The Story I Will Never Write

It being excruciatingly close to my birthday, I got to thinking recently.
There is a story in my life that I will never write. I have had all sorts of bizarre experiences, but the most bizarre will never issue from this keyboard, any other keyboard, or any of the myriad forms of writing that exist. And the story that I will not be able to tell is of the one where I give birth.
I can tell the one story about the time where I might have been pregnant. I have a blind terror of pregnancy, because it is something I have never experienced and so I fear it. It is a life changing experience and I don't take change well. The scariest part is that once I have passed through that experience event horizon, I think, Oh, that was nothing! I can do that a thousand more times! And the last thing I or anyone else on earth needs is a thousand of my babies. But that's what happens. Once I have an experience under my belt, I turn into a ditto machine and I do it over and over.
To prevent this, I have never been pregnant. I have never carried a child to term. And I have never given birth. You can say all you want about what a wonderful experience this is, I can read all about it, I can watch Jennifer Anniston on "Friends" fake it to much canned laughter, but it has not happened nor will it ever happen to me.
Therefore, there will be no amusing, traumatic, poignant (a word that a Tidewater English teacher I had pronounced "pwahg-nent"*), hilarious, or otherwise interesting story about me breaking water, having contractions, having false contractions, panicking my husband, exciting my mother, alarming the neighbors, getting stopped by state troopers, having flat tires, giving birth in the back seat of a taxi, demanding painkillers in an Exorcist voice, screaming invectives at my bewildered husband when he tries to coach me in the LaMaze breathing while inflicting cold irony on my obstetrician, sharing wisecracks with the nursing staff, loping like an orangutan to a bathroom dragging my IV on a wheeled stand, finding my emotional balance when confronted by a terminal cancer patient, threatening friends who arrive with videocameras, suddenly going back into labor to give birth to an unexpected twin-triplet-quadruplet-etc., being forgiven for the stream of invectives by a frazzled but proud father, blogging the whole thing on MySpace, and passing out from happy exhaustion after a job well done or crying inconsolably over sixteen hours of pain in vain. I will have no funny stories about the nursing bra, incompetent baby-changing (I hope - I could still get stuck with that for someone else's kid, I suppose), and a thatch of outrageously colored hair that is quickly superceded by four years of bald baby girl with a pink bow taped to her head (as was done for me).
No, the only stories I will be able to relate (or even relate to) are about me. I was born, but I don't remember it. I wasn't born blogging, nor were my parents. My sister is no longer around to describe the series of failed pregnancies that preceded me nor to pointedly not tell about how she wandered off when she was supposed to be in a neighbor's care and stepped into a yellow jackets' nest and wound up in the hospital at the same time as our mother.
And then there's that one time (referenced above) that I thought I might be pregnant because I had skipped a period and was nauseus each evening. Yes, I know it's supposed to be morning sickness, but I have a tendency to get things backwards and at the time I was going through a phase where I ate dinner things for breakfast and finished off the day with a bowl of cereal. It seemed logical that I might have evening sickness in that case instead. I don't recall if I'd been having sex at a time prior that would have put me in the early stages of pregnancy - probably not. My friend Cindy was also skipping, but she felt she at least had an excuse. We considered moving to Charleston and she could have the baby there and we would each tell people it was the other person's baby, thereby covering the embarrasment. In the end, our periods returned naturally and the need to leave town (it was the 1970s and there was still a stigma to unwed motherhood. In fact, according to my state supplied health insurance, pregnancy was not covered if I was not married) evaporated. Yes, years later when I was married I had a skipped period, but by then it could just as easily have been menopause as a pregnancy.
So, I've never been pregnant. And the only reason I'd ever want to be is because there's this smug superiority to deal with from the women who have been through it, the same smug superiority that I wield when I have had an experience someone else has not. It's as if I am not a real woman if I haven't been through this. No one ever actually says this out loud, but their actions and their looks at the rest of us hiss it in a nasty, nasty whisper. What is it, some sort of exclusive club? Faugh! In fact, they are probably just jealous that we can still stay out late, need no babysitters, buy toys for ourselves, never deal with teenagers, not have to pay for some ingrate's college, don't have some out-of-work adult child move back in just when we thought we were free and clear, and never, never, never have to set a good example.
So that is the story that will never be told. You will never have to read my amusing tales of motherhood. I will never show you photos of children or grandchildren or bore you with details of their unexceptional lives.
Remember, you never read it here.

*Okay, this could be "poin-yant," or "pwahn-yant" or the fully frenchified "pwahn-yong," but it just can't be "pwahGG-nent" and I was aware of this even as early as high school.