Don't ask, don't tell

I hear this now and then: "I wish somebody had told me about ________ before I got pregnant." Usually it refers to something awful, like nightly heartburn or hemorrhoids, as if having a sore butt for a few months would keep you having a kid if you really wanted one. But we all make jokes about our kids and how much we hate them sometimes, right? So, whatever.

I wish, however, that there were pregnancy-and-labour-related things now known by the general non-child-bearing public that were kept a secret. Like hemorrhoids. Or tearing. And how you maybe, probably poop at least a little when you're pushing. I think that detail should have remained on a need-to-know basis. I wish I knew who was the bitch who stepped of the proverbial birthing hut and spilled the beans. Until I find her, I'm blaming Judd Apatow.

I didn't ask my midwife how many stitches I got, and neither should you. The only point of knowing the answer to that question is for scaring other pregnant ladies, which is cruel and pointless. Like my husband said while I was pregnant, if your grandpa was having heart surgery, I wouldn't tell you about all the people I knew who had died on the operating table. Yet when you're pregnant every one will tell you about someone they know who was in labour for 364 hours and then had 92 stitches and couldn't see the colour orange for six months post-partum (I made some or all of those facts up).

I have no idea whether I pooped while pushing. My best friend likely knows because she was at the business end of things during the delivery, but she hasn't told me  — and that is why she will be my best friend forever. Also, she pushed on my lower back every six minutes for two whole days. Don't ask me why. YOU DON'T NEED TO KNOW.