Delilah George was born on October 8th, 2009 @ 3:42am. She’s perfect and I’m exhausted. Details to follow.
Happy Birthday little one. I love you too much already.
(photo by Sara.)
Category Archives: Growing a Human
Ready to Rumble
So it’s not the most flattering (or least blurry) belly shot I’ve ever taken, but Scott thought it would be funny to jump in front of the camera while I was posing (which amused the hell out of him…the posing part.) I kind of like him being in my picture though, so I’m going with it. That’s us at 39 weeks.
As of this morning’s appointment, I’m 5 cm dilated, 90% effaced, and the baby is locked and loaded. My doctor entered the room saying “Man, I can’t believe you haven’t gone into labor yet” and then tried to distract me by telling me my baby has some hair while she stripped my membranes (note: that really effing hurts.) I told her I was wise to her game, and to kindly remove her forearm from my uterus.
But uh…did you hear those stats? WTF labor? I’m pretty sure that’s your cue to start, before my baby just plain falls out.
Here’s the update:
How far along? 39 weeks.
Total weight gain/loss: La la la la la la la…actually, I lost 3 lbs this week.
Stretch marks? Every day this girl stays in leaves me with a few more battle scars.
Sleep: Not so much.
Best moment this week: House-wise, we’re pretty much ready.
Movement: Crazy.
Food cravings: Pineapple. Apparently I’m very susceptible to the power of suggestion.
Gender: Girl.
Labor Signs: Grrr.
Belly Button in or out? In.
What I miss: Not feeling like my vagina is a time bomb.
What I am looking forward to: Wearing pants.
Weekly Wisdom: Don’t let your doctor psych you out about when you’ll deliver. She has no idea. And download Contraction Master if you have an iPhone. It totally rules.
Milestones: Our beloved Los Angeles Dodgers made it to the post-season. Maybe our baby will be born on a Dodgers-Take-All year, just like I was.
Take a guess when the girl will arrive HERE.
Sex and Pineapple
Walking around knowing your cervix is gaping open is a really weird feeling. Like my Vagina is some kind of time bomb. Like at any second my water will burst in the self-help section of Ikea/on my couch/all over the upholstery of my car, and labor will have begun. At this point, I’ve become so convinced that every twinge, every gurgle, every twitch is a sign that something’s starting that this morning I sneezed a little blood and got momentarily excited. That’s how crazy I’m getting. I mean…I’m no expert, but I’m pretty sure that my bloody show isn’t going to be expelled through my nose.
I was doing really well. Really I was. I had a great outlook on this whole “going into labor” thing. I was never a chart-er or a mark Aunt Flo’s visit on the calendar kind of girl, so to me, October 13th has always been just that: an estimate. A loose suggestion off of which to base the 4 week period in which I could deliver. But OB’s have this irritating habit of trying to guess when their patients are going to go into labor. Naturally, my OB is no exception. At last week’s appointment, she told me (unsolicited) that she had a hunch she’d be seeing me this past weekend, rather than at my regularly scheduled appointment this week. [Obviously she did not.] Still, hearing that sentence uttered set off the “OH MY GOD – I’M GOING TO HAVE MY BABY AT ANY SECOND” alarms in my placenta infested mind, and each day I remain pregnant is just a little more torturous than the last.
On the brightside, I’ve always been a procrastinator, and being convinced that baby could arrive at any moment has forced me into action. I’ve read all the labor books that were sitting on my nightstand for months. I’ve washed everything we have for the girl. I’ve been writing Thank-You notes like a mo-fo. It’s like I’m cramming for the biggest exam of my life. Which I guess I kind of am.
And this is where the Old Wives tales come in. Lots of sex. Long walks. Pineapple. Evening Primrose Oil. Spicy Foods. Once you hit full term, everyone wants to share their sure fire way to get labor started. Well, I ate an entire pineapple in one sitting (admittedly this was mostly because my appetite is off the charts and pineapple is delicious) and I’m still pregnant, so take that Old Wives. I haven’t made it out to Caioti Cafe yet for their famous Labor Salad, but you can bet I’ll be eating lunch there by week’s end if this girl is still hanging out in me. (Oh, and by the way, EVERYONE ON EARTH, stop telling pregnant women to drink Castor Oil. Those who’ve tried it will report that the only thing it induces is explosive diarrhea, and that’s something none of us need at this stage of the game.)
Want to weigh in on when our little Valley Girl will make her entrance? Place your wagers HERE.
Some stats to help you on your way:
- I’m currently 4cm dilated, 80-90% effaced, and baby has dropped.
- My due date based on my LMP is October 13th, my six week ultrasound placed it around October 10th, and the neonatologist I saw at 12 weeks called it for October 7th. I won’t share what the most recent ultrasound predicted, because, well, it’s pretty inaccurate at this point anyway.
- MP (that’s code for Mucus Plug) has only partially escaped, and I’ve yet to have timeable contractions.
Low Rider
Normally, I like to keep my belly self-portraits confined to the belly, but this week, in hopes that it will be the last picture I take, I thought I should record myself in all of my swollen glory – my engorged nose and sausage fingers are providing plenty of fuel for my raging body dysmorphia, even as I do my best to ignore the tree trunks that have swallowed my legs. And although it may look like I stuffed a watermelon under my shirt, that is actually just a really really low riding baby. Look at her. Is it any wonder my pelvis feels like it’s splitting in two after having been beaten mercilessly with one of those spikey-balls on a chain things that were all the rage in medieval torture chambers?
Also – people (mainly random strangers) really need to stop asking me if I’m “sure it’s not twins.” It happens pretty much every day now. Even though I’m pretty certain this is one of those stupid default things people say to pregnant women when they’re trying to be cute, I’m keeping track and I’ll be stabbing each and every one of those motherfuckers in my dreams tonight.
How far along? 38 weeks.
Total weight gain/loss: Shut up.
Stretch marks? My knees and ankles are getting stretch marks from the sheer pressure of the edema. SUCKS.
Sleep: Awful. Just effing awful.
Best moment this week: The great hair color debacle of ‘09 is finally over. I’m blond again just in time to match my blond baby. At least I hope she’s blond, or I’m probably getting divorced.
Movement: Like an adorable little alien.
Food cravings: I just love all food. Milkshakes. Cheeseburgers. Blueberries. If it’s food, I crave it.
Gender: Girl.
Labor Signs: Not enough.
Belly Button in or out? In.
What I miss: Walking like I didn’t just ride cross-country on a horse. The waddle is just humiliating.
What I am looking forward to: Meeting my baby. C’mon little girl. Let’s do this.
Weekly Wisdom: The stranger touching and space invading only increases as I get less comfortable and more cranky. Dangerous combination.
Milestones: I think the next big milestone will be squeezing a human out of my lady bits. If there’s one I’m forgetting, don’t remind me.
omfg.
I’m full term. Holy crap. Over the past nine months, I’ve thought a lot about how I would feel at this point in the pregnancy. Ready? Panicked? Calm