Choosing natural birth always seemed like a good idea in the planning stages and a terrible decision when in the throes of labor. As the last munchkin pushed her way into the world, I folded and pleaded for pharmaceutical assistance. “Edith,” the nurse said, “it’s too late for that now.” Boy, I hated her.
Historians shape our view of the past in how they tell it. Most of premodern human history is told through the male lens. If they wrote about women at all, it was limited to women with exceptional talents, powerful women, or those who exercised extreme malice and evil. Likely, these male historians didn't wear out their quill pen elaborating on the women's point of view or their feelings. So the best we can do is to infer women's emotional state from their reactions to their circumstances.
One thing I need for all of eternity is time with girlfriends. In my early twenties, children, husband, household, and my educational pursuits left little breathing time. But by my early thirties, I’d met women who became my sanity and confidants. A group of us started a monthly bridge group. Jeannie purchased a tablecloth listing different openings, Maureen (I think) got her hand on a bidding wheel, and we proceeded to learn to play Bridge. We drank into the night. We laughed until we near peed in our pants. Four decades later, our game hadn’t improved much, but the joy and sanity outweighed any concern.
A friend disagrees with me on the issue of ERA. She claims that discrimination between the genders doesn’t exist. Let’s say my friend is right. Women enjoy all the rights men have. But wouldn’t that in itself be a reason to read about our sisters who earned us that right? Of course, this is a pet peeve of mine. It’s when my kids go, “Mom, don’t go there.”