Let me set the scene: Women’s Hospital, Texas, January 18th, 6am, somewhere between “way too early” and “are you kidding me?” My husband and I stumble in, bleary-eyed but determined—because today’s the day. After ten years, way too many ovulation kits, a ruptured ovarian cyst, two miscarriages, and more appointments than I care to count (we’ll save all this for another blog post!), my daughter Julia was finally going to make her grand entrance.
There’s a lot they don’t tell you about pregnancy and childbirth, especially when you’re not exactly still in your 20’s. Like, for example, that at 36 you’re suddenly stamped “geriatric,” as if my uterus needed a walker and a Life Alert. My OB, not wanting to leave anything to chance, decided we’d skip the “Hollywood water-breaking panic” scene and go straight for the induction. No drama, just a lovely, scheduled drip of Pitocin. So romantic, right?
The plan: get induced, have baby, introduce her to the family waiting somewhere down the hall (because nobody but my husband was allowed in the delivery room—let’s not get crazy). What could be simpler?
Well, for starters, no one tells you that when you push a baby out, there’s a solid chance you’ll also push out...other stuff. We’re talking poop, people. There. I said it. If you’ve given birth, you know. If you haven’t: surprise! You’re welcome. The nurses assured me it happens to everyone, but really? That’s not on the brochure.
After what felt like an eternity of pushing (but honestly, thanks to the epidural, I couldn’t feel a thing below my waist—my eyeballs, yes; my legs, not so much), Julia arrived. All 7 pounds, 2 ounces of her. Ten fingers, ten toes, a full head of hair, and a set of lungs that let everyone know she’d arrived. They whisked her away for her first spa treatment, while my heroic OB got to work stitching up the, uh, collateral damage.
And then, finally, it was over. Sort of. Because here’s another fun fact: you can’t eat or drink anything the entire day you’re in labor. Why? Who knows. Maybe it’s a hazing ritual. By the end, I was pounding back those tiny cups of cranberry juice like I was at a college frat party trying to win a bet. Never has tart liquid sugar tasted so good.
Now, at this point, I’m a mom. I’m also starving. The hospital cafeteria was closed. But! My in-laws and my mom were on hand and ready to save the day. “We’ll bring food!” they declared, and I could have wept with gratitude. Visions of actual, hot, greasy food danced in my head—Luby’s cafeteria was right across the street, for crying out loud! Chicken fried steak, mashed potatoes, mac and cheese, all the cheesy, gooey, heart attack on a plate, but oh so good, stuff.
The bags arrived. The anticipation was real. Plastic containers and cutlery were distributed. I opened mine, expecting something warm, comforting—hell, even a cheeseburger would do.
It was a salad.
A mixed greens salad, with a few sad strips of grilled chicken. In January. In Texas. After childbirth. I stared at those limp leaves, and I’m pretty sure my soul left my body for a second. My mother-in-law, bless her, noticed, and said, “Well, I know you like to eat healthy.” Yes, technically true. But lady, I just birthed a small human. This was not the time for virtue.
Could she not see the exhaustion, the hunger, the desperate need for something that didn’t crunch? There was a Luby’s. There was a Wendy’s. The world was full of hot, decadent food, and I got...fiber.
I know, I know—she meant well. And we really did get along (I swear!). But sometimes, intent isn’t enough. Sometimes, you need mashed potatoes.
The next morning, a miracle occurred. The nurse came in, asked about breakfast, and we relayed the Tragedy of the Salad. She laughed and handed over the room service menu. “Order whatever you want,” she said—like a fairy godmother in scrubs. Pancakes, eggs, bacon, French toast, hash browns—we ordered one of everything and demolished the lot.
So, here’s the takeaway: If you ever find yourself bringing food to a woman who has just pushed out a watermelon through a hole the size of a grapefruit, skip the greens. Bring her something hot, cheesy, fried, smothered, or all of the above. Save the salads for next week. Or never.
Because after childbirth, what you want isn’t a side of mixed greens. It’s a little taste of heaven on a plate.
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