The other day a colleague made the big announcement — the biggest she could make. She's pregnant.
There were hugs, and maybe even a few happy tears. Squeals of delight could be heard through the office, a crowd of women stood around, waiting for their turn to congratulate.
Once the hugging stops, however, the stories begin. Because they're your friends, they figure it's their duty to tell you stories that would make the most stoic woman shudder. They're preparing you. They're doing you a favour.
“How are you feeling? Good? That won't last. I was sick for the first seven months. Have fun with that.”
Or: “Heartburn yet? No? Just wait, I couldn't eat anything for the last three months.”
There are the tales of bed rest and blood pressure, followed by stories of swollen ankles, feet and fingers. Diabetes? Check. Hair loss? Check. Insomnia, fatigue, dizziness? Check.
Then, if you're blessed enough to come through those first six or seven months relatively unscathed, the labour stories emerge.
Nobody mentions the aunt who had a two-hour labour, or the friend who giggled through the delivery of her second child (that happens, right?). Rather, they carve time out of their busy schedules to sit down and tell you about the blood, the gore, the suction, the forceps, the days and days of hard labour, the lack of an epidural or the botching of one.
Baby is sideways, backwards, upside down and crooked. It's too late/early for an epidural, the gas makes you nauseous, and the morphine just makes you feel drunk.
There's no pain relief for a process that I was told time and time again would take a week, week and a half, tops.
Or, on the flip side, you'll learn about those women who give birth so quickly their husbands end up tying off the umbilical cord with a dirty shoelace in the middle of a snowstorm on the Halston Bridge.
Every woman wants to tell you her story, and if her story isn't scary enough, she'll tell you about her friend or her sister who endured something that, had it been filmed, couldn't air on HBO due to graphic content.
Like the esthetician, who, while giving me a pedicure in the days leading up to my little one's arrival, admitted that while she adores her darling three-year-old, she “still can't have a good laugh without running to the bathroom.”
Everything is up for discussion — from incontinence to episiotomies.
But it doesn't stop at labour and delivery. Once that date is imminent, you're taken aside and patted on the head:
“Poor, poor thing, you'll never sleep again.”
There's the colic, and the infant acid reflux, which is by all accounts common and the pits. Watch and listen as your friends and colleagues gleefully, and without prompting, paint you a verbal portrait of the contents of diapers, their consistency, texture and smell.
Looking forward to getting rid of the baby weight? Won't happen. Think you'll ever get out of your overdraft? Think again! Guilt, they say is your constant companion, so is self-doubt. You'll never do anything right, your neighbour, mother, sister, aunt, or a homeless man in Riverside Park, will always be able to do it better, and that television you let your child watch? Better stock up on Ritalin.
Even when the first year is over, your baby is now toddling, sleeping through the night and giving you toothy smiles and sticky hugs when you walk in the door each evening, there is no reprieve.
“You just wait until they become teenagers. Then the real work begins.”
Danna Bach is an associate news editor at The Daily News. She can be contacted at dbach@kamloopsnews.ca.
