Bollocks to Natural Childbirth

“There’s no way we’re calling the baby Christie”, I argued with my five year old daughter. “When you have your own baby you can call her what you like.” Her determined face crumbled and she shrieked, “But, I told you, I’m never going to have a baby, you said it hurt; more than an injection.” It’s true I had confessed, that yes, it was worse than an injection, but that’s all I’d said. Her own logic was responsible for the full goulish truth; how could something the size of a Cabbage Patch doll coming out of your ‘bagina’ not hurt like buggery? I supposed I should have lied and reassured her that it was just like doing a lovely poo, until her furtive little mind could cope with the reality. But can it ever?

I was the last girl in my class to graduate from the vile sanitary towel to the tampon, at least two years after I got my period. I remember sitting nervously on the edge of the toilet seat at boarding school, my eyes and teeth clamped shut. An Ultra-slim poised strategically, like some huge, self administered injection, as some tampon-savvy class mate issued instruction. It seemed everyone else had made this transition quite naturally, but despite repeated attempts, I had not been able to overcome the pain of inserting foreign matter where it obviously didn’t want to go. Feeling progressively freakish I drew the only conclusion – that since a small white finger was so unwelcome a huge pink baby would be out of the question.

A few years later, the tampon saga behind me, but verified by a disastrous first bonk, (which kept me chaste until my wedding night!) my best friend succumbed to a teenage pregnancy. She decided to have the baby and I subsequently learnt of the wonders of the epidural. Years of anxiety slipped away as she recounted how she had played backgammon with her boyfriend her entire labour and painlessly delivered a fine baby girl. Visiting her at the hospital we lifted our champagne glasses to the miracle of modern science and our mothers commented at half our luck to be mothers in this progressive and civilised era.

But by the time I was to become a mother, the increasing luxury of birthing options and low morality rates, had reduced the once life threatening ordeal of childbirth to just a fashion choice. Unfortunately for me the current trend was natural childbirth and being the shameless fashion junkie that I am, I was quick to adopt this new age dictum, and with the same self righteous zeal of my peers, I declared the once merciful epidural, a symbol of cowardice and maternal insincerity. Although it seemed to be medically unsupported, a woman serious about the well-being of her baby did not make the epidural her first choice and to my impressionable mind this theory was further endorsed by my teenage girlfriend who, for complicated reasons, later abandoned her child. Also, by the example of other women who, having optioned the epidural, proceeded to forgo breastfeeding, employ full time nannies or place their babies in childcare.

By the time my nine months was up I was so chock-a-block with every new fangled birthing technique from squatting to Lamarze breathing, that the actual birthing procedure and expectations had taken on far more importance than the fact I was going to be taking home a baby. Surrounded and coaxed by my New Age elders I felt myself propelled towards some kind of fundamental rite of female courage.

My hip obstetrician, well-aware of the popularity of birthing new-speak, was certainly not going to offer any opposition, and my comrades from pre-natal classes were cocky as hell and chomping at the bit to prove their metal. I better not fail! ….. Not a chance.

I won’t go on for those of you who don’t know just how bad labour is, it’s simply beyond definition but I could have endured fifty hours of it and then given birth to a three headed pig, au naturale. Did the baby have ten toes? Was it a boy or a girl? Was I torn from Palm Beach to Manly? Who cares?, I threw my fists in the air a’la Rocky Balboa and shouted, “I did it, I did it”.

The poor new mothers, many ex pre-natal comrades, in the maternity ward who’d failed their initiation by resorting to pain-killers were like shit to flies. There they lay, ashamed and defeated, while those of us energised with accomplishment, hovered about with patronising solicitation.

“Oh poor thing, you must have been exhausted? Yes I did it, but I was lucky, only ten pounds and all over in fifteen hours”

Fortunately for everyone around me my insufferable cockiness was swiftly bonked on the head by inverted nipples, a nasty womb infection and colic but not before I’d basked in a fair bit of odious backslapping with other grads.

Once endowed with Superwoman status I felt a little less pressure to prove myself a second time which is fortunate considering once bitten, twice bloody petrified. Since I was very late and had to be induced, necessitating medical intervention anyway, I felt quite justified in accepting a little helping hand, only at the very end mind you and just a wee shot of Pethidine. Ahh, pure heaven!

Now pregnant for the third time, and thankfully a lot less susceptible to fashion trends and gurus, I intend to risk exile and go the painless route. But in my liberating maturity!, I would like to question why so many of us gals feel compelled to treat childbirth as some glorious, once in a lifetime opportunity to prove our inimitable courage? And don’t try and tell me it’s all about what’s best for bub because the majority of us will soon be guilty of what’s debatably not best for bub; snapping irritably, ignoring cries for attention, substituting T.V. for quality family time, yelling at Dad or getting divorced. The emphasis on equating superior femininity with all this excessive bravura in the labour ward is absurd. You wont find some heroic soldier declining anaesthetics before having an arm amputated as token of his masculinity, for Christ’s sake. And rest assured there will be plenty of opportunities to display exhibitions of courage over the next few years; starting with kicking the old man out of bed to go and make up the night feed or just plain not going under with fatigue and monotony.

For those of us debating which road to take, a few simple facts or statistics would be nice, but this seems impossible to get when everyone’s facts are coloured by their bias. Just mention the world epidural in front of a Natural Birth proponents and they’ll shriek ‘forceps, forceps!’, which, if you investigate a little further, is far from inevitable.

Firstly, the epidural can be administered to gradually wear off, allowing you to push the baby out yourself. Secondly, the job done by a suction pump is often sufficient. Furthermore who’s to judge the excess pain or discomfort suffered by a forceps delivery, over being yanked out by obstetrician’s fists. I agree, neither is a bed of roses welcome to life kiddo. But since there seems to be no evidence of any dire consequences to differentiate between the two, does it really warrant the hours of excruciating pain and fear to be endured by the long-suffering mother?

While sitting innocently in my G.P.’s waiting room, I noticed emblazoned on the bulletin board, the latest conspiracy to confuse the expectant mother just trying to do what’s best for bub and herself. Re-birthing. Now apparently, if the birth is Breach, Caesarean, Forceps, or again, anything but completely perfect, it can precipitate ‘character defects’ in that offspring.

According to the literature, one Caesarean casualty claimed she had spent her life believing everything had to be done for her. She was incapable of completing tasks as with her birth. After re-birthing she had understandings that evolved the affirmation “I enjoy doing and completing tasks!”. Another wacko (sorry but I’m not buying) who’d been born Breach, could never understand why his life was always going in the wrong direction, and how he could never seem to get things the right way round. Well, after a ‘wet re-birth’ where he tumbled over and over in the water, sank to the bottom and finally came to the surface head first he was able to conclude that the Breach birth had been responsible for his lack of direction. God knows what damage the old forceps might incur…a lifelong neurosis that you’re being dragged where you do not want to go or just an irrational fear of barbecue tongs? I pity the young expectant who may be tempted to make this gobble-de gook on board her already saturated agenda.

Another ‘expert’ in what constitutes a traumatic birth is Church of Scientology founder and former Science fiction writer, the late L. Ron Hubbard, who advocates that women not only eschew the evil painkillers but also maintain a vow of silence during birth. According to him the foetus not only hears the sounds outside the womb, but makes a detailed mental recording of them. Well that at least explains why my children are such virulent cursers and I’ve been blaming the much maligned school yard all along.

Then, according to Jessica Mitford in her book, The American Way of Birth, the Church has not held opinion s on whether a woman is entitled to pain relief at birth or not, since the discovery of chloroform in 1847.

“…and the Church of England stood united in opposition, citing Biblical authority that woman should suffer in childbirth as atonement for Eve’s original sin. As one clergyman put it, chloroform was a ‘decoy of Satan, apparently offering itself to bless women; but in the end it will harden society, and rob God of the deep, earnest cries which arise in time of trouble for help’ ” To scream or not to scream….? Yet another question!

Meanwhile, I have the backgammon board packed as I await my chance to tout the glories of painless childbirth. I have been warned that this being my third it may all be over before the anaesthetist arrives. That being the case I’ll have a large dose of Pethidine anyway just to get me through the pain of the next three years!