I Hate Giving Birth, or, Happy M-Day

I really hated giving birth. Right after The Bairn was born, I thought, Well, I'm never doing that again.  As Steve was suddenly converted to the glory of babies and planning for a houseful of them, I was reconciling myself to the idea that I was not going to get as many as I had wanted.  Because I hate giving birth.

I love being The Bairn's mother, though.  I love the way he burrows into me when he's sleepy and I love the funny little babbling stories he tells and the new tricks he's learning all the time.  Most recently he's taught himself to blow spit bubbles (must remind him to put that on future resumes).  Sometimes I leave him for a moment and when I return, he has a wee spittle beard.  He looks like an adorable mad dog.

Last night I found a sleeper he wore when he was brand new.  It's so tiny.  He's grown so big already that I've begun to think, We must get ourselves one of those newborn babies again.  Maybe two or three more.

Steve took some photos of me and The Bairn after church today, including this one of me whisking him away for a nap when he started to grumble.  Somehow it seems like a very true Mother's Day photo to me.

I've known some women over the years who really struggle on Mother's Day because they would love to be mothers and are not.  I never felt conflicted about the holiday when I was single, because I have always believed that Mother's Day is solely about my mother and the appreciation I have for her.  I happen to have a wonderful mother, but even if I didn't, if I had a bad mother, I would still be grateful that someone did something very difficult in giving me life. 

Because really (no, really) I hate giving birth.