In the early years, "No pain, no gain!" applied to falling off bicycles, wearing braces, sleeping in curlers, donning high heels, studying late at night or working at nasty part-time jobs. Mom was there to either kiss it away or crack the whip.

During college I had to say it to myself. And I learned to bite the bullet whether the source of pain was a broken heart or the crippling consequences of my own poor choices. Either way it helped knowing Mom was just a phone call away.

After I married, pain took the form of sacrifice more often than skinned knees and broken hearts. Tightening our belts financially to provide for the children we planned was almost as difficult as getting back into my jeans once they arrived.

But the pain of childbirth itself was both defining and defeating. Never have I felt so helpless and heroic all at once.

Since childhood was sweet and lingering on Cottonwood Drive I didn't learn about the birds and bees until I said farewell to elementary school. And, honestly, never before had I thought to ask.

But when my mom sat on the edge of my bed to explain the process of birthing babies, the only words that came to my mind were "agony" and "torture." I must have held the look of horror on my face because, as she got up to leave, Mom patted my knee, smiled and said, "Don't worry. It's all worth it."

I didn't believe her at the time but, as usual, she was right. And that's the best explanation for the nine grandchildren my sisters and I have provided my parents as well as the 10th who's scheduled to debut in June.

It was my younger, pregnant sister whom I called just the other day. I had to tell her how brave her nieces were when they got their ears pierced and how my 7-year-old clutched the loaner teddy bear so tight her hands temporarily lost their pigment and that, as the technician drove the holes in her head (let's not mince words here), my baby's brown eyes grew enormous and brimmed with tears, but she didn't cry. The whole scene was nearly more than my 10-year-old could stomach both because it's hard to watch a sister suffer and because she was next in line.

"You don't have to do this," my husband told her.

"Shhh! You're not helping," I snapped from behind my camera. Then to my daughter I said, "You'll be fine. Besides, you can't have your baby sister up-stage you."

My husband thought such motivation lacked a certain maternal finesse. I disagree. But then again, he wasn't raised in the "no pain, no gain" prep school for girls.

And while I won't begrudge men their corner on strength in the can-opening, bench-pressing sense of the word, women hold the title inasmuch as strength refers to enduring pain. As a good friend put it, until men can pull watermelons out of their nostrils, there'll be no contest here.

Besides, allowing my girls to wimp out on the ear-piercing rite of passage might have crippled them somehow. And they'd have missed out on swinging the pink "I got my ears pierced!" bags that identify heroes amid everyday mall pedestrians. And I wouldn't have had a story to tell my sister who needs a diversion from nausea and Braxton Hicks contractions now and then. And, in the end, the number of grandchildren whose pictures will someday cover my walls and line my pocket book might have been compromised.

So we girls, big and small, hit the gym, skip dessert, cram our feet into killer shoes and head out to face the day chanting, "No pain, no gain!"

May it bring holes in our head or a brand new baby, either way it's worth it.

Kristen Friesen is a wife and mother of three girls and lives in Grand Island. She grew up in a houses on Cottonwood Drive in Lincoln, where she learned much of what she passes on in this column. Contact her at hervoice@theindependent.com.