Disclaimer: Lots of sweary sweary in this one. Time to fire up that DVD box set of Downton Abbey if that’s not your thing. Oh and for the record – YES – I fell for this crap too when I was a first-timer.
Sometimes I stumble across a lifestyle article that is so inane it makes me want to travel back in time and retroactively tie my own mother’s tubes before she conceived me. But alas, here we are… The science hasn’t caught up yet.
The article featured a selection of special outfits to wear while you are giving birth, like labour is some kind of red carpet event. I mean, at some point the floor probably WILL be red, but it’s not like Richard Wilkins is going to be all up in your grill with a microphone asking “Who are you wearing?” (and if he IS, you have my unconditional permission to punch him in the face).
It was kind of comical. I mean, I laughed so hard that I gave myself third degree vaginal tears, and that hasn’t happened since I last delivered a baby with an unusually large head circumference (circa 2010. 99th percentile. Ventouse delivery).
So here it is, ladies… Your guide to dressing in style during birth.
Flowers in the Amniotic Fluid
Because nothing says “Fuck me, I’m covered in amniotic fluid and faeces!” better than a floral print maternity mu-mu with pretty matching headband. By the time I got to transition I was bellowing like a wounded buffalo in the final throes of a very protracted death, so the headband would have made for an effective gag at least. It certainly would have saved my long-suffering midwives from a constant stream of barely coherent profanity.
The Preggo Wears Prada
You might think that ruched necklines and flattering sleeve lengths are a priority as you are packing your hospital bag, but when you’re pushing a human skull the size of a mini-watermelon out of your twat you won’t give a fuck whether your designer dress has colour-coordinated detailing on the bust. If anything, I guarantee you will try to strangle someone with that annoying fucking bow before it’s all over. Forget the umbilical cord – if your husband wants to make it to the end of the birth alive he’ll need to cut those naff midriff ribbons first.
Bamboo-zled By Overpriced Baggy Tee
Why destroy one of your husband’s baggy old Nickelback t-shirts ($0.00) when you could destroy one of these deluxe bamboo birthing shirts instead ($81.75)? To the manufacturer’s credit, they come in a discreet selection of dark fabrics, so no one will accidentally bear witness to the crimson tsunami of carnage making its way out of the mincemeat remains of your vagina for the next 7 – 10 days.
Pretty in Pastels (And Blood Spatter)
For something completely impractical, there’s nothing like colour-blocking in soft pastels during the visceral and bloody rite of birth. By the time you are finished in the delivery suite this little beauty will look more like a Jackson Pollock painting than a pleated jersey garment in pleasing shades of dusty pink.
Portrait of a Birth (2010)
Medium: Floressa birthing gown, human faeces, amniotic fluid, blood spatter, vomit, tears, chunks of placenta.
50 Shades of FUCK OFF AND DON’T TOUCH ME
I had cankles, fluid retention, chronic flatulence and no direct view of my own genitals at the end of my pregnancy. I didn’t feel sexy. I didn’t look sexy. The only time sex ever entered my mind during labour was when I’d periodically curse the frigging day I’d opened my legs nine months earlier. I didn’t want my husband anywhere near me during the birth, so he was essentially as useless as a pair of porn-star tits on the set of Downton Abbey. Poor guy. He spent both deliveries cowering quietly in the corner, too terrified to even make eye contact with me because I’d roar at him to STOP FUCKING LOOKING AT ME SO LOUDLY and then threaten to rip his balls off. It wasn’t what you would call an “orgasmic” birth.
Some Like It Not
Giving birth sucks. The only thing you care about is getting the extraneous human being out of your body, so you can get back to the business of having a hot cup of tea and not feeling like you’re being torn in two from the tits down. It stands to reason that the last thing you could possibly give a fuck about is this hot little halter-neck number, because no one thinks they are channeling the essence of Marilyn Monroe while they are squatting over a fit ball with amniotic fluid flowing uncontrollably out of their twat. I mean, you’re not going to be winning any “Best Dressed” awards when you are waddling around with a puppy toilet training pad clutched to your crotch.
The Pink Pregzilla
You could wear a standard-issue white hospital gown, or you could buy one of these satin-trimmed jobs for $50, because PRETTY! I mean, how will the midwives know I’m a GIRL if I’m not wearing PINK?! Heaven forbid they mistake my beer-gutted husband for the pregnant party, and try to deliver the baby out of his anus instead. Goodness!
So there you have it. The process of labour and birth mostly involves giving up every last shred of your dignity to the fertility gods anyway, so I guess there’s no further harm in matching your ridiculous headband to your stupid looking floral mu mu.
All jokes aside – you made a tiny human being. You can wear whatever the fuck you want. LIKE A BOSS. (Apologies to my husband. He doesn’t drink beer. Or listen to Nickelback).
This piece was originally featured on hugzillablog.com here.