You know your memory of childbirth is distorted when you find yourself comparing it to everyday events.
For example, you find yourself shoveling dirt out of the back of a pickup truck and thinking, "You know, in some ways this is just as rewarding as having a baby, if not more so."
Yes, I did have that thought.
I was scraping the last of a load of garden soil out of the corners of the truck bed last Saturday, and I felt such a sense of triumph that it seemed like a fair comparison.
First, I had walked boldly into the garden store and paid for a cubic yard of loam, not knowing how much a yard is, what exactly they mean by "loam" or whether it would fly out the back of my truck on the drive home.
I thought the mission was sunk when the guy out back sized up my truck and shook his head.
The soil is too heavy, he told me. It would fit, he said, eyeing the baby sleeping in the cab, but it wouldn't be safe. Better to take it in two loads.
Oh, two loads? No problem.
I drove the soil home without incident. Through some miracle the baby took long naps for the first time in weeks, and I prepared the garden bed much faster than I expected.
The hard part was the weight of the soil in the garden cart. I could barely lift the legs enough to clear the ground.
The first time I pushed a load through the garage and across the backyard, I was energized. About half way through, I noticed I was waddling and making dramatic gestures to stretch my back. I told myself that each load was the last one, but then found the energy to do one more.
So when I filled the cart the last time and realized I would actually be able to go to the garden store for the rest, I had an exaggerated sense of accomplishment. I felt strong enough to lift the truck.
This monumental task I just finished was even harder than having a baby, I thought, because I had to will myself to do the work. Most of labor happens on its own and you're just enduring it.
But I'm pretty sure that's not how I would have described labor on the night my baby was born. An hour of pushing with no epidural does not just "happen on its own."
Nor does the experience of bringing a baby into the world compare to the experience of making a little space to grow tomatoes. Yes, both involve new life but no, it's not the same.
Two days later, my husband shoveled the second half of the soil off the truck and into the garden. He finished in what seemed like just a few minutes.
I asked him, with great sympathy in my voice, if it was hard. He shrugged and said no.
I decide not to ask him how he thought it compared to childbirth. I already knew the answer.
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Julie Kirkwood is a freelance writer for The Eagle-Tribune. Her column, Yard Dirt, appears most weeks in At Home in the Sunday Eagle-Tribune.
