I am in my second trimester of a very surprise pregnancy.  I am 41 years old, never felt particularly drawn towards having children of my own, and am very content with being the mother of an only child (a bit of a “New York Lonely Boy”).  So combining all of these factors, pregnancy wasn’t in my 20 year plan.  (Although my 20 year plan is admittedly a bit vague).  I’m married to the person who knocked me up, my daughter does seem to want a sibling, and I’m enjoying myself a lot these past few years, so what the hell, I guess we’re doing this.  I do have to say that being pregnant at the extremes of age, like in one’s teens or conversely 40s, makes you feel a bit self conscious.  Having people notice your changing body as a grown woman is a really embarrassing sort of experience.  I felt this way to an extent in my first pregnancy, and more now.  When I was a teenager I went on spring break with my girlfriends to Fort Lauderdale.  One of the girls on the trip was pregnant.  This was in the pre internet era and she obviously had no way of procuring pregnancy related wares for herself.  I remember sitting on the side of the pool (think motel, not White Lotus) with the girls, all trying out our bodies in string bikinis, and BJ was in this pale blue onesie with a ruffle skirt.  I remember thinking, “how embarrassing.”  I don’t think I was embarrassed for her.  And I don’t think she looked bad in this ensemble.  Rather, I think I was literally embarrassed for the bathing suit itself.  The indignity of a pastel ruffle skirt on a one piece bathing suit, clearly made for an adult woman (or somebody of spawning age)!

Anyway, I am pregnant and muscling my way through this incredibly awkward and beautiful thing.  Before I sound too crusty, let me say that feeling this little critter scurry in my abdomen is absolutely one of the most magical things of all time.  I picture that she is a little mouse wearing a blue apron and a kerchief on her head.  She sits in a rocking chair most of the time, but then occasionally runs and gathers sticks to make a fire, over which a pot of stew is warming.  I love everything about her.

I do have a couple grievances to air as it pertains to the process of labor and delivery.  First.  I, as much as anyone, am interested in maintaining my fitness during this time. Watching my body grow and grow and grow is a real curiosity and somewhat unsettling.   I am also an elder millennial, and we are generation of women who have been told that we can (must!) have our cake and eat it too.  We can be anything we want.  We can be everything we want.  Thusly, we are a generation of women who have deep careers, esoteric side hustles, very specific food beliefs, responsibilities to pets/kids/partners, and we believe that if we just try a little harder we can do all of these things a little better and nirvana will be ours.  Which I don’t actually think is true, but hasn’t stopped many a millennial woman from trying.  We have been sold this idea that every outcome is within our control with just the right amount of effort.  And I think this has been extrapolated to birthing.  I am no OB/Gyn, however I have delivered somewhere on the order of about 100 babies, and never once have I thought that a bad outcome could have gone differently if only the mother were a little more fit. (A little less into drugs and alcohol, yes, a little less attached to a birth plan, yes…) YET! Everywhere I look there is “fit for birthing” propaganda.  Apparently you’re supposed to go do some exercises and it will make the babies head size and your pelvic size more compatible?  I hiked and climbed until hours before I went into labor with my daughter, and can definitively say that my fucking pimp physical fitness did not make labor easy or uncomplicated. I have seen this play out in various ways for the vast majority of girlfriends as well. Nor did it make the postpartum recovery uncomplicated.  I think what happens is a fitness blogger happens to have an ideal birth and then extrapolates that it was their crunches that made all the difference, and then feels the need to spray this to humanity.  I would like the record to show that fitness for the sake of health is dope.  Fitness for the sake of having a guaranteed tra-la-la birthing experience is bullshit.  Need more proof?  Check out anything Hazel Findlay or Beth Rodden have said on the matter.

The second rant I have is with non-epidural braggery.  I had an obstetrics professor in med school assert that the declination of pain medication that a large part of the world does not have access to is the mark of a pampered society.  I will never forget that.  Nor will I forget the same professor demonstrating delivery by birthing herself through a lifesize vagina replica that she hand-made.  Birth is hard for everyone.  Period.  Again, refer to my experience both firsthand and secondhand on the matter.  I received an epidural sometime around the 24 hour mark of laboring and I can say that both the before and after was ROUGH.  I was a little sailor, on a tiny dingy, out on the open ocean, getting pummeled with waves for over a day.  Why did I wait 24 hours?  Is it that I planned not to have an epidural but changed my mind?  Nope.  It just never came up and apparently I was too busy to ask for it.  I may have been overheard saying “This is the worst day of my life” at some point during labor, and I seriously cannot remember if it was before or after the epidural.  I think there are *serious* pros and cons to an epidural and the decision is deeply personal.  I can think of some real 11th hour situations that would make a person sure glad they had that epidural (think episiotomy or emergent c-section).  I have friends on the deep-hippie spectrum who would have loved to deliver non-medicated and vaginally who did not have that option and who do not deserve anyone’s judgement on the matter.  Anyway, I think comparing birth epic-ness is for the birds.