So Victoria Beckham has a penchant for cesarean sections, after having her new daughter Harper Seven delivered into her indulgent and extravagant world, using the same method she used on her previous children, the C way. The phrase "Too Posh To Push" was first used in relation to Posh Spice, then, via the tabloid newspapers it seeped into my life and the life of my 12-year-old nephew who now calls this method of baby delivery "cheating."
But what if you're not too posh to push? What if like me, the thoughts of having to give birth to a baby naturally, terrify you? What if having to breath properly, in and out, in and out, is bringing tears to your eyes as you read this? What if the idea of forcing a baby into this world through a succession of painful and humiliating pushes, brings on a serious panic attack in the labor ward? Thus resulting in the body contracting with such raw fear, that the medical world would have to find a new method of delivering a baby through ones mouth.
The thoughts of myself having a natural labor manifest itself as my right leg firmly crossing my left leg. This is also a more lady-like form of contraception. For years I have declared that I never wanted kids. My friends assumed I would never find the right ingredients to be able to produce a child and that my daily declarations were just to save face. But I'm pretty sure I could easily defrost some sperm from the top freezer belonging to previous dalliances and see what happens. My reasoning behind these testimony's was always the thoughts of a natural birth. I could only bring a child into this world by having a cesarean or C-Section, the C in this instance standing for Carol.
I can vision myself in the labor ward and my heart is now racing as I type this. My eyes would pop out of their eye sockets at the first, "Push Carol." My nostrils would violently flare and rip open on the next, "Push." My lips would have been completely chewed off by my anxious teeth and each nail ripped from it's nail bed, hands and feet. I would be wailing so loudly that the medical staff would now be communicating in sign language and my arms would be sporadically flailing like a helicopter taking off. Inside me, the poor innocent baby freaking out at the not so innocent mother freaking out. And all this mess after just two pushes.
If I was a Scientologist, Katie Holmes would be shaking her head as she returned my sizable donation, shoving it into my grey depressed maternity bra and then silently shuffling out of the room in her spit-spattered Marc Jacob pumps. Tom Cruise would climb off the couch where he was readying himself to jump silently but hysterically. He would open each fist as there would be no punching of the air in this room. John Travolta could be heard nearby disappointingly revving up the engine of his jet on the runwa
But I'm not a Scientologist. Yet. I'm also not pregnant. Yet. So whether it was vanity or sanity that brought Harper into this world through Section C. I don't really care. I just want to make sure that when or if, a fully formed fetus wants to leave my cozy womb, that it's not taking the sCenic route.
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