Here's the full post from http://www.mamamia.com.au/parenting/birthzillas-its-about-the-birth-not-the-baby/
Birthzillas: when it’s all about the birth, not the baby – Mia Freedman
We’d only just met at a BBQ and as she repeated her
question, I cocked my head quizically like a Labradoodle trying to understand a
complex sentence. I’d never heard the words ‘plan’ and ‘placenta’ together and
I was having trouble reconciling them.
“Huh? You mean did I, like, cook it or bury it in the
garden?” She shook her head.
“No, I mean when you gave birth did you have a plan for how
your placenta would be delivered?”
Blink. “Um, out of my vagina? Does that count as a plan?”
More head shaking. The woman was growing impatient because she
had a plan and she wanted to tell me about it. Her three page birth plan had “Delivering The Placenta” as
its own subhead with half a dozen bullet points underneath.
I know this because she showed it to me on her phone while I
tried not to stab myself with a sausage.
My personal view of birth plans is that they’re most useful
when you set them on fire and use them to toast marshmallows. But there are
some women who live for them: I call them Birthzillas because just like a
Bridezilla focusses on the wedding not the marriage, The Birthzilla appears
more interested in having a birth
experience than a baby.
This term won’t win me any friends among those who believe
passionately in a particular type of birth. Homebirth,
freebirth, waterbirth, hypnotic birth, active birth, calm birth, silent
birth……there’s a first-world menu of options for anyone who wishes to select
from it, both inside and outside the
hospital system.
Birthzillas usually speak about ‘empowerment’ and ‘control’
and use a lot of personal pronouns. Their own experience is invariably at the
centre of their narrative even though they will always claim (and probably
believe) that they’re acting selflessly for the
good of their baby. This baffles me. It’s a bit like going to Paris and obsessing about the in-flight entertainment
instead of, you know, PARIS
Some women define themselves by the
type of birth they had, even though their children are now in primary school.
I antagonised this subculture a few years ago when I spoke out about freebirth
(the practice of giving birth at home without any medical support not even a
midwife) and called it reckless.
Many “birth advocates” came after me with pitchforks and
autosignatures like:
“Anne-Marie, mother of Wyllow (happily freebirthed in 2002)
and Jaydyn (proudly waterbirthed at home in 2004).”
It’s birth as identity and it’s odd.
The Birthzilla is such a first world creation. For millions
of women, their birth plan is simply: “please let my baby and I survive”.
However, among privileged women with access to safe and affordable care, I’ve
noticed a growing fixation on the birth process.
For many, it’s about control. One of the most confronting
things about pregnancy and birth is the unpredictability of it and women often
believe they can regain control by planning. Babies, however, like to raise
their middle finger at your plans. They come early, they come late, they get
stuck, they get suddenly distressed or tired or tangled. I know you’ve made
three playlists for the different stages of your labour but your baby doesn’t
care.
In her memoir, Bossypants, the brilliant Tina Fey describes the birth of
her first child like this: “Vaginal delivery, epidural, didn’t poop on the table”.
Those three pertinent facts sum it up, pre-emptively answering the most common
questions other women ask.
Men? They couldn’t care less. Never in your life will you
hear a man urge a woman, “Please! Tell me more about the way you gave birth!”. Not
even if she’s his wife.
While most women need little encouragement to launch into a
detailed account of her birth from conception to the first time she has sex
afterwards, men generally try to leave the room when the subject comes up. It’s
just not that interesting to them. I don’t mean the part where they saw their
baby for the first time. That’s mind-blowing. But the bits before that? Utterly
insignificant compared to the lifetime of parenting that comes afterwards.
I recently heard a woman on the radio waxing lyrical about
how her two homebirths “were the most incredible experiences of my life and I
don’t know anyone who had a hospital birth and could say the same thing”. Me. I
could. Three hospital births. Loved them all. And this is where I start to get
tetchy.
Let me state for the record: I’m a fan of doctors. Love
them. Especially obstetricians. If I could give birth in a stadium full of
people in white coats with letters after their names I would do a happy jig.
What? You’re a doctor of French literature? Mathematics? Oh well, come on down!
The more qualifications nearby, the better.
But in the maddening world of competitive mothering, some
women see their birth experience as a platform for smugness and superiority. A
badge of maternal honour. The game of My Birth Was Better Than Yours is an
ugly, destructive one. And hugely risky if it puts anything above the physical
welfare of a baby.
So yes, I could bang on and on about my birth experiences.
But I’d prefer to tell you about my kids.
