Where Babies Come From
Wednesday, May 12, 2010
Today (or I should say yesterday, because, yet again, it is 2 am and I'm still wide awake) marked a major milestone in my life. Ten years ago, I saw a baby born. Up close and personal.
I'd never seen a real birth before, not even in video; after having seen one, I am fairly certain that I will be content to never see one again.
For the record, I should explain that I have no memory of ever wanting a child of my own. Perhaps in the early days of my precious Baby Boo, having tea parties of Coca-Cola and M&Ms with my mom, I may have imagined myself a mother, but I don't remember it.
I played with dolls, of course, but mainly I was interested in dressing them, arranging their domiciles, planning their adventures. I don't remember ever changing a diaper even in play, though I know I had a doll that wet herself. In retrospect, I can't think of anything more disgusting than a doll that can pee on you.
I first confessed my lack of interest in breeding to my gynecologist. This information got a raised eyebrow and dismissal. Throughout years of painful, heavy periods, I got the same reaction every time I brought up a hysterectomy.
"You're young," the doctors -- first male, then female -- would say. "You don't want to make a decision like that now."
"Yes, I do," I assured them. But they never took me seriously. It would be years before one agreed to remove my baby-making plumbing.
In the beginning, I suppose I simply didn't find children younger than myself very interesting. Then again, I wasn't much exposed to babies. The ones I did come in contact with seemed very dull. They just slept, and cried, and waved little fists in the air. They couldn't hold a crayon, nor could they read Nancy Drew. They didn't get my knock-knock jokes, either. People cooed and prattled about their cuteness, but I just didn't see it. As someone else once quipped, they all looked like Winston Churchill to me.
A neighbor who lived behind us asked me to babysit for the first time when I was fifteen or so. If the baby didn't appeal to me, the money certainly did. It was only when time came to change a diaper that I realized I had no idea how to do it.
I called my mother in a panic. She offered to walk me through it, until I blurted out that the phone wouldn't reach. When she found out I'd left the baby on the changing table in the bedroom, she came running.
The diaper was filled with greenish-brown goo and the most disgusting odor ever to assault my nostrils. I would not babysit again until I was in my mid-twenties, and then only out of desperation.
I spent six months as a pseudo-nanny to a three year old boy. And while I was charmed by some of his antics, I was more exasperated by just how childish a child could be. I could not go to the bathroom alone. He would play contentedly by himself until I picked up a book; then he turned into a little dictator, demanding this, that and the other.
By the time his father came home at 5:30, I was exhausted. I could not imagine how anyone could deal with a child 24/7 -- or why in the hell they would want to.
I realized that I was far too selfish to ever raise a child without the application of serious drugs or duct tape. I suspected neither method was approved by Dr. Spock. Child-rearing for me would probably involve social workers and possible jail time.
And to all of my friends who have reproduced, I confess: I suffered through every one of your endless baby showers. Only peer pressure and the promise of cake compelled my reluctant attendance. Baby pictures made me wince, trying to come up with something nice to say that wouldn't betray my complete indifference. When coworkers brought their babies to work, and everyone would crowd around, clamoring for their turn to hold the bundle of joy -- I would hide.
One of the worst fights I ever had with my ex exploded out of his refusal to attend a co-ed baby shower. "You go," he said. "You women eat that stuff up."
I wasn't angry that he refused to go with me. I was furious at his assumption that my possession of ovaries would draw me inexorably to events involving the gifting of gruesome things like Diaper Genies and breast pumps.
Life experience was also teaching me that what little maternal instinct I possessed would be used up in raising the men in my life.
Don't think that I don't respect parenting. My time as a nanny gave me a deep respect for the self-sacrifice and challenges of child-rearing. I just didn't want to be personally involved.
I witnessed the lives of friends completely devoured by the arrival of tiny, squalling and usually damp little creatures with a voracious appetite for time and attention. Their once-stimulating conversation was suddenly reduced to an endless string of baby-talk, the complaints of sleep deprivation interspersed with tales of their child's latest display of brilliance. Children were friendship-killers.
Neither do I dislike all children. But I look at them as I would any adult. I like some and loathe others. I believe restaurants should provide no-children sections. Call me heartless and inhuman, but I simply do not enjoy spending money on meals eaten with a small stranger hanging over the back of the booth opposite me.
