Whoa! I’ve heard a thousand bollocky statements about parenting since Kraken Junior landed with a splat on the delivery table. I’d name most of them but it’s just easier to suggest you read any of the shit written by Gina Ford instead. However there is one that makes me weep tears of spinal fluid because it is the most bollocky of all: that mothers always forget the pain of childbirth.
You have got to me shitting me. Forget the pain of childbirth? That’s like asking a woman to forget the time she was tied to a cattle grid and run over by the National Express coach to Aberdeen while it was being driven by sneering goblins drunk on out-of-date absinthe.
Seriously, for me to forget the pain of childbirth you’d have to lobotomise me with a combine harvester. Every single day of my life I am grateful that I do not have my legs strapped into stirrups while a whole human being rips me apart from the inside. I’m also grateful that never again will my minge explode over a midwife’s uniform while I tell her to go fuck herself for telling to me to push.
See, for me, the pain of childbirth is exactly why I am never, ever having another child. I thought I knew what pain was until a freshly-grown cranium emerged from my conjugal nook. No. I did not. From the moment I started to push I thought that some medical freakery or other had left me pregnant with a Winnebago and a foof so small that it had its own atomic number. And that’s glamorising it. I can tell you now that taking two shits into the midwife’s hands and screaming like a lacerated donkey didn’t do much to add levity to the proceedings either. Nor did my loud and enduring statement that “the fucking thing is ripping me in half!”.
You know, I’m pretty sure that ‘fuck’ was the first word that Kraken Junior ever heard. Or perhaps it was barely audible over the giant sucking sound that heralded her arrival betwixt my shaking legs. In fact when she was slopped onto my chest I recall wondering what in the fuck a baby was doing there because I’d been expecting a small shed.
So how any woman goes on to reproduce more than once is so far beyond my comprehension that I can only conclude that I am missing some vital maternal ingredient. Perhaps I was born without that portion of the brain that erases vaginally devastating experiences. I suspect that if you were to scan my brain there’d be a little black hole where most ordinary women have a little reset button so that once a baby is out they can wipe everything except the foofly scar tissue and go do it all again.
Course, it didn’t help that I actually had post traumatic stress disorder in the months following the birth. In fact every time I took a shit I’d get flashbacks and break out in the sort of sweat reserved for people facing firing squads. On one occasion I merrily entered the downstairs toilet for a swift plop and exploded back out through the door like Indiana Jones being chased by that bastard great boulder.
So no, this mother won’t ever forget the pain of childbirth. In fact I am thinking of pouring my memories into a glass flask and condensing them until they form a film of tiny, screaming demons before selling them as contraceptives. It’ll be 100 per cent reliable too. None of this 99 per cent bollocks. The sperm will never get past this particular brew. At least, it won’t in my love tunnel especially now that it’s been on the business end of that Winnebago.
So have you forgotten the pain of childbirth? Or does it haunt you too? Get stuck into the comment box and let me know, you vaginally agonised lot.