Yes, I’d love to hear your horrible birth story…and other things.

This bump in my front has received unsolicited advice, thoughts, stories, warnings and the-world-is-ending-for-you notifications. I’ve had the Quick Trip lady tell me that I’m too small to be 34 weeks along and that possibly I’m wrong on my due date-or something is wrong with the baby.

I’ve received advice from a well-meaning Sprouts employee that I should eat unpasteurized cheese because it will help my child build up immunities (that’s a big: “thank you but no”, by the way).

I’ve been told that I’m crazy for not wanting the drugs given to most mothers during birth and that of course, I’ll change my mind.

And that I’m weird for wanting to cloth diaper and that this desire won’t last long. That I’ll realize I’m missing out on life for me and baby without Baby Einstein’s “must-have walker”. And, that if I make my own baby food, my baby probably won’t be receiving enough nutrition.

All of these things are tolerable. However, the one thing I cannot get out of my mind are the horrible birth stories I’ve been told-mostly from complete strangers. Their water broke at the state fair while at the top of a ferris wheel, they bled out and almost died, oh-also the baby almost died, the doctor didn’t know what he was doing, the cord was wrapped around the neck, and they labored for 3 days straight.

My question is why do tell a perfectly happy pregnant woman all of the terrible things that could go wrong? Is to help her increase her faith (I would have to say no) or to show off the invisible badge earned through an extremely painful and traumatic ordeal?

It’s like telling a virgin the night before she weds that she’ll just have to “get through it”. Which is helpful. Which happened.

I may appear tough to you (or not). However, I’m a fragile little egg right now. It’s not that I don’t value what other mother’s have been through. But, let me get through it first. Then, we can swap stories all day long. I’d love to hear about the bloody placenta that fell from the doctor’s hands, the hemorrhoids and the elusive sleep that never came for the new mother.

Seriously. I’ll brew the coffee.