Please Donâ€™t Hand Me Your Child Because I Forgot How To Baby
Iâ€™ve heard a lot about labor amnesia, which is apparently a thing where your body forgets the pain it felt while squeezing out a babyâ€”or in my case, having your insides sliced open, your baby scooped out, and then being stapled back together. I donâ€™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 husbandâ€™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 â€œmucus plugâ€, â€œdilationâ€, and â€œChux padâ€ 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, sheâ€™s been seven years old forever, and there was never a time that she didnâ€™t sleep like the dead, make her own sandwiches, take showers, and use the bathroom without assistance.
She is the quintessential â€œgood kidâ€.Â She says â€œpleaseâ€ and â€œthank youâ€ and â€œexcuse meâ€ and reads books and doesnâ€™t sneak candy. I have had to remind her more than once not to call me â€œmaâ€™amâ€, something sheâ€™s picked up in Texas but makes me feel super weird, like Iâ€™m some kind of overlord Joan Crawford type. Sheâ€™s not perfect, but sheâ€™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.