In a bid to counteract my body’s gradual transformation into a state that resembled a marshmallow, I decided to enroll in a “Yoga for Pregnancy” class when I was about seven months along. I was a bit apprehensive since I had never A) tried yoga before, or B) been described as particularly graceful. Pregnancy wasn’t exactly enhancing my flexibility.
Some friends compared my athletic prowess to that of a stubborn mule or a cartoon character indulging in junk food. But what better time to attempt to get into shape than while heavily pregnant? This was my first foray into anything remotely “crunchy,” and I did my best to remain composed. The class was led by a lively lady in her 60s, an ex-hippie, and began with introductions—name, due date, and the name of our Doula.
I didn’t have a Doula, but in a moment of panic, I blurted out “Betty Bakes” because I had developed an obsession with desserts during my pregnancy.
In the second class, we were introduced to a list of DVDs available for borrowing, all focused on the “natural” approach to childbirth: titles like Labor: The Best Time Ever, Epidurals are for Cowards, Your Doctor: The Villain, How to Have Your Baby Like an Animal, and Orgasmic Birth. I couldn’t help but chuckle at the absurdity of it all, but when I noticed nobody else was laughing, I quickly masked my amusement with a fake coughing fit.
Since announcing my pregnancy, friends had inundated me with horror stories about their post-delivery experiences, specifically the unfortunate state of their bodies. “Pleasurable” was certainly not a word that came to mind. I glanced around to see if anyone else was as disturbed as I was, but the rest of the class nodded along as if “Orgasmic Birth” was the most natural concept in the world. Spoiler alert: it’s not.
Our instructor then proceeded to share her personal account of giving birth while experiencing what she described as “orgasmic sensations.” My stomach turned, and I silently hoped she had never shared such details with her child.
Despite my initial disgust, a small part of me was intrigued. When I returned home, I told my husband about the class, and he was equally curious. It took me the entire six weeks to muster the courage to borrow that “Orgasmic Birth” DVD. When we finally did, we excitedly popped it into the player, coats still on.
What followed was a surreal experience. My husband’s excitement quickly morphed into shock as we witnessed women in various states of undress, surrounded by inflatable pools, moaning in what appeared to be ecstasy while giving birth. The visuals were jarring—engorged, hairy women in pools that looked more like swampy messes than serene birth environments. It was a sight we could never unsee.
Some women were outside, practically in full view of the neighborhood, and I imagined the awkwardness of any onlookers. The absurdity of it all was magnified by cartoon fish designs on the pools. Family members stood around wearing strained smiles, some even taking pictures. I couldn’t fathom how these women were doing this with no substances to dull the experience.
My husband, nearing a panic attack, abruptly shut off the DVD and tossed the remote aside. We sat in silence for a solid ten minutes before going to lunch, as if nothing had happened.
Needless to say, I wanted nothing to do with the concept of an orgasmic birth. In the end, my own delivery was clinical and painful, devoid of any romantic notions. And honestly, that turned out to be the best gift I could have given my daughter.
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Summary
This humorous and candid reflection on the misconceptions surrounding childbirth highlights the stark contrast between idealized notions of “orgasmic birth” and the reality of the experience. The author shares her own journey through pregnancy, yoga classes, and the absurdities of childbirth education, ultimately embracing the clinical and painful nature of her delivery as a gift to her child.
Keyphrase: The Reality of Giving Birth
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