"...and then he said, you're gonna tear, so I'm gonna cut ya..."
At a book party last week, the assembled ten or so women had all had at least one baby in the last 18 months, and at least several of us were pregnant again. The conversation was free-flowing, and in the way that would have totally alarmed the hell out of me in my child-free days, was quite horrifically intimate and graphic in a completely casual way. In the course of an hour or so and over some rather delicious chocolate cake we covered epidurals, episiotomies, uterine rupture statistics post C-section and various other gruesome things.
I used to think, wincing inwardly and outwardly, that when women gratuitously started retelling tales of stitches and worse that it was all part of some conspiracy by those who had children to scare the shit out of those who had not. But now I know better. It seems that any group of mothers - at least of toddlers or below - can't resist the conversational slide into the more visceral elements of motherhood. For my part I try hard not to do it, but sometimes I give in and find myself extolling the virtues of pethidine to virtual strangers. Why? Is there some sort of primal urge to deal with the dramatic side of mammalian existence by talking about it non-stop for years afterwards?
The only thing worse than hearing about somebody's gruesome birth tales is hearing about how staggeringly brilliant and advanced the fruit of their loins has turned out to be. Total strangers, even if they have kids themselves - in fact, especially if they have kids themselves, really couldn't give a toss whether little Tarquin or Ariadne can sort shapes, converse in Russian or tap-dance. The only possible responses are 1) polite amazement masking yawning boredom, or 2) maternal one-upwomanship of the "Ah well, little Angelina started doing that at only ten months!" kind. There is a lot of this kind of thing among women who previously reserved their competitive instincts for their careers. It's very tiresome.
I am going to move that all playgroup discussions from now on focus on simple, peaceable topics, like politics and religion.
I used to think, wincing inwardly and outwardly, that when women gratuitously started retelling tales of stitches and worse that it was all part of some conspiracy by those who had children to scare the shit out of those who had not. But now I know better. It seems that any group of mothers - at least of toddlers or below - can't resist the conversational slide into the more visceral elements of motherhood. For my part I try hard not to do it, but sometimes I give in and find myself extolling the virtues of pethidine to virtual strangers. Why? Is there some sort of primal urge to deal with the dramatic side of mammalian existence by talking about it non-stop for years afterwards?
The only thing worse than hearing about somebody's gruesome birth tales is hearing about how staggeringly brilliant and advanced the fruit of their loins has turned out to be. Total strangers, even if they have kids themselves - in fact, especially if they have kids themselves, really couldn't give a toss whether little Tarquin or Ariadne can sort shapes, converse in Russian or tap-dance. The only possible responses are 1) polite amazement masking yawning boredom, or 2) maternal one-upwomanship of the "Ah well, little Angelina started doing that at only ten months!" kind. There is a lot of this kind of thing among women who previously reserved their competitive instincts for their careers. It's very tiresome.
I am going to move that all playgroup discussions from now on focus on simple, peaceable topics, like politics and religion.
posted by MotherFluker @ 10:56 pm
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