Labels are for canned food, cardboard boxes, and medicine bottles.
They are not for people. The last time I checked, I did not have a label on my forehead reading “Contains 85% Water” with small print below that reads “5% Doritos, 5% Oatmeal, trace amounts of soy, manufactured in a facility that processes nuts.”
While hovering here and there around the internet one notices that people like to align themselves with different groups that share their same basic philosophies. This is to be expected because we are created to be social creatures who crave fellowship with each other. It is bolstering, affirming, and lets us know hubby is not the only one on Earth who appreciates “Farscape”.
There are labels that bother me, however. Having lots of kids within the past several years, I have participated in online forums devoted to pregnancy and raising small children and the inevitable question comes up: will you/did you have a natural childbirth?
No!, I want to say, my children were grown in pickle jars on the shelf above the washing machine. When it was time for them to be born I ran the lids under hot water and called hubby to help open the lids with a satisfying pop and hiss…
Our reality was more like this (with subtle variations in the five births): I think I am in labor. We go to the hospital. They send me home. I am angry. I think I am in labor. I go to the hospital. They say “no, go home”. I am upset. I swear at my body and accuse it of being like the Boy Who Cried Wolf. I think I am in labor. We go to the hospital. Kindly nurse takes pity on me and says I can stay. I get the IV and monitoring. I walk around. Labor seems to stop. Someone breaks my water. I watch TV. I ask for epidural (except with Ryley, no epidural, just literal kicking hubby—yes, I literally kicked him, repeatedly). I watch more TV. I try to sleep. I can’t. Suddenly I am seized with the thought that the end is near and I weakly say “help?” Nurses and midwife rush to get ready. Baby pops out. I cry and thank God. I eat a turkey sandwich. I pass out.
Artificially, naturally, supernaturally—the end result is the same. Women love to cite studies and statistics that back up their personal birthing theories. We cling to our chosen mode of birthing as the best and wonder why other women don’t share in our enthusiasm for epidurals or squating in a rocking chair.
Go to any local playground and determine which children were born in birthing tubs, which were born to mothers with epidural lines hanging out of their backs, and which were born via c-section. You can’t. The moms themselves know, of course. You could ask the mom. But it really isn’t any of your business.
Then why do we make it our business? I am all for making educated decisions regarding childbirth. I just don’t let it define me. And I won’t define you by the way you chose to give birth.
