A large part of why I didn't want to have kids (until my biological clock started rattling my brain with its gonging) was fear of labour. I have as much interest in the "birth experience" as I do in being tarred, feathered, and dragged naked through town in a studded barrel pulled by spooked horses, like they did in medieval times. The invention of epidurals is an excellent reason all by itself to be thankful for living in 2010, not 1810.
Heaven smiled on me and granted me a scheduled c-section after S. stubbornly lodged herself in a breech position for the whole second half of my pregnancy. I've heard c-section horror stories, but a week after my c-section, I had to restrain myself from doing cartwheels in the living room (well my fat ass also slowed me down, but the energy level was there). I thought I'd managed to skip through the whole experience with no more than a few ibuprofens, tralalala.
Except for the breast-feeding. I'm not going to get into the gory (literally) details, other than to say the experience has been like dropping my poor defenceless mammary glands into a piranha-infested section of the Amazon river. Thank God S. won't nurse anymore, so she's getting expressed breast milk to everyone's great relief. Enough said about that.
So I thought the pain was over, not counting the blinding sleep deprivation headaches. But today S. entertained herself with the following maneuvers:
-rammed her little finger right up my nostril a la Danny Glover in Pure Luck
-while telling a particularly loud babble, whipped her entire arm across my mouth and nose, leaving me with a nice imprint of my teeth on the inside of my lips
-educated herself about how tears are made by attempting to dig out my eyeball
As I was trying to see through my blurred vision where S. was planning to strike next, she reached up and helped accelerate that post-partum hair loss. Happily perched on my lap with a clump of my hair clutched in her tiny fist, she began to babble again with great joy, chortling away.
It's a good thing she's so cute and those bonding hormones have kicked in, because masochism and me aren't a natural fit. Pretty shoes aside.