Alice at finslippy finally got around to writing and posting a birth story for Henry (who’s three).
I am not usually a fan of hospital birth stories, but this one is fun to read.
Because of the epidural that had robbed me of all ability to feel what was happening to my poor vagina, I was spared the so-called Ring of Fire sensation, in which the baby’s head stretching everything to its outermost limits and beyond, causing you to believe your vestibule may in fact be aflame. Nonetheless I still had Johnny Cash in my head as I pooshed. And pooshed. Love is a burnin’ thing. Doo doo-doo doo-doo doo doo doooo. And it makes a fiery ring. “Look at his eyelashes!” the nurse exclaimed, and my husband looked down and said, “Oh my god,” and I said, “Are they longer than his head? Is he some kind of fringed freak? Will he make us some circus money?” Only I didn’t say any of these things because I was mooing.
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