Tag Archives: memoir

“I want to be in the delivery room when the baby is born,” my mother said at Sunday brunch in the seventh month of my first pregnancy. Not “Would you like me to be?” or “Can I be helpful?” Nope, just a demand. She had a baby once in the fifties in a state of medically induced unconsciousness, so of course, she knew best. She’d been full of “helpful little tips” all along, but this was a new level of invasion. Mostly I said, “Oh, thank you” and moved on, careful not to roll my eyes in her line of sight.

“Your grandmother was there to greet you when you were born. She was the first to hold you. I want to be the first to hold my grandbaby. It’s a family tradition.”

Fucking presumptuous. “We will make sure you are there too,” I acquiesced reluctantly. How could I leave my poor widowed mother out of this? We were all she had left.

“We?” she asked. “Too? He’s not going to be there, is he? Why? He’ll never think of you the same again if he sees all that.” She gulps her coffee as though she’s had nothing to drink in weeks. “Besides, you won’t hold her right away; you’ll be knocked out for several hours. I will take care of the baby while you come to and make yourself presentable. That’s what your grandmother did for me.”

My grandam was a delivery room nurse in a time when women were put under, anesthetized during labor. While I was sure mid-1990s delivery room staff were used to take-charge grandparents, they’d not met my mother. I did not want them distracted with the occupation of Ms. I-Know-How-This-Should-Be-Done or worse, having to ask her demanding self to leave.

“Mom, Brodie’s going to be there because he’s the dad, and my husband and birth coach. They are not going to put me out.”

“Birth coach?” she scoffed. “Honestly. How ridiculous. The doctor takes care of all that.”

I should have told her she was the ridiculous one.

“You need to take advantage of modern medicine,” she continued, barely coming up for air. “There is no reason to be so barbaric and endure all that pain.”

Oh boy. She was just clueless. She had been rolled into the delivery room straight from church, coiffed, in her Sunday best with stilettos and gloves, and given medication to induce full-on, put-you-out anesthesia. She woke up shaved, stitched, clean, and fresh with a baby in the nursery. When she was released from the hospital, she dropped me off at Gramma’s for a few hours, likewise accessorized, having set her hair the night before, in a shirtwaist dress with the belt on its tightest notch (because she “kept her figure” with a net weight loss) so she could go check the sales at Lord & Taylor.

“Mom, it’s how most babies are born these days,” I explain. “It’s considered healthy for baby and mom.”

“Who is this doctor you have? You should ask him about having you put out. Then you don’t have to be embarrassed when they shave you, and you won’t feel it when they sew you back up.”

I didn’t even know what to say. I didn’t want to argue about shaved nether regions, anesthesiology, and episiotomies with my mother, now or in labor. Or ever.

“Mom, I’m going on the advice of my doctor, Amy. I would love to have you there, but you’ll need to be supportive.” By now my chest was hard and tight, my breathing shallow. I felt my head swim from lack of oxygen.

“Of course, you have a woman doctor. That’s what this is all about.”

Are you fucking kidding me? I wanted to say, but she was my mom. I tried to be gentle.

“Mom, after making her and carrying her and birthing her, it is her father and I who will hold her first. We will happily hand her over to you after I nurse her.”

“Why are you shutting me out? This is my grandchild . . . Wait! Nurse her? You’re doing that too? This woman doctor is making you one of those militants. They can give you pills to dry up your milk. You don’t have to go through all of that. You don’t want to get saggy breasts! It’s so primitive.”

I focused on the tinkling and hum of the café, using it as a kind of ostinato to calm my breathing.

“Mom, if you would like to be in the delivery room, I’m happy to make it happen. Would you like us to call you when we leave for the hospital or when delivery is closer?”

“What do you mean, closer?”

“It’s my first baby and it may take a while for things to move along. We can play Monopoly.” This was her favorite game; she was absolutely cutthroat.

“Well, I don’t want to be waiting around all day being frivolous; I’m busy. They can give you medicine so it’s quick. Why are you insisting on being so crass, so philistine?!”

I tried for slower, deeper breaths. Not easy, especially with a baby in there. “We’ll call you when it’s imminent, Ma.”

Her next words, all quickly pressed and run together as if they were one, carried panic behind her annoyance. “Never mind, this is ridiculous. You haven’t listened to anything I’ve told you. You’ll never get your body back. No one knew I was pregnant until eight months because I wore a girdle.”

A bite of over-easy egg mid-swallow threatened to stick as the rush of anxiety brought on by my mother’s judgement layered over my relentless morning sickness and shallow breathing. Her eyes were bulging and pointedly staring. Silence. Swallow.

I sipped tea and attempted another nibble of dry toast to push the egg down. But my mother wasn’t finished. “You’re already so big, you’ll never have a flat stomach again, you won’t look good in clothes, and your vagina will be loose. Do it the way I did, and you won’t feel a thing. When they sew you up, it’ll be tighter than a virgin.” Wound up, and almost yelling now, she said, “Why won’t you take advantage of modern medicine? We live in the twentieth century. You should not be having a baby like a Neanderthal woman!”