Parlez-vous Mommaaay?

Bienvenue! I always wanted to learn French. I remember the first French class I ever took was in the 7^th grade. I don’t remember much of the class except that I wish I could’ve learned more French. It was all Greek to me (insert bad joke drum rim shot right about now). In French class, the teacher might as well have been teaching Organic chemistry, as I was as lost as a person who would miss a few episodes of Lost and had no idea what the heck was going on in that dang show, if you catch my drift). I’m not sure if it was due to my pre-adolescent brain frequently malfunctioning at the time or what, but French never really “clicked” in my brain back then.

Along with French class and being 12 years old, learning about where babies came from and how they magically got placed in their mommies’ arms were also things I never “got”. (What?!?  There is NO stork flying in with a baby?? How could Dumbo lie to us?!?)

I was one of “those” kids whose parents wouldn’t sign the permission slip to watch the Miracle of Life with all the rest of the cool kids. Yes, not only was I a late bloomer physically, but mentally as well.

While I wasn’t in the dark all of the time (thanks to the ever-so-enlightening MTV of the 90’s and to the movie Clueless- no pun intended), part of my mental “late-bloomerness” carried even much later into my life. Like try 25 years old.

To explain, take a walk with me back down memory lane. The year was 2006. I was catching up with a lovely friend from college who had just had a bouncing, beautiful baby boy. I, being the naïve girl that I was, made the mistake of asking her what birth was like…she looked up at me and with her “innocent” smile and knowing eyes, proceeded to tell me about the birth of her son. The words coming out of her mouth were surreal to me and with every juicy detail, I felt like I was watching a horror movie being played in slow motion. Did she make some of this stuff up, I thought? Why would we as women want to suffer such physical atrocities? Mother of pearl!

For many women, birth stories are similar to war stories. They are stories we share at our kids’ play dates like we’re camp fire legends. Birth is rite of passage of which many women are all waiting to experience. The stretch marks, varicose veins and stretched, saggy skin are evidence of war wounds of a battle well fought and won.

Before I joined the ranks of motherhood, I would sometimes be present in these mommy-war-story-pow-wows as different women shared their experiences. After a while, there would be an awkward pause and some of the moms would look up and notice the deer-in-headlights look in my eyes and would sweetly smile in my direction as if to say: “Parlez-vous mommaay?” (Do you speak mommy?) To which my eyes would sweetly reply: “Mais non! Je ne parle pas Mommay."  (No! I don't speak Mommy).

Years later, it was finally my turn to enter the birthing battleground and meet Mini-me. Maybe now I could, how do zee French zay it? Je parle mommaay? (I speak mommy?) Naturally, my first labor-experience was nerve-wracking. In my opinion, no amount of book-scouring or story listening can prepare a mom for the birthing venture. After seventeen hours, which included the merciful epidural and 2.5 hours of pushing, I finally was able to hold my first daughter in my arms and for an instant, all of the hardship of labor, melted away. I CAN do hard things, I told myself.

After that first birth, I had a grand epiphany…

It doesn’t matter where you are from or what language you speak, experiencing birth is something that speaks only to your heart. My daughters’ birthdays were and will always be, some of the best days of my life. 

I realized that whether I would’ve had a c-section or vaginal birth, natural or epidural birth, giving birth to my children was my unique experience and albeit difficult, has now became sweet, precious memories in my mind.

And of course, the memories of those moments after birth when I could finally eat again. Those memories are pretty fabulous, too. Bons bons and croissants au chocolat, s'il vous plaît!