Prologue

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The story of my first child being born. I am working up to it. I realize I am a hypocrite. I’ve been thinking a lot about the importance of sharing your traumatic birth stories and how cathartic it is and it led me to the realization that I do not talk about it anymore and when people ask me about it I shrug it off and minimize it. I will happily talk about little parts of it, but I can’t bring myself to tell the whole heaping pile of stinking awfulness (is that a bit much?) that was our experience of our first child being born. If I’m completely honest it’s probably never been told from start to finish. I think I’m a little afraid that if I tell the whole thing from start to finish, I’ll get lost in it and lose control.

And I always must remember, and always do remember, to make it perfectly clear before I start, that she is fine. She is more than fine. She is five, she is strong, she is curly and cheeky and full of so much cheekiness and mischief that sometimes I can’t comprehend that she is the same tiny helpless brave little thing with fluffy tufts on the tops of her ears, the tiny little creature I wasn’t even allowed to touch but just had to look at longingly for hours on end day after day. If it wasn’t for the scars on her body, I don’t think I would believe it really happened. I want you to know she’s alright, because whether I know you or not, I know the story might make you sad, and I don’t want it to, that is not my intention. It is a story of hope and miracles and just how incredibly lucky one family can be. So if you cry, please make sure they are tears of happiness.

The final straw was at a neighbors BBQ last night, my two friends told their dramatic stories, nail biting tales of shooting up the emergency lane of the 405 in advanced labor and being cut up by irate LA drivers. I wanted to join in when it was my turn, but all I could manage was this awful embarrassing statement about not really being ready to talk about it followed by a protracted and awkward silence, well done Chlo! Way to make a good impression.

So It’s coming, I think I may have to write it bit by bit so I can keep it together while going about my everyday stuff with the kids. They don’t like it when I weep.

It's done, I've written it all down, here's the story.