If my vagina were a person, it would be Tiny Tim. (The one with the crutch, not the ukulele.) Leaning on its little wooden cane, it peers longingly out the window, watching the other pussies playing in the snow.

Poor bastard got a real going over when Max was born. So I was determined to spare it an encore of that crippling agony during my dreaded second visit to the case room just before Christmas. I decided to tell the medical professionals how I wanted things to go this time. It wasn’t set in stone, or even written down, but I had… A BIRTH PLAN.

“Bah! Birth plan. Holy oxymoron. As if you could plan the birth of a thing. Herd a few cats while you’re at it.” That was my attitude the first time round. I burned the What to Expect books and surrendered to the unpredictability of childbirth. I was a rebel with a cooze.

Rookie move, and it cost my wookiee bush dearly. It was my first time squeezing out a person so I couldn’t possibly know what I was doing, but I should have asked more questions. I should have stressed my love of drugs. ALL THE DRUGS. I should have questioned the nurse when she advised me to wait a little longer for the epidural. My cervix dilated so quickly it was too late for so much as a Flintstones vitamin. What in the actual fuck. What was the point in living in these modern times when I’m giving birth like Shakespeare’s mom?

I desperately needed a different outcome this time, so I candidly shared my story with every medical professional along the way. They listened, and I listened back. There was a whole lot of listening. And thank goodness, because Tiny Tim’s future sex tape was on the line.

I had a friend in obstetrics whose knowledge of the mystical mooncup vessel I soaked up like a sponge. She recommended a local obstetrician who was gracious and smart and thorough, who responded with “absolutely” when I managed to utter the words “birth plan.”

(Yes, a different ob-gyn from last time. You are not bound to the same one. It’s amazing how many women don’t know this.) I went to the hospital with mild contractions. After telling the good doctor how quickly my labour progressed last time, she admitted me instead of sending my ass home to give birth in the car on the way back.

Then I met Robin – a Registered Nurse, midwife, and delivery ninja who listened closely to my childbirth nightmare and made it her mission to prevent a recurrence. She made sure the resident would be delivering, not the intern. No more practicing on this old bobcat; I’ll take all the skills for $300, please Alex. She also got the doctor’s nod to administer the epidural, like, right the fuck now. I was in active labour – why wait? Tom Cruise was not my husband. Fuck Tom Cruise. The anesthesiologist was a cranky pants, but he got there quickly and hooked me up so good I didn’t even feel the human skull sliding out of my snatchbox twenty. Grumpy Gus was a god to me.

Before her shift ended, Robin carefully passed the baton and the birth plan to the incoming RN and Resident Vagina Whisperer. The course would not change with the staff. The doctor came in to say hello. She’d soon be elbow-deep in me, it was only right. Turns out she saw me emcee a wedding last summer and I was a riot. Tiny Tim was in good hands. I was basically Beyoncé now.

Doctor Wozney used her wizard hands, and Nurse Nicole used her pompoms. She could have coaxed a tortoise out of its shell during a tornado. After just 12 minutes of pushing, I was holding my glorious baby girl. And Tiny Tim, no worse for wear, would live to hobble another day.
Maybe the universe had mercy on me.

Maybe I was loose as a goose after the emergence of Max’s magnanimous melon. Or maybe things turned out well because, this time, I also used THE LIPS ON MY FACE. I gave a voice to my vadge.

Whatever. Let’s call it a Christmas miracle. God bless us, every one.