When I was 15 I watched my sister give birth. It was an accident, mostly. I was standing nearest to her when her contractions got bad and she secured a death grip on my hand making it impossible for me to get away. Believe me, I tried.
Whoever tells you that birth is a beautiful experience is a liar. I remember blood and screaming and not being able to close my hand into a fist for the next week. Beyond that, I’ve tried really hard to block the details out. If I could have fainted without pissing my sister off, I probably would have. A woman in labor is not someone you want to cross.
For years I held this horror close to my heart, convinced that there was no way I would put myself through that. I diligently took my birth control; cheered every month when the signs appeared telling me that I was, thankfully, without child.
And then I met a boy. He wasn’t like all the other boys that had come before him. He got me thinking that maybe – maybe – a baby wasn’t such a terrible idea. In 2010 we got married. A year later we started trying to get pregnant.
We’re still trying.
Irony is a real bitch.