Okay, I have a confession. Two weeks ago, during the earlier part of the 33-hour labor that brought my wife, Elenor, and me our stunning 6lb 1oz gentleman, I showered, did my hair and put on my face in between contractions. There’s a stage of labor referred to as the “Loss of Modesty,” and I obviously hadn’t gotten there yet. In anticipation of, well, intimate interactions with loved ones and strangers, I wanted to make sure I looked and smelled OK.
I mean, I’m a modern, gender-studies-educated, empowered feminist who was about to naturally bring forth a human from my (effing) body, you know, except with accentuated eyes and zero B.O. How did this happen?? Part of it was certainly vanity, and the other part was a Pavlovian response to the pressure to be a particular brand of lady.
My gender equality champion parents taught me growing up that I could be and do anything I wanted. My education, coming out experience and having powerful female mentors all reinforced this notion, but self-doubt is a wily little shit that can sneak into the smallest spaces and suck up all the oxygen. So it takes sustained and thoughtful energy to manifest the courage that can suffocate fear, and one of the best things Elenor and I did to snatch some bravery was to learn as much as possible about the process of childbirth, our medical options and techniques to increase comfort.
Overall, my pregnancy was relatively smooth, but I did have this recurring thought that childbearing ain’t for the faint of heart. Yet, the reality is that nearly half the population makes babies. Every day. Every minute. While they’re working, while they’re raising other kiddos, while they’re caring for their parents, holding elected office, serving our country and furthering their education. That’s ladyhood (new word).
We took a 10-week Bradley Method birth course taught by the lovely and well-informed Adrianna Costello-Martin who completely shifted our understanding of labor and delivery. She believed that we could not only endure but even enjoy labor, and by the end I think I started to believe her! We knew what we wanted, what we didn’t (see birth plan below) and got to practice ways to achieve it. She didn’t just inform our perception of birth, but strengthened our perception of ourselves. That’s ladyhood.
And when the time came when the contractions started to intensify and my mind went to labor land and transcended make-up or body-image worries, it was Elenor, my partner-in-birth, who shined. Admittedly, her wheelchair driving skills at the hospital left something to be desired, but she, aided by our amazing friend and doula, made me laugh and power through an almost day-and-a-half long birth marathon. You know what’s not easy? Watching your loved one experience intense pain and not encouraging them to numb it because you trust they can handle it (even when they themselves might not). That’s ladyhood.
Ladyhood is simultaneously both fiercer and more gentle than I ever realized – strong and soft, all on one face. It might smell more like blood, sweat and tears than lavender or perfume. It might sound like a moose in heat and look like grit and determination. It might be a string of cuss words that if were charged to a swear jar could supply a child’s college fund. It might come in small packages like the Notorious RBG, or it might not smile “enough” like Hillary Clinton, or it might embrace sex like Madonna and Beyoncé.
Ladyhood is doing something even when you’re scared of it. Ladyhood is helping other ladies realize they’re stronger than they think they are. Ladyhood is beautiful and butch and loud and femme. Ladyhood is all things empowered and badass.
I gave birth like lady.
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Before You Go
