over the next few weeks we practiced all kinds of coping techniques. There was the massaging and breathing and counting, the rolling on the birth ball, the squatting on the birthing chair. We learned during those practice sessions that Shy Guy’s shy guy thing was just an act. When Michelle asked for a volunteer, Shy Guy pushed his wife into the center of the room. And once, when Michelle was quizzing us, and asked who could tell her what the support partner was supposed to do when the mother hit transition (the most painful stage of childbirth), Shy Guy had the answer. “Pants her!” he said. It took several back and forths for Michelle to even get what he was talking about. I’m not sure if she’d never heard “pants” used as a verb before or if she was just confused because obviously the woman is not wearing pants at this point. Shy Guy’s wife laughed a laugh that made it clear it was taking everything she had to not cry. Or punch him in the face.

At the time that I was taking the class, it felt as if my life depended on memorizing all of these exercises. When to breathe like you’re blowing out a candle, when to imagine you’re lying in the sun listening to trickling water, when to inhale blue and exhale red. Now I don’t remember when you’re supposed to do any of it. And I didn’t get the chance to use it anyway. What I do remember is the cast of characters: Shy Guy, Concert Dude, Miracle. They all have kids running around now, too. And it doesn’t matter how any of them got here.

The next podcast episode is partly about what can happen when plans for natural childbirth don’t work out. But it’s also about a miracle. Not that cliched way that people like Miracle talk about babies being miracles. But an actual miracle. And we’ll hear how miracles can sort of wind up feeling mundane. Because, really, who can live with the weight of a miracle every goddamn day?

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