I know we are living in the Information Age and all, but when it comes to your babies, ladies, I sometimes feel like we are living in the Too Much Information Age.
Childless Bitch: It was the best of birthing stories, it was the worst of birthing stories. I know we are living in the Information Age and all, but when it comes to your babies, ladies, I sometimes feel like we are living in the Too Much Information Age. There are right ways to share news of your angelic spawn making its way through the rough and tumble world, and there are ways that will make your childless friends (and some with children) gag in the sheer horror of your unbelievable tenacity in simultaneously boring and grossing us out. Since I know you like to get all huffy and can't wait to tell me what a horrid ice bitch I am, I'll start with the latter.
As you recall, I am not a fan of status updates letting me and the rest of your friends and family know that your adorable tot went to baby yoga, likes avocado, or has gifted you the world's foulest smelling turd. And I'm not the only one. So when you are in labor, and your cervix is dilating, and you're releasing all kinds of fluids while shifting around your birthing tank, the last place I want to hear about it is through your Twitter page. In fact, those are details I NEVER want to hear about. Unless I ask. Then it's okay. But when you follow up your Tweets (Where's my Sarah McLachlan birthing mix CD? Get me my epidural!) with a three-page e-mail detailing every rip, tear, squishy noise, and vaginal secretion of your miraculous birth (it's a miracle because birth has never happened before to anyone on this planet) and send it out to EVERY person in your address book, then girl, that's a deal breaker.
So what is the right way to share the story of your kid's birth? I'll use my old friend and new mom, Kate, as a shining example. Kate and I met up for sushi not too long after she gave birth to an adorable baby girl. She didn't walk in and greet me by complaining about the stitches in her taint. Instead, Kate asked how I was doing and waited for me to practically beg her to tell her birthing story. She was actually surprised that I wanted to hear it. God bless Kate and her ability to keep her mind in the real world and not the everything-revolves-around-babies world that only new mommies actually live in. The story was endearing and heartfelt and genuine, and yes, included a few lurid details. Which again, I was fine with, because I asked about them.
In closing, dear mommies, please know your audience before launching into stories about your adventures in baby land. If it's Grandma and your other new mommy friends that you're regaling with tales, then it might be okay to rattle on and on about ripped things and what you did with the placenta. Anyone else would rather dive headfirst into a landfill of dirty diapers.