My first child was born via C-section after 26 hours of labor and two hours of pushing. Two hours in which I vomited between almost every contraction, hanging from a birth bar like a sopping wet towel, fiercely focused to avoid fainting, which I was certain was imminent.
“You look pretty grey,” my nurse said at one point.
This extravaganza of sweat and pee and pelvic floor destruction ended after they gave me Zofran for the vomiting and a booster for my epidural—at which point you could have put a blowtorch to my vagina and I’d simply have asked if “it was a little warm in here?”
What really killed my efforts was the moment my OB/GYN said to me, “You can push for another hour if you want, but I have a scheduled C-section at 8 p.m, and if something goes south, I can’t guarantee I can get you into surgery in time.” Women love ultimatums during the most vulnerable, paramount moments of their lives.
After about 30–45 minutes of mild convulsions on the operating table (“It’s normal, just the drugs and the hormones,” the assisting doctor assured me as she sliced open my lower abdomen) and after begging the recovery nurse to please let me have a drink a water (she said no, but continued to let me suck on a sponge), I finally held my daughter some hour or so later and we, a family of three, were wheeled to our room where we melted into a fondue of exhaustion in our respective sleeping areas.
The first nurse I interacted with was a brusque Polish woman named Ina. We were so fragile and so tired, and Ina’s bedside manner, with its Eastern bloc patina, wasn’t exactly what I’d had in mind.
“Can you remove the catheter?” I asked in a soft voice, hoping that if I cowered into a delicate flower in her enormous presence, perhaps she’d take pity on me. After a history of bladder infections as a child, I’d developed somewhat of a phobia to having a needle stuck up my pee hole.
“No, not yet,” she replied without sympathy in a thick Polish accent, which reminded me of the ladies working the bakeries in Greenpoint, and for a moment, I did find comfort. “Four a.m. I come back.” A few hours later, just as she promised, Ina came back and finally removed the catheter.
“Can I shower?” I asked, by now having marinated in my own internal liquids for some 36 hours. I was sweaty and smelly and everything from my waist down felt like a pile of hot garbage.
“Not for 24 hours. Stitches,” she said, nodding in the direction of my tender incision. She led me to the bathroom and helped me sit me on the toilet. “You have to urinate. Need to make sure everything is working.” Finally, she glanced up at me with a warm smile.
From a cupboard she pulled a king-sized mesh comforter, which turned out to be underwear, and inside the crotch she pressed a hoagie roll, which was actually a maxi pad. She gently stepped my feet into the underwear and grabbed what looked like a clear ketchup bottle of water. Then, with this woman eye level at my vagina, I peed in the toilet for the first time in days while she squeezed warm water on my most private hole, and it was the nicest thing anyone had ever done for me. I couldn’t believe this was her job. I couldn’t believe this moment felt like a downright spa day.
Not that long ago, I was recalling this story to a friend. She noticed the effusiveness with which I spoke of Ina, the adoration in my voice for this angel nurse who watered my vagina like a ficus, clearly the highlight of my hospital recovery. My friend, a sex educator and doula, was aghast.
She said something to the effect of, “it’s just so sad that your expectations are so low,” and it was the first time I realized I’d had a I’ll-just-take-what-I-can-get attitude about birth and early motherhood. I think a lot of new moms have this outlook. If you’re a mother of a ripe experienced age like me, you likely know enough to know that you don’t know shit. I was prepared to be humbled. I knew hospital staff would oblige me, but quietly tense their jaw at a meticulously architected birth plan. I was so prepared for the lack of control and the mishaps of new motherhood, that I overlooked my standards.
Once at home, I was lucky enough to have the support of my mother and husband for several weeks. And while I wouldn’t say I neglected myself during the postpartum period—I was able to carve out time for showers, food, and simple routines—I mostly bobbed along, taking what I could get, demanding the very least for myself.
I want to feel differently this time.
I want to feel beautiful, which means plotting out spaces of time for myself. Perhaps at first that’s simply a quiet shower. Eventually I hope it will be a short workout, a long walk, then a thoughtful beauty routine. It means eating foods that make my body feel satisfied. It means going easy, rejecting arbitrary standards and false expectations. It means unapologetically listening to my body and asking for what I need.
I want to feel peaceful, which means I will need to stop resisting. For a period of time, I will remind myself: This is how it is right now. This is temporary. When the baby is crying, when my body is aching, when I feel both inches and decades away from a decent night’s sleep. I want to remind my muscles to tense less and relax more, to cry on demand, and to sink into the reality around me like butter softening on a stovetop.
I want to feel joy, which means I will need to zoom in. Blinders on. Moment to moment. Hour to hour. This is how time passes with a newborn, anyway. Slow as molasses until one day you look up and realize it's been six months.
I didn’t know I was allowed to ask for such things the first time around. I didn’t know how to wade in the discomfort of unpredictability or how to shrug off the expectation of the New Mother. Emotionally, I assumed the role of steadfast caretaker alone, doing my best to keep my head above water. But this time, I’m no novice. New mothers deserve to claim space for themselves.
I have a planned C-section in less than a week, and if I’ve learned anything about being a mother these last three years, it’s that my voice is my most powerful asset. If I don’t speak up—for me, my daughter, my family—no one will. This won’t change reality; my newborn knows nothing of my self-care plans, and he frankly doesn’t care, but it can change my attitude. I have perspective now, which is one of the gifts of second-time parenting.
I’ve always had a thing for new beginnings. I love a prompt, an excuse to start a new draft. A new baby feels like as good a time as any to reinvent oneself: the good, the bad, the unpredictable. This time, I want to ride the wave instead of fight or flail. I’m beginning this story with a blank page.
Sending you lots of love!! Can’t wait to meet our little guy. ❤️