Before I was a mother, birth announcements would pop up all over my Facebook feed, or via text messages (if you’re as old as me.)
All of them would say the standard, "Baby Billy Bob is here, weighing six pounds, born at 2am. Mother and baby doing well". It was written by a mysterious third party, because the announcement itself gives a vision of a mother sitting blissfully with her newborn, in a nice comfy hospital room, surrounded by rose petals and a halo floating on top of her head, while she glows.
Which we know now, mamas, nothing could be further from the truth.
Most of the time, we are howling in labour for 16 hours plus, the 4.5 f*cking kilo baby is struggling to get out of you, you might not end up being able to dilate, your baby’s head is sitting in your tiny uterus hole, only for you to be then told you have to have a cesarean — so not only is your vagina being stretched out and head-butted, but you were then peeled like a can opener.
Watch: Thoughts you have while giving birth. Post continues below.
Then, there are months of recovery to come with a tiny, helpless, angry baby who doesn’t like to sleep, while you try to navigate healing and sleep deprivation.
I know, I know, you’re cringing... but there is the truth and the truth, and it made me wonder why we pretend that the act of birth is nothing BUT beautiful, and we are ALL doing so WELL.
I mean, don’t get me wrong, birth is beautiful. Gosh, I’d do it again and again. Meeting the love of your life? That you created? There's NOTHING better... but I’d take away the fourth degree tear and the episiotomy. I’d take away sh*tting the bed, and pleading for an epidural. Watching your partner freak out, and seeing an aggressive midwife waving forceps in front of your head in a menacing way, to get you to push harder.