| January 28, 2005 - The so-called miracle of birth |
| Dear Friends, I want to say right up front that this is not an anti-child or anti-baby entry. I like children; I really do. In fact, when I was 25 and some months old, I longed for a little JOHNNYLEEN. But now that I'm 29 and some months, I'm no longer interested in having one. And, as far as liking children is concerned, many of you know that I recently went to Germany to visit my friends' newborn whom I now think of as my sweet Teutonic nephew. Rather my entry poses the question, "What, exactly, is the miracle of birth?" See, Dear Friends, I think of a miracle as being something highly unusual that occurs, generally with the help of the Divine. But given the number of people on the earth, I'd hardly call birth a rare occasion, would you? And, I mean after all, even a lowly cockroach can reproduce and I don't think anyone in his right mind would hail that as being particularly miraculous. So I thought about why we call it the "miracle" of birth and I believe I have an explanation. I think people refer to it as a miracle, because they would prefer to picture in their minds that God had something to do with it rather than picturing the truth of ding-ding-dongs and woo-woos being involved. The physicality and titillationacity of the ding-ding-dong/woo-woo combination somehow sullies the act of birth whereas the magical aspect of a miracle imbues it with a "cleaner" appearance. Don't you agree, Dear Readers? And the way people brag about it like it's a unique talent! For goodness' sake, folks! It's a bodily function that's quite common. I mean, jeez, I can pass a turd, but I don't brag about it and then put it in a cradle and coo over it! So that also got me thinking about how people use the euphemism "Blessed Event" to refer to a birth. And I wondered just exactly how it was blessed. I then realized that in a traditional society, a birth is indeed a blessing. You see, with just six years' of investment you get a human being who remains in servitude to his family for his entire life! Not only that, I'm sure that traditional societies look upon births as occasions of celebration which allow them to momentarily cease the backbreaking labor they have to do to survive. Then that line of thought led me to think about labor pains and about how, while growing up in the Souf', all I heard was women yacking about their damned labor. Honestly, folks, I've never met any other women except Southern ones who love to talk about being in labor. Now, in defense of my mother and my sisters, they've never really talked about it. In fact, my mother always seemed to be a little put out when she listened to other women going on about it. One time, when I was about 14, the toddler of the woman from across the street went wandering across the road and dropped her bottle on our doorstep. The glass shattered and all of us ran to the door to see what had happened. The little girl's mother came running over to apologize and to get her daughter. Well, my dears, for the next half hour she bent my mother's ear about what God-awful labor she had had! My mother politely listened without really saying much and after the woman left, turned to me and said, "Well, she's nothing but Pure T White Trash!" "Pure T" is a Southern expression for "total" or "complete", as in "I was Pure T worn out from those terrible labor pains that lasted over 120 hours and they wouldn't give me an epidural 'cause doctors are all quacks and I had to just lie there and scream my head off with my mama clingin' to my sweaty hands and spongin' my forehead every few seconds." Come to think of it, my father's elderly aunts always seemed to be fascinated with labor pains and any other physical ailments a body could suffer. As a kid, I remember hearing them carrying on about various body parts that had been taken out. Between the 6 of them there was nary a gall bladder left. And the other organs they had had removed could have built me a seventh great-aunt. And, of course, the pain any single one of them experienced during a surgical procedure (during which the anesthetic usually wore off) was subsequently surpassed by one of the others trying to outdo the speaker. And God forbid that anyone should have died! Why that was just grist for the mill as they all wondered if they had contracted the same ailment and argued to figure out who would be the one to suffer the most. And during this whole time, not one of them was listening to the others. It was always like being in the middle of a henhouse where each hen is clucking for the sake of hearing her own cluck and the joy of feeling her own wattles moving. Lord love 'em though; they're all gone now. Thinking of them brings back Southern food memories that I'll have to relate to you on another occasion. Next entry Previous entry Go to diary entries Go back home |