Meet Gwen

Thirteen hours in and I'm beginning to rethink my strategy. Even with the support of my doula the pain is too much. When the doctor finally checked my progress and reported that I was exactly where I was when they started the induction thirteen painful hours ago I break down. "Give me a fucking epidural," I hiss.
Trevor is there in a heart beat, calm and reassuring, trying to keep my honest to our birth plan. "Honey, are you sure? I mean this is-"
"Unless you can take over from here, give me the goddamn epidural already," I snap.
The nurse tries to stifle a chuckle, but I hear it. Sure, it's stereotypical. The laboring wife cursing her husband for putting her in this situation, but at this point, I understand where that stereotype go started. Nothing prepared me for just how painful this would be. With the Pitocin drip being regularly increased to try to get this baby out of me, I'm hardly able to breath between contractions, which never really seem to complete before the next wave of pain begins.

So they call they anesthesiologist, she stabs the epidural into my back and before long I can't feel my feet, my legs, my body which is still trying to force this stubborn child out. It's wonderful in one way, yay-no more pain! and truly freaky in another, eeek!-I can't move my legs! And as soon as the pain lets up, I know I already regret my decision. Not because I didn't need the help and not because it doesn't change my attitude about my ability to actually do this, but because I know Amy wouldn't do it. And because when I tell her about this birth, she'll give me that smirk. That "aw, you couldn't hack it" grin of superiority she has perfected after years of being flawless. And I won't be able to smack it off her face because my arms will be full of newborn. Oh, and because adult women don't act that way. Well, apart from the Jerry Springer show.