Birth plans are becoming more complex and delusional, with good reason

Birth stories take many forms. Some are joyous, some are tragic, many are traumatic and confusing. Mine was an overwhelming mix of all of the above.

But between the blood and love and horror, there can also be a lot of humour. When I gave birth to my daughter, I wasn’t cracking jokes in the delivery suite. But in the years since, I’ve been able to look back on that strange time and recognise absurd mirth in the day – specifically, in the expectations I held for how it would go.

During my pregnancy, I, like many parents, thought about birth constantly. I read books, listened to podcasts, took courses, journaled, meditated and spoke to countless friends in an exhausting attempt to not only understand what was about to happen, but to control it. The summation of these efforts came together in a mystical document familiar to many: the birth plan.

For those without children, or the mental capacity to spend months choreographing your perfect delivery, a birth plan is broadly a set of directions for how you’d like the event to go. Birth planning has, of course, existed for as long as birth itself. Individuals have always attempted to arrange an optimal environment for the safe delivery of their children. Centuries ago, perhaps that entailed engaging a midwife or asking your mother to come and stay with you. Today, birth workers encourage you to specify preferred forms of fetal monitoring or whether you want an epidural. At their core, birth plans are practical documents, but they’re also reflections of the time they were created.

My grandmother’s birth plan involved booking a hair appointment to get her perm set before her due date. My mother still jokes that her plan was mostly pre-ordering the cocktail of sedatives she’d require as if she were requesting a hotel breakfast.

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Thanks to the time and location of my birth, I belong to a generation of parents who have a breadth of options and agency when it comes to managing our bodies. In addition to the more practical choices – birthing at home, in a hospital, in water, or on a yoga ball – there are also the shall we say, more fanciful elements.

Reading like a progressive medical textbook, my birth plan carefully indicated what interventions I’d like and how they should be applied, as well as a design brief that resembled that of a mid-budget year 12 formal.

It detailed my desired lighting set-up of the room, which included the installation of soft lamps and fairy lights. My partner was tasked with creating playlists to DJ between “depending on the vibe”. Channelling my inner Jennifer Lopez, I directed how I’d like to be approached and addressed by hospital staff, and when I should be misted with water. Days before I was due, I printed numerous copies, intending to hand them out at the door like an exhibition catalogue.