A few years ago, I did the worst thing a non-mom could do. Twice. I watched my cousin give birth. I did take a quick peek long stare at the business end, but I honestly can't remember what her vagina looks like. I can, however, remember the exact size of the garden sheers that were used for the episiotomy, and I vividly remember being yelled cussed at because I was administering ice chips in increments of three, not two. She was in pain, and a lot of it. Quite frankly, it didn't look like fun, and I don't like to do stuff that's not fun.
Fast forward a couple years. Michael and I decide we're ready to have babies/children/teenagers/monsters/aliens/whatever they happen to be. It crosses my mind that if the fertility drugs actually work and I get pregnant, I'll have to do that birth thing. Surely by the time I am due, those doctors will will come up with a way to get that baby out of me that doesn't involve a c-section or pushing.
I get pregnant. WOOOOO HOOOOO!
8 months to go: Well, I guess they have 8 months to figure out how to get this thing out of me. I'm not giving birth, and I'm damn sure not having surgery.
7 months to go: Michael, do you remember that movie with the Governator? He was pregnant. Can we take the baby, put it in your belly, and you can do it for me? You're such a big strong man. You'd do great! Please?!?! Ahh-nold did it!
6 months to go: Shit. I'm past the scary first trimester when miscarriages are likely to occur. That's good because it means I'm still pregnant, but bad because it means he's growing, and eventually, he's going to have to come out.
5 months to go: I research the largest baby ever born (23 lbs). I convince myself that I'll be able to talk my doctor into sewing my goods shut and stopping my contractions for a few more months. If some lady in Canada (eh?) can hold a 23 pounder, so can I.
4 months to go: Doctor said no. Perhaps I should start looking into this labor and delivery stuff. It appears that's the only way out of this predicament. That, and driving my car off a cliff.
3 months to go: I've been reading some books. (Side note: all of these books have wonderful pictures and diagrams in them. I choose to read at places like the dentist's office waiting room. I make sure to hold my books up so that everyone can see what I'm looking at. I figure, if I have to do this, they can be a little uncomfortable too). Michael and I are working on a birth plan. I've accepted the fact that this is going to hurt like the dickens. Michael has accepted the fact that on D-day, I will tell him no less than 100 times that I want a divorce because it's all his fault. We both know that after a few hours of pain (for me) and hard work (for Michael. I'm sure it's not easy to stop yourself from smothering your wife with a pillow when she just won't shut up.), we'll have a baby. Our first son. The little human who makes us a family of three. With our help, he'll grow up to be a hard-working, self-sufficient, intelligent man, and with any luck, a Republican. Whatever he does, we'll be proud.
When Michael and I are in our 60s, we'll sit on our porch after lunch on Thanksgiving watching our kids play with our grandkids in the front yard. I'll look down at Atticus, beaming with pride at the man he's become, but I won't remember how much it hurt to have him. Or maybe I will, but I won't care. He is, and always will be, worth it.
No, I'm not nervous. Not anymore.