On the morning of February 14th, we carried the giant frozen space capsule that housed (our teeny tiny vials of frozen pop) into the doctor's office. This canister looked like a cross between an oxygen tank and a fire hydrant and weighed about 40 pounds. Kids in the waiting room had a sudden twinkle in their eyes upon seeing me, as if I was going to start twisting balloons into wiener dogs and swords at any moment.
One minute Y had her legs in stirrups, admiring her hand-knit sock wizardry, while Dr S worked her intrauterine insemination magic. The next, we're waiting to see if her belly button will collapse under the pressure of it all and pop out like a Perdue chicken. It's now September, only 10 short weeks shy of 40 weeks pregnant, and I'm starting to look at the babies in the Guest Services line at Target a bit differently.
"Oh yeah. One of those pink and cooing things is coming home with us. It's not just a growing kiwi fruit any longer, that kicks or has hiccups or creates freaky belly ripples when Y is trying to sleep. At some point, he'll be a permanent fixture. Jesus, we actually get to keep him!"
Before we get to the part where he comes home with us, we have to get through the "birthing" part. Did you ever see the fantastic HBO series Six Feet Under? If so, you might recall when Ruth starts to work on herself and starts attending the self-help seminar called "The Plan." She starts talking about how her life is like a house, blah blah blah, and that her house needs a new foundation. Y and I landed on a birthing class that feels like it could have been created by The Plan version of Ruth. The class has lots of metaphors for giving birth, lots of new terminology to trick your brain into "fear clearing" and positive thinking. It's not labor people, it's birthing. Get with the program. What's that you say? She's having a contraction? Guess again fine sir, that would be a "pressure wave." Now please go eat one of those brownies we baked for you and don't come back into the room until you've read our birth plan.
Don't take my mocking as a sign that I'm not on board, or report me to the Hypnobirth Council for Non-Believers. I'm a big believer in the power of positive thinking, the birthing ball, the swaying of hips on all fours and barking like a dog if you need to, in order to get through. I think envisioning the birth of your child as a beautiful, pain free experience is a worthwhile exercise, just like envisioning the next promotion, or the next tennis serve is extremely helpful in directing your intention. Speaking of directing intention, there are some very highly intended moms out there who have set the bar extremely high.
The same class we've just completed has invited us back next week for a group viewing of a documentary called Orgasmic Birth. Sounds a bit like an oxymoron, I know. Apparently all of the crazy hippies and free birthers are doing it these days. This isn't on the birth plan. The chance that this will happen is as good as getting struck by lightning, getting eaten by a great white shark or winning the powerball. But hey - you can't win if you don't play, right? Aiming to have an orgasmic birth, or worse yet, expecting to, is like saying that you really have a thing for adorable, lisping blondes, so you're holding out for Drew Barrymore. Why put all of your eggs into one particular birthing basket, that seems as aloof as the Mexican Chupacabra or the Fisher King's Holy Grail? At the end of the day, I'm just hoping everyone emerges healthy and unscathed. Asking for an orgasm on top of all of that just seems a bit greedy. I hope the orgasmic birthers don't hunt me down now. I fear that I've angered the Kraken.
As if there wasn't already enough pressure to avoid the induction, the pitocin, the epidural, the C section, we now have youtube and orgasmic birthing bloggers and their goddamn bliss to thank for spreading their ... um .... joy ... all over the web. Regardless of how impossible all of this sounds, or how crunchy lesbo it may be, I truly think Y can do anything she puts her mind to. Except purr. I really hope she doesn't start purring while she gives birth. We weren't given a pre-made sign to hang on the door that says: Y is experiencing pressure waves and the occasional Big Cat Week roar. Please don't try to talk to her until she's done purring. Thanks, The Birth Partner.
If you watch the highlighted Orgasmic Birth 20/20 video above, you'll see what the heck I'm referring to here. Meow.
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