I’ve heard a lot about labor amnesia, which is apparently a thing where your body forgets the pain it felt while squeezing out a baby—or in my case, having your insides sliced open, your baby scooped out, and then being stapled back together. I don’t have labor amnesia. Sure, some details are fuzzy, but I know that there was a lot of vomiting and pain. Worth mentioning is that most of Savannah, where I gave birth is paved with cobblestones. Bumping along over that mess on your way to Kroger where those sweet, sweet pain pills await without popping a staple or shoving your husband’s face into the steering wheel should qualify you for some kind of award.
No. In fact, all someone has to do is mention words like “mucus plug”, “dilation”, and “Chux pad” and my uterus will begin to crawl higher up into my abdomen in an attempt to disappear as the vivid memory of labor settles in.
You know what I do have? Baby amnesia. It seems that as soon as my child progresses through a stage of development, I forget all about it. As far as I know, she’s been seven years old forever, and there was never a time that she didn’t sleep like the dead, make her own sandwiches, take showers, and use the bathroom without assistance.
She is the quintessential “good kid”. She says “please” and “thank you” and “excuse me” and reads books and doesn’t sneak candy. I have had to remind her more than once not to call me “ma’am”, something she’s picked up in Texas but makes me feel super weird, like I’m some kind of overlord Joan Crawford type. She’s not perfect, but she’s easy. The mistake people make is assuming that I made her this way. We had her in college, and my husband and I like to say that she is not the child we deserved but rather the child we needed at the time in order to not kill one another and/or set the apartment on fire.