Mama Needs a Vodka

After hearing the gory details of Helen’s 24-hour labor and my sister-in-law’s cracked tailbone/vacuum extraction extravaganza, I’m officially terrified of childbirth. I know, I know, most mommies you talk to a year after their experience will say it’s all worth it and you eventually forget about the pain, agree to take off your imaginary chastity belt and jump back in the sack with your pleading husband. I guess I’ll just have to feel it to believe it. Whoo whoo, heeeee. Whoo, whoo, heeeee. Kill me now please.

If you didn’t hear the story yesterday, brace yourself for a real nookie annihilater. A 43-year-old Russian woman gave birth to her 12th child. Not just her 12th child, but her 17 pound, 1 ounce bundle and a half of joy. And the first 11 siblings weighed in at 11 pounds or more. I guess they sure know how to grow ‘em in Russia. Note to self: when finally pregnant, lay off the potatoes and stroganoff.

Thank goodness for that poor woman’s nether regions it was a cesarean section. But birth aside, I can’t imagine what it’s like to tote around a 17 pound bowling ball in your belly while caring for 11 other needy kiddos.

I always pictured our family to have 2 children – like mine growing up – or maybe 3 if we’re feeling brave. I have no interest whatsoever in creating (much less birthing!) my own little community. Although I have to admit, her older children probably serve as great built-in babysitters, diaper changers and carpool drivers.

How do we get this woman on the Two Blue Peas pea-mail list? At the rate she’s going, we could survive on her baby showers alone.