Labor

It seems there should be a better word to describe the process of bringing a child into this world. Labor just doesn’t seem to cut it. Any word that is associated with a holiday and backyard cookouts just isn’t enough to describe the feeling that someone is systematically reaching in and ever so slowly squeezing your insides until they have no other option than to exit your body. Any process that causes this typically mild-mannered woman to suddenly want to drop kick a nurse across the room when she tells me I have to lie down to be monitored for half an hour instead of walking around as feels better, certainly requires a word with more strength. Or anything that makes me want to choke the resident Doogie Howser who tells me to resist the urge to push (as if he has any idea what he is saying to me…as if he could also tell the sun to not set and the world to not rotate) should be called by something more powerful.

A week ago as I stood sweating and exhausted in the hospital examining room recovering from a contraction and anticipating another at any minute, I turned to Matt and said, “Why do we do this?” Why would anyone voluntarily bring on such pain? Why would anyone want to endure something so intense, especially more than once? Yet just an hour later as Kenna Grace was placed on my chest, I once again understood why. It would seem recovery from such pain must bring on amnesia. And yet I fully remember what it felt like with Kenna and two years prior with Jonas. I will never forget the crippling, breath-taking, tear-inducing discomfort. And yet the reward outweighs those hours of calculated breathing and focused pain management in an attempt to labor through the most excruciating yet natural process of life. In a society where we try to find any way possible to mask pain and discomfort, perhaps birth should be a reminder that sometimes with a little pain comes a nice reward…and with a lot of pain comes an even greater blessing.