Birthing Stories…

Let me give you a piece of advice… After the break…

Birthing Stories…

Men are from Mars, Women are from Venus.

Women enjoy watching “the Hallmark channel” and guys won’t blink an eyelid sitting through a marathon of “Rambo” films. Women want to talk about how your day went for five hours and the closest that two guys will get to discussing their day is how their ‘fantasy football’ statistics are performing.

We speak the same language, live on the same street, drive on the same roads, buy our groceries from the same stores and even work for the same companies…

Yet we live in two entirely separate and different universes.

So, let me give the ladies just a little teeny-tiny piece of advice. This isn’t sexist or racist or elitist or any other “-ist” that there is. This is simply reality. I’ve written about it before. I’m about to repeat it here again:

No one wants to hear about your birthing stories while at work. At all. Ever. Regardless of what people tell you. Don’t do it.

I get it – It’s the miracle of birth. Just like a wedding, every birth is different. Every birth is special and magical and wonderful and blessed and all of that other happy hoopla.

Please don’t tell us about it. Ever.

Oh my gosh, we had to go out into the pouring rain. Back then, I-47 still was being constructed so we had to take the back way to the hospital. Larry was still driving the white station wagon that we had when we got married and it had the lousiest windshield wipers! Oh my gosh, I kept screaming for him to slow down, slow down, slow down and he snapped at me to shut up and keep breathing and we nearly ran into this poor dump truck that was right in front of us, I thought I was going to pop poor Billy out right then and there! The dump truck driver, bless his soul, got out of the truck and asked us if we were OK and, you know Larry, he’d punch anyone if you gave him a reason and he nearly started a fistfight with the truck driver and I’m there in the front passenger seat huffing and puffing away trying to keep calm because I could feel the head crowning…

OK, we get it. Going into labor is terrifying. Being pregnant is terrifying. Giving birth is painful and terrifying. Your then-husband and now ex-husband acted like a jerk. Your family members acted like jerks. The doctors were jerks. The nurses were jerks. Everyone in the universe except for you and your child were jerks.

Everyone has a funny story about giving birth. You drove into the wrong parking lot. Your husband forgot his wallet and driver’s license when you went to drive to the hospital. The doctor had a funny accent that you couldn’t comprehend. The nurses were incompetent. The television in the hospital room didn’t work. The hospital food was lousy. Your parents were a nightmare. You were almost handed the wrong baby by accident.

No one wants to hear about it. No one wants to hear about the graphic version of the events, either.

The people around you are being socially polite. They don’t want to hear how the nurses in the emergency room thought that you were having a seizure or how your sister drove to the wrong hospital or that father accidentally brought a live firearm into the hospital and was nearly arrested by the on-duty cop there or…

Just stop. Stop. Don’t tell us. I don’t want to hear about umbilical cords or C-sections or that they gave you morphine instead of some other drug or you needed to have “reconstructive surgery” afterwards because, boy, that child really did come out sideways… Just stop. I’m at work to work. I’m not at work so that you can relive those glorious 40 hours of labor. Stop treating work as though you’re reciting the event for an audiobook.

Do everyone a favor: Step outside of the office building and away from everyone except for those that you want to tell your tale to. Then tell your story of how you ran out of gas about a quarter of a mile away from the hospital and these college kids drive by and gave you a lift and… And once you are done telling your wonderful story, go back inside of the office building. That’s all. It’s very simple.

We live in two entirely separate universes. If you want to tell your friends about how you had two different shoes on at the time your were driven to the hospital while in labor, fine. But your co-workers don’t. Yes, they’ll be nice to you and say that they want to know more but they don’t. They don’t. They are there to work.

I’m not writing this to be mean, I’m writing this because I care. Great – Your delivery was a series of hilarious misadventures. Now I’m telling you what no one has the social courtesy to tell you – Don’t tell us. We don’t want to know. That doesn’t make us mean or insensitive, we just have other things that we have to do.

 

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