Here's a universal truth: When a group of mothers get together — no matter how old their children are — conversation eventually turns to childbirth.
I was sitting with a group of my fellow moms at the skate park the other morning (the time of day before the "big kids" get there), watching our sons and daughters put their helmets to good use. Between yelling, "Good job!" and "Oh! Be careful!" we talked about the week's plans, the coming school year, and that new coffee shop we'd heard about on the north end of town. And then Missie said the thing from which there is no going back: "When I had my son, I had an 18-hour labor…."
Suddenly we all had a story to tell. Our labor and delivery stories, after all, are one of the only things we have that show what rock stars we are — and we love to take them out, wipe them clean, and show them off.
Missie's story ended with her husband nodding off — "he fell asleep!" — while she labored in the delivery room hot tub.
This, of course, reminded me of when I was in labor with my first son. Toward the end of the three-day ordeal, after I'd been writhing, sleepless, for more than 36 hours, my husband turned to me and said, "I'm just so tired."
Really? Really?! (I have yet to forgive him.)
This reminded Deb of when she was delivering her fourth child. It had been one of those marathon childbirths that are famous in circles like ours. Finally, at 9 o'clock p.m. on October 30, she was close.
Her husband lent down and looked into her eyes. "Honey?" he said. "Do you think you could hold off until midnight so we could have a Halloween baby?"
Here's the craziest part: She did.
Deb's 50-plus hour delivery reminded Theresa of her sprint-length childbirth. "I almost had my son in the car," she announced.
"No way!" we all answered, as enthralled with each others' stories as our own.
"Eric ran every red light on the way to the hospital and when they put me in the wheelchair, I had to cross my legs. When I got to my room, they threw me on a bed and yelled, "Push!"
"I know someone who had her baby on the toilet!" I practically screamed in response.
"Shut up," said Missie.
"Seriously. They didn't think she was that close… so they let her get up to go to the bathroom and she ended up delivering that thing right on the toilet."
It was hard to top that one. So we turned to our pre-childbirth stories — the moments when our pregnancy hormones turned us into people even we didn't recognize. I told of the time during my first pregnancy that my husband planned his annual trip north for the fishing opener.
"It's cool if I go?" he asked me.
"Definitely," I answered. "You should. Who knows what will happen next year with the baby and all."
I called him from our kitchen the night after he left. Elbow-deep in soapsuds and chest-deep in hormones, I held the phone in the crook of my neck as tears fell into the dishwater.
"I can't believe you left," I cried.
"I'll be back in two days."
"I could have this baby any day."
"You're not due for two months."
"But I'm huge — I'm so huge — and the garden needs to be tilled."
"What? Listen, Jen, you said I should go fishing."
"And you did!"
And so it went, on and on into the morning, a group of women sharing their war stories with the only people who understand. The camaraderie's so great that it almost makes you want another baby just so you can talk about it. Almost.
