Thursday, September 13, 2012
Born To Breed
Today is my son Ben’s 27th birthday. I can’t believe how fast the time has flown. Still seems like yesterday... OK a few years ago, that I gave birth to him. When I was pregnant that first time, I decided to go the natural route and enrolled in Lamaze classes. I have a phobia of needles, and the one used to manage childbirth pain is pretty much harpoon-sized. I would rather bite on a bullet or maybe eat a bug. Lamaze is basically a diversion tactic. You concentrate on a focal point, and perform breathing exercises. Hopefully, you don’t notice the football-sized object you are trying to expel from your nether regions. I grew more terrified after each Lamaze class. The whole childbirth experience became more daunting instead of less. As the last class ended, I had decided the baby should stay put. No way in hell was I going through ALL THAT. By then, though, there was only one way out. I performed admirably when the time came. I never once called anyone names or screamed for drugs. I concentrated on my focal point like I was trained to do. Except for a banana-shaped head, Ben came out perfect. I was convinced I was born to breed. My second childbirth experience wasn’t quite as smooth. Perhaps I had beginner’s luck the first time. I figured I could do it again, no sweat. Once the pain started in earnest, though, my first childbirth experience came flooding back. I started to consider an epidural. Having a harpoon shoved into my back was actually starting to sound not so bad. I had waited too long to scream for drugs, though, and had to do the natural thing again. This time, it was the baby’s idea to stay put. My daughter apparently had a death grip on my tonsils, and wouldn’t come out. Or at least that was the scene playing in my head. Had I known then what I know now, I would have had my doctor wave a Coach bag, fabulous pair of shoes, or state-of-the-art cell phone to lure Molly out. Retail therapy beats drugs any day.