Gather a bunch of mothers in a room and you’ll hear wildly differing accounts of childbirth, from the women who grimly relish recounting every minute of their horror story, to those who go misty-eyed and beam at the memory of their wonderful birthing experience.
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I woke on Tuesday at 4am and could hardly breathe. I was sweating (and, post-menopausal that I am, I never sweat) and racked with worry. I grabbed my hair, put my head in my hands, and said out loud, ‘What am I doing? What was I thinking?’