Propagating the Species

God has a plan for new mothers. It’s called memory loss. By overloading our systems, eventually all the pain and turbulence morphs into bliss and becomes one big blur. This is how the human race continues to thrive.

My final week of pregnancy I could have run a marathon to force thiat child out. Then while I was in labor, the pain was so bad ahat a shovel to the head would have felt better. I opted for the epidural over the shovel, but I waited long enough to guarantee the contractions were a pain I’ll always remember, not only to rub it in my son’s face one day, but so I don’t fool myself into thinking that a natural birth might actually be a good idea. (It’s not.)

The hospital stay was traumatic in its own right. Dozens of strangers shoving their way in my room at all hours to fill out forms (those were Marc’s guests), to poke and prod Erich and me, to throw off the sheets and examine how things are going “down there” and ask when my last “pee pee” and “poo poo” was (like, they do know I’m not the baby, right?). Don’t even get me started on the Nazi lactation nurses fondling me every two hours while smashing Erich’s face into my breasts. The only person that didn’t wake me up was the food lady, and she was the only one I waited up for.

It didn’t take long after settling in at home to have my first emotional/mental/physical breakdown. I lasted 24 hours before I sent Marc out in a blizzard to fill my prescriptions. I stayed home with a body that wouldn’t function, a baby that wouldn’t nurse, and breasts that wouldn’t stop growing. (Normally I wouldn’t complain about the last one, but I wasn’t thinking rationally at the time.) Another epidural would’ve been welcome, but I settled for an ocean of tears and the beloved Percoset my darling husband brought home. Ice packs, heating pads and oxycodone saved my life. I spent the next month healing, sleeping, nursing and trying not to poop. At least my kid is freakin’ adorable.

Now that my 13 week old sack of potatoes is sleeping through the night (10 hours last night!), babbling through his huge gummy grin and keeping his once 2 hour feeds at less than 40 minutes now, I’m starting to forget. My higher power is putting His Magic Eraser to work, obliterating traumatic portions of the past few months. Forever recording my experience in the blogosphere wasn’t likely part of God’s plan for new mothers, but He has a special plan for me. I’m beginning to forget what it felt like, but I hope by writing this, I don’t forget what happened. I propagate the species by accidental fertilization. It’s happened once, and it could happen again. At least next time I’ll know what to expect.