Wordy Wednesday: Performance Pride

I pre-ordered Carolyn Weber‘s new book, Holy is the Day in June (Yay!).  It came while we were on vacation (Boo!).

I opened it yesterday with some trepidation; how could it possibly stand up to her previous book, my favorite read from last year: Surprised by Oxford.  Is she going to be a one-hit wonder? The preface, alone, alleviates my fears.

For the rest of my full-term [twin] pregnancy, other than a bad bout with the flu and the increasing difficulty in sliding through tight spaces, my body was strong and the pregnancy even enjoyable.  Physically, too, it was easy to forget how good I had it.  Warriorlike, I stood ready for birth.  Ready, single-handedly, to defeat the Great Curse.  The bittersweet blessing of birth that had blessed and blighted women since Eve slept with the serpent and sold out her God-given womanhood for the mere trifling of a vain lie.

Brazenly self-sufficient, I took my supplements. I avoided caffeine and chemicals. I didn’t have time to practice yoga, but I did drink all the water I could stomach and tried to breathe deeply a few times a day. I put my feet up when I graded papers. But secretively, to be honest, I harbored a certain pride at how well my pregnancy was going, at how I could “manage it all.” The power bar I kept stashed in my disciple’s pocket was branded Performance Pride. That had long been my mantra, a main tenet of my identity, a golden calf that would have to be pried out of my cold, dead hands.

Which is, pretty much, just about what happened. [bracketed addition mine, italics hers, pg 18]

I’m ready to keep reading, how ’bout you!