Yeah, so, I’m sorry about all the pregnancy-related posts. Being fat and pregnant is the new black … at least for me.
In a few weeks I’ll have all new stuff to write about. Be on the lookout for such posts as “I’m an assy mother,” “How to crate train your baby,” “When did it become uncool to shake your baby?” and “I vomit every time I change a shitty diaper.” Consider yourself warned.
So anyway, I’ve been reading my pregnancy books and websites in an attempt to mentally prepare myself for labor and delivery.
I have witnessed the “miracle” of childbirth twice. I was in the room for both of my nieces’ delivery. It was totally amazing, super emotional and completely gross. Of course, it’s a whole other thing to be the one doing the pushing instead of telling someone to push.
Related story: When Michelle was pregnant with my niece Lorelei, who turned 9 in July, we were two single ladies living together. I was her birth coach. In the middle of the birth, I was got emotionally overwhelmed. It’s hard to watch someone who you love be in pain, even if the pain for a good cause. I didn’t want Michelle see that I was upset, so I asked for moment to pull my shit together. I walked away from the bed, turned away and stood in a corner. A nurse tried to approach me when Michelle yelled, “She needs a minute!” Even in childbirth, Michelle was looking out for me. After she pushed Lorelei out, I said to Michelle, “You kicked labor’s ass! High five!” And we high fived.
Another related story: After Lorelei was born, she was a little bit of a conehead, which is totally normal after being pushed through someone’s vagina. I said to Michelle, “She’s from France,” trying to do my best Conehead impression. The doctor was British, and she gave me a dirty look. To this day, I think she thinks I was making fun of her accent, like I can’t tell the difference between a French and a British accent. Puh-leeze. A French accent sounds this, and a British accent sounds like this. Duh.
So yeah, my point is my sister gives birth like a champ. Seriously, if there was an Olympic event for childbirth she would get the gold. Sadly, I think being awesome at childbirth is going to another one of those things that genetically we don’t have in common, much like her curly hair and hot rack.
Sure, I had three breast cancer surgeries in one year, so I’d like to think I’m not a complete pussy when it comes to pain, but I’m not convinced that I will be able to handle childbirth without the help of drugs. I mean, I will try to go as long as I can, but I’m not making any promises to anyone that this birth will not involve drugs, whether the hospital gives them to me or I bring some from home.
The other night I was reading about labor and delivery, and none of the options sounded like a good time.
Natural childbirth: Using breathing and massage techniques to handle the pain.
Me: “That doesn’t sound very effective. That sounds terrible.”
Narcotics: Pain meds given as a shot to make the pain more tolerable, but it can slow the baby’s breathing if administered late in the delivery.
Me: “That sounds scary and terrible.”
Epidural: A catheter is placed in a region near your spinal cord, which basically numbs you from the waist down.
Me: “You can’t feel your legs?! That sounds terrible.”
C-section: This may involve a spinal block, so you are awake while the doctor cuts you open to deliver the baby.
Me: “Umm, you’re awake during surgery? That sounds like something out of a ‘Saw’ movie. That sounds terrible.”
“All of these options sound terrible,” I told David. “Can’t they just knock me out and wake me up when the baby is here?”
David: “I don’t think they do that.”
Me: “Can you just hit me over the head with a frying pan?”
He answered a little too quickly and seemed a little too willing to accommodate me on that.