Growing up, my mom was diligent in creating baby books for all of her children, a documentation of those early moments and years with narration and pictures in order to help us see where we came from. I loved (and still love) to look at those baby books, even the books for my siblings, because they were fun and adorable and also represented some of the most important stories in our family. Inside one of my brother's baby books (Alex, perhaps?), there is a picture of my mom that I love. She's dressed in a hospital gown, laying on her back in a slightly reclined bed. She's smiling, and she's tired, and running down her face are large, dark mascara trails. She looks so happy, but so spent. It's the picture that always comes to mind when I think about birth, a single image that proclaims it for what it is: labor. Real, true, exhausting work, but so rewarding you just can't believe it. For so long I've wanted that picture of myself, that picture that shows ho...
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