When a close friend -- who'll remain nameless lest what I'm about to say embarrass her -- became pregnant for the first time, I experienced the first twinges of interest in the process. This was inspired by the depth of my love for her, and the idea that I could indulge whatever maternal impulses I might harbor in someone else's offspring. I could enjoy the bright spots, then hand the kid back over to their parents before I started looking for the duct tape.
I missed the first delivery because of distance. On the second, I was in attendance.
I approached it with no small amount of trepidation. My perception of child-birth was formed by "Gone With the Wind." All I could picture was Melanie's desperate, sweat-drenched and moaning ordeal that looked like hell on a bad day. I would have rather faced the entire Union army than go through that myself.
It was unnerving to stand around a friend with her legs spread and private parts on display. It was a tad more intimate than I wanted to be, especially in the presence of her mother, brother and husband. It was just weird.
I was surprised at how little pain she seemed to experience. Apparently something called an "epidermal" worked miracles. There was none of the screaming and profanity I expected. Just some sweating and grunting. The aptness of the term "labor" was clear.
Then, abruptly, a smooth, fleshy spot appeared between her splayed legs. I watched in a mixture of amazement and horror as a small human HEAD came into view.
Oh, my God, I thought. There's a person coming out of her. A very small person, but a person none-the-less, smeared with what looked like a combination of blood and vaseline.
A tiny arm popped out, and I could only think of "Aliens."
It was both the most amazing and disgusting thing I've ever witnessed. Both awe-inspiring and slightly grotesque.
All I could do was stare, mouth gaping like a village idiot, as another human being joined the world. It was like a magic trick, and I could not figure out how it was possible. David Copperfield had nothing on my friend. How could a woman push another living being into creation? How could there be nothing but a swollen belly and hairy cleft one moment, and a whole person the next?
That person is named Emily. Yesterday she turned 10. She's grown into an interesting little human, charmingly imperious at times, utterly confident as she strides through the world. I see both her parents -- people I love as I love few people -- in her features and her character. I am enormously interested in watching her grow.
Emily has two brothers, and they too hold an appeal that no other children can claim on my heart.
But Emily, to me, is the most special child in all the known world. I saw her come into this world. I was there the day she was born. I wouldn't trade that for anything....
But I am still glad I chose not to have my own. There's not enough duct tape in the world.
Today (or I should say yesterday, because, yet again, it is 2 am and I'm still wide awake) marked a major milestone in my life. Ten years ago, I saw a baby born. Up close and personal.
I'd never seen a real birth before, not even in video; after having seen one, I am fairly certain that I will be content to never see one again.
For the record, I should explain that I have no memory of ever wanting a child of my own. Perhaps in the early days of my precious Baby Boo, having tea parties of Coca-Cola and M&Ms with my mom, I may have imagined myself a mother, but I don't remember it.
I played with dolls, of course, but mainly I was interested in dressing them, arranging their domiciles, planning their adventures. I don't remember ever changing a diaper even in play, though I know I had a doll that wet herself. In retrospect, I can't think of anything more disgusting than a doll that can pee on you.
I first confessed my lack of interest in breeding to my gynecologist. This information got a raised eyebrow and dismissal. Throughout years of painful, heavy periods, I got the same reaction every time I brought up a hysterectomy.
"You're young," the doctors -- first male, then female -- would say. "You don't want to make a decision like that now."
"Yes, I do," I assured them. But they never took me seriously. It would be years before one agreed to remove my baby-making plumbing.
In the beginning, I suppose I simply didn't find children younger than myself very interesting. Then again, I wasn't much exposed to babies. The ones I did come in contact with seemed very dull. They just slept, and cried, and waved little fists in the air. They couldn't hold a crayon, nor could they read Nancy Drew. They didn't get my knock-knock jokes, either. People cooed and prattled about their cuteness, but I just didn't see it. As someone else once quipped, they all looked like Winston Churchill to me.
A neighbor who lived behind us asked me to babysit for the first time when I was fifteen or so. If the baby didn't appeal to me, the money certainly did. It was only when time came to change a diaper that I realized I had no idea how to do it.
I called my mother in a panic. She offered to walk me through it, until I blurted out that the phone wouldn't reach. When she found out I'd left the baby on the changing table in the bedroom, she came running.
The diaper was filled with greenish-brown goo and the most disgusting odor ever to assault my nostrils. I would not babysit again until I was in my mid-twenties, and then only out of desperation.
