It’s a trap, this idea of a perfect mother. But it’s a trap that we women build, clean, and stock ourselves with pre-washed organic baby lettuce.
It begins when the bloody mess of childbirth is hidden behind doors that keep our guttural noises inside.
It begins when a freshly washed mama and baby appear on the front steps waving to the neighbors (or the press), pretending that her wild animal didn’t just drag the child with her own teeth from the darkness into the light.
It begins when the baby bumps are fetishized, but only while pregnant. (After giving birth, they are to be immediately and forever sucked in and tucked in and fretted about.)
If birth were not a deliverance to some new aspect of us, we would never become equipped to raise children. We would never know the depth of love that is possible. We would never touch that deep inner knowing that tells us when to yank our child back from the edge of death.
If this is our cage, then we hold the keys. If we hold the keys, all we have to do is find the right one. And if we can’t find the right one, we can ask one of the women standing on the outside what she used. This is how the whole thing comes tumbling down.
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Find out how you delivered yourself the day you gave birth. Download your copy of the BirthStory workbook today.
