I was cleaning out my house’s back room one day, and noticed how much stuff I have gathering dust: a LSAT prep book from 2000, boxes of scrapbook supplies, and a treadmill. These are all things I was passionate—to the point of obsessive—about at one time in my life, but for one reason (possibly excuse) or another, I quit and moved on to other things.
So, does all this unused stuff mean I’m a quitter?
Will I finish anything that’s not accompanied by the sweet relief of an epidural?
“You say I’m at five centimeters? I believe my time is up,” I’d have said. “Your turn, honey. I’m going for coffee and a doughnut. Can I bring you anything? Oh, my bad. You’ll be pushing a human being out of your private parts soon and can’t have solids. How about a nice ice chip? Now, remember to breathe through the pain, and go to your happy place.”
Happy place my ass.
Speaking of my ass. Every contraction made me clench my bottom, so there was no way in bloody hell my body was going to relax without pain relief. My buns of titanium caused my lady parts to clamp closed so tight medical staff would have needed the Jaws of Life to pry my baby out of there.
Now, I did have one out of my five children without an epidural: baby number two. Or what I refer to as, “WTF was I thinking?” Natural childbirth was something I wanted to experience just to see if I could do it. A perfect example of why you should always be careful about your goals. Yes, I survived natural childbirth, but I didn’t like it.
For some experiences, once is more than enough. That’s exactly how I feel about natural childbirth. Been there, don’t ever want to go back. I learned my lesson. When I arrived at the hospital to have babies three through five, I ordered the epidural at check in. “Good day, madam. My name is Charlotte, and I’d like my epidural, please.”
Hell, I’d take an epidural now if someone offered me one. It might help me accomplish something more than the laundry.