Emotional Labor by Lauren Scharhag

The first time I heard someone say the phrase,  

I thought of placenta. I thought of a woman 

sweating and cursing in the stirrups, preparing 

to deliver-- what? Because I mean, yes, 

labor is always emotional, isn't it? They say 

natural childbirth results in a faster recovery time. 

They say. I’m not sure it’s worth the tradeoff.  

The epidurals don’t knock you out, the twilight sleep 

is an artifact of our grandmothers’ time, and there’s 

still the afterbirth to contend with, and choosing a name, 

and formula or breast, and tubes tied or untied, back 

on the pill or IUD or 

or 

or    

But that's not what they meant.

They meant carrying something else entirely,

a burden that doesn’t end after nine months,

an umbilicus that no scissors can cut, a perpetual 

toil and aftermath that began even when we were 

practically in the womb ourselves, taught that it’s 

our job to be selfless and nurturing and thoughtful 

and accommodating, to see to everyone’s needs 

but our own, baking birthday cakes and wrapping 

presents (and, of course, we did the shopping, even 

if the card says Love, Mommy and Daddy), plan the party, 

clean and decorate the house, knowing that we’ll be 

the ones to take it all down again, knowing that we’ll be 

the ones picking up torn streamers and discarded cups, 

knowing that we’ll be the ones doing the dishes, knowing 

that we will bear the brunt of diapers and walking the dog

and we will have to figure out the bedtime schedule and 

research preschools and then get them there on time and 

make the playdates and enroll them in soccer and buy them 

cleats and remind our husbands that their mother’s birthday 

is coming up next week and there’s no thanks, of course, 

it’s just what’s expected of us and if I told you all of it 

I could fill volumes with the schedules and calendars and 

menu plans and shopping lists and to-do lists that are constantly 

running in my head because these aren’t just my things, you see, 

they’re yours and the kids’ and my parents’ and your parents’ and 

coworkers’ and that’s to say nothing of the workplace dynamics 

and oh God, is this depression postpartum, or am I just 

fucking exhausted, even as we ask you again if you’ve assembled 

the crib yet, then asking you why we even have to ask.

And you ask why I’m upset.

Lauren Scharhag is the author of fourteen books, including Requiem for a Robot Dog (Cajun Mutt Press) and Languages, First and Last (Cyberwit Press). Her work has appeared in over 100 literary venues around the world. Recent honors include the Seamus Burns Creative Writing Prize, two Best of the Net nominations, and acceptance into the 2021 Antarctic Poetry Exhibition. She lives in Kansas City, MO. To learn more about her work, visit: www.laurenscharhag.blogspot.com