I spent six months as a pseudo-nanny to a three year old boy. And while I was charmed by some of his antics, I was more exasperated by just how childish a child could be. I could not go to the bathroom alone. He would play contentedly by himself until I picked up a book; then he turned into a little dictator, demanding this, that and the other.
By the time his father came home at 5:30, I was exhausted. I could not imagine how anyone could deal with a child 24/7 -- or why in the hell they would want to.
I realized that I was far too selfish to ever raise a child without the application of serious drugs or duct tape. I suspected neither method was approved by Dr. Spock. Child-rearing for me would probably involve social workers and possible jail time.
And to all of my friends who have reproduced, I confess: I suffered through every one of your endless baby showers. Only peer pressure and the promise of cake compelled my reluctant attendance. Baby pictures made me wince, trying to come up with something nice to say that wouldn't betray my complete indifference. When coworkers brought their babies to work, and everyone would crowd around, clamoring for their turn to hold the bundle of joy -- I would hide.
One of the worst fights I ever had with my ex exploded out of his refusal to attend a co-ed baby shower. "You go," he said. "You women eat that stuff up."
I wasn't angry that he refused to go with me. I was furious at his assumption that my possession of ovaries would draw me inexorably to events involving the gifting of gruesome things like Diaper Genies and breast pumps.
Life experience was also teaching me that what little maternal instinct I possessed would be used up in raising the men in my life.
Don't think that I don't respect parenting. My time as a nanny gave me a deep respect for the self-sacrifice and challenges of child-rearing. I just didn't want to be personally involved.
I witnessed the lives of friends completely devoured by the arrival of tiny, squalling and usually damp little creatures with a voracious appetite for time and attention. Their once-stimulating conversation was suddenly reduced to an endless string of baby-talk, the complaints of sleep deprivation interspersed with tales of their child's latest display of brilliance. Children were friendship-killers.
Neither do I dislike all children. But I look at them as I would any adult. I like some and loathe others. I believe restaurants should provide no-children sections. Call me heartless and inhuman, but I simply do not enjoy spending money on meals eaten with a small stranger hanging over the back of the booth opposite me.
When a close friend -- who'll remain nameless lest what I'm about to say embarrass her -- became pregnant for the first time, I experienced the first twinges of interest in the process. This was inspired by the depth of my love for her, and the idea that I could indulge whatever maternal impulses I might harbor in someone else's offspring. I could enjoy the bright spots, then hand the kid back over to their parents before I started looking for the duct tape.
I missed the first delivery because of distance. On the second, I was in attendance.
I approached it with no small amount of trepidation. My perception of child-birth was formed by "Gone With the Wind." All I could picture was Melanie's desperate, sweat-drenched and moaning ordeal that looked like hell on a bad day. I would have rather faced the entire Union army than go through that myself.
It was unnerving to stand around a friend with her legs spread and private parts on display. It was a tad more intimate than I wanted to be, especially in the presence of her mother, brother and husband. It was just weird.
I was surprised at how little pain she seemed to experience. Apparently something called an "epidermal" worked miracles. There was none of the screaming and profanity I expected. Just some sweating and grunting. The aptness of the term "labor" was clear.
Then, abruptly, a smooth, fleshy spot appeared between her splayed legs. I watched in a mixture of amazement and horror as a small human HEAD came into view.
Oh, my God, I thought. There's a person coming out of her. A very small person, but a person none-the-less, smeared with what looked like a combination of blood and vaseline.
A tiny arm popped out, and I could only think of "Aliens."
It was both the most amazing and disgusting thing I've ever witnessed. Both awe-inspiring and slightly grotesque.
All I could do was stare, mouth gaping like a village idiot, as another human being joined the world. It was like a magic trick, and I could not figure out how it was possible. David Copperfield had nothing on my friend. How could a woman push another living being into creation? How could there be nothing but a swollen belly and hairy cleft one moment, and a whole person the next?
That person is named Emily. Yesterday she turned 10. She's grown into an interesting little human, charmingly imperious at times, utterly confident as she strides through the world. I see both her parents -- people I love as I love few people -- in her features and her character. I am enormously interested in watching her grow.
Emily has two brothers, and they too hold an appeal that no other children can claim on my heart.
But Emily, to me, is the most special child in all the known world. I saw her come into this world. I was there the day she was born. I wouldn't trade that for anything....
But I am still glad I chose not to have my own. There's not enough duct tape in the world.
