ex(PR)essed

Last night Jeff and I had our third of six birthing classes. I found the first one pretty obnoxious — lots of talk about how bad smoking is for the baby (duh!) and other things that I found irrevelant for a room full of couples at least seven months into their pregnancies. Last week, I thought the information was more helpful as we talked about the early signs of labor and practiced some breathing techniques.

But, last night was the viewing of the dreaded birthing videos as well as a rather detailed discussion about transition and the actual birthing process. Within about 10 minutes, I would have given my right arm to be anywhere else.

You see, I am a girl who highly values independence. So, vulnerability doesn’t come easily or comfortably to me. That’s the first reason why I’m dreading labor and delivery. I’m also a girl who likes to be in control and who likes to know what to expect. From what I gather, I might be able to control my breathing on delivery day, but that will be about it. The rest of my body will do as it wants. Some women would feel empowered by their body’s ability. Me? Not so much.

It dawned on me on my drive into work this morning (still driving a crummy Kia Spectra, thank you very much) that Eve is responsible for this mess (not Jeff as I might have previously been thinking). She ate the forbidden fruit and heaped a world of troubles onto women for countless generations to come. In Genesis 3, God tells her: “I will greatly increase your pains in childbearing; with pain you will give birth to children.” Great. Thanks, Eve.

So, perhaps you can all just allow me to wallow in self-pity for a few minutes? I’ve been pretty brave about most of this pregnancy. Only a handful of people even know what it’s really been like for me; I’ve been all about a brave face and happy smile. And, at this point, I don’t want anyone telling me how it’s all worth it. I don’t want to hear about how I won’t care what my body is or isn’t doing during labor and delivery. Don’t write me comments encouraging me to be brave or offering shallow platitudes about the joys of pregnancy and motherhood.

It’s 8:39 a.m. and my feet are already four times their normal size. For today, just let me feel snarky. Tomorrow will be a new day.