One of the best parts about having a child is meeting your child for the first time, all the great gifts, the doting, the pain meds… — ok, let’s be real: it’s getting to brag about your birthing story.

Obviously, with my first, I had no idea what to expect.  I took the classes, so I had a general notion that I wanted a natural birth, and well…that was it. Oh right, and it was supposed to HURT.  Sure.  To be honest, I wasn’t even all that anxious about the pain.  (Shocking, really, if you know me at all.)  I suppose it was because this event was going to be just SO far out of my experience zone that I had nothing to compare it to.  So there was nothing really to fear.  What you don’t know, eh?

Anyway, my due date was January 12, and I had my last day at work scheduled for January 13, 2006 because “NO ONE ever has their first baby EARLY!” I was told.  (The unsolicited advice starts early, as I’m sure you know already.)

So when I was busying myself with organizing baby clothes on the afternoon of December 31st, I didn’t pay much attention to my irritatingly-frequent Braxton Hicks.  After a few hours, however, I did start to write them down.  At about 7pm, I let my husband in on the events.  And just in time. Not a few minutes later, a painful one caught me by surprise.

“Oohh.  I think that was a real one!”

Still not concerned—I was told this takes HOURS, sometimes like A DAY—I went in the living room to sit down.

Let’s just say, that within 30 minutes we were on our way to the hospital, my husband running every red light in town.  Remarkably, on NEW YEAR’S freaking EVE, there were no cops around to pull us over/provide a police escort.

I think we were both a little bummed.

Now, my children were both born at military hospitals, which meant in this case that I was the only woman in the labor ward that evening.  I think that makes me pretty fortunate.  However, no one—NO ONE—could have told me that at the time.

You know, because I was in LABOR.

And though I didn’t know it at the time, I was in active labor.  Rapidly active labor.  Astonishingly fast labor.  Intense labor.  Like, DON’T SMILE AT ME or tell me HOW EXCITING! right now, labor.

By the time they got me on the table (after asking me questions like, “Oh you’re bleeding?  From where?”  REALLY? I DON’T THINK IT’S MY BIG TOE, NURSE LADY.), I was dilated to 3 or 5 centimeters.

Remembering my plan for “no drugs,” I tried to, um, hang in there. Right.  This lasted about 35 more seconds.  I turned to my husband:

Me: I know I said no drugs, but OHMYGOD this hurts really bad!

Husband: [Really being a trooper, but suddenly quite pale.] WhWh-yeah, whatever, whatever you want.

Me: NURSE!

Well, it was too late, apparently.  They checked me again and I was at 7 or 9 centimeters.  And though I would have paid MILLIONS for a little bit of horse tranquilizer at the time, I’m glad that my labor speed made up for my faltering resolve.

No time for a bed, apparently, as I had to walk myself over to the delivery room (stopping for a contraction every few feet or so).

Oh, did I mention that the doctor wasn’t here yet?

Right, so, I’m on the bed and suddenly declaring all those typical things that I’m embarrassed to admit I said:

1. “I CHANGED MY MIND! I CAN’T DO THIS!”

2. “I HAVE TO GO TO THE BATHROOM!”

3. “YOU DID THIS TO ME!” (Totally kidding. I definitely did not say that one.)

Oh, and then…

4. “Um, where’s the doctor?”

Like clockwork, she arrived as I began my first push. She walked directly into the room and into the scrubs the nurse had open and waiting for her.

Then I pushed three times.  And really…it’s true…the pushing, the pushing is really so less worse than those peak contractions.  Pushing through the pain—at least for me—felt kind of good.  Like flossing your teeth.  A good pain.  (Well, kinda.)

Then I had my baby.  Then I started sobbing.  And then I noticed how his nose, with lots of white dots on it, looked like a tortilla chip.

If it helps to know, I’ll say this, and only because this always sounded like the absolute worst part of labor to me: I did, ahem, “tear” a little.  Ripped?  Yeah, yeah I did.  But guess what?  NO PAIN.  As in, didn’t eve know it happened.  As in, didn’t feel it at all, ever, until it was starting to heal.  And then it was just glamorous, er…awkward, itching.

That was it.  Sure, healing is, um SORE, but dudes.  You’ve just been through LABOR.  Suddenly, even an amputation doesn’t seem like *that* big of a deal.  I was even up walking to the nursery about an hour after I delivered.

Which was about 10:31 in the evening, about two hours after I felt my first contraction.

So, years removed from my labor pain, I can talk about how freaking LUCKY I am that I have such fast labors.  In fact, I just talked to my neighbor the other day, who was like, “Yeah, I only had to push for three hours…”

THREE HOURS?!

I pushed three TIMES.

I am a fortunate woman, even if it was too fast for narcotics.  Either way, however, the pain—as bad as it is—is TOTALLY worth the kickass braggins rights that you retain for all eternity.

Start making your sign, ladies.