'My Angry Vagina' All Grown Up: Happy Mother's Day Edition

This is 10cm, aka fully dilated. As far as I know, this has happened to me twice, although only the lucky ones on the business end of my body actually witnessed this sci-fi situation. 

I had two c-sections. Both were unplanned, meaning I fully dilated and pushed but couldn't deliver. Basically, I experienced the pain of both types of birth. Pain for the sake of trying. Very me. 

When I was carrying my first child, I had a midwife and planned an unmedicated vaginal birth. Life had a good laugh at that plan and then strapped me like a kidnapped snow angel onto an operating table in a room bright enough to blind Gabriel himself. 

With my second son, I managed my expectations a bit better. The goal was simply a successful VBAC (vaginal birth after cesarean). After I pushed for two hours, my doc—who'd been watching football in the background while occasionally glancing at my gaping crotch—called a forfeit, I ugly cried, and the nurses wheeled me and my since-dearly departed big boobs off to the OR where a kind anesthesiologist put me out of my misery and I woke up just in time to meet Baby Big Head. 

I refused narcotics after both surgeries, not because I'm a hero but because 1. I have a historically high tolerance for BS, such as anxious ruminations, frenzied productivity, jealous and/or duplicitous "friends," and physical pain; and 2. I get big-time What Ifs about medication side effects.  

Looking back, I no longer get the allure of unmedicated birth. I wanted it with my first baby because mostly What If, but also the internet said it’s a badge of honor. As far as badges go, I've been a Girl Scout with an unadorned sash, an Outback Steakhouse server sans boomerang pins, and an 18-year copywriting pro with no awards. I don't need the validation. 

Childbirth is incredibly painful, and I don't see how fully experiencing that pain fits into a "beautiful experience." Women go through enough pain with periods, PMS, hormones, mammograms, pelvic exams, post-birth hemorrhoids and otherworldly constipation, sleep deprivation, and an endless list of exciting changes during pre- and post-menopause, not to mention enduring lifetime possession of an orifice that holds more power than the entire opus of male achievement yet historically has taken power away from us. So there's no good reason to add "delivery room warrior" to the list. Unless you really want to. Do you. 

Last night, as I pried open my sleepy eyelids to scour the internet for Mother's Day brunch side dishes as I'd promised my mom, Resentment tapped me on the shoulder. Our conversation went like this: 

R: Aren't you mad that you and your mom are cooking your own Mothers Day meal? 

Me: Do we have to do this now? I'm not regular tired but spaced-out zombie tired. 

R: I'll wait. 

Me: Fine, whatever. No, it's not my favorite idea, but my mother will never get on board with my vision of a Mother's Day that puts the onus of planning and execution on someone else, be that a partner or a child or a restaurant with a menu whose empty carbs are like a lap dancer ruining the innocence of my clean diet. My mom is old fashioned when it comes to domestic roles, but she's Mike Tyson when it comes to defending her principles, and although her legs are a full foot longer than mine, her never-back-down genes are a perfect fit.

Resentment conceded the debate, and I went on to have something resembling a night of sleep, if by “sleep” we’re talking dozing off between bouts of existential angst, which I consider part of my charm, and if you don’t, I’ve got a book of matches for that bridge. Today, I awoke with the realization that it’s not me filled with ire about the tribulations of womanhood. It’s My Angry Vagina. 

That’s not the one connected to my body but the one speaking in Eve Ensler’s 1996 play, The Vagina Monologues, which I proudly recited in my only acting class ever, at West Virginia University circa 2002. My Angry Vagina has had enough of women being held down, literally and figuratively. Me too, although I still very much enjoy men, sometimes even amidst the annoyance of their typical maleness. How could I not  when I was raised by a father who is my hero? How could I not when I'm raising two boys? How could I not for the sake of being a human capable of critical thinking.

It feels strange to proclaim that I’m pro-woman, seeing as I’ve been a woman all of my life and, so, shouldn’t that be a given? Except it isn’t. Generational paradigms and cultural norms are powerful. As are the will and the voices of women like me. Rather than stay angry, I prefer to vent through essays and juicy conversations, living life on my terms, and helping younger women discover their voice. 

Happy Mother’s Day, my friends. Take good care of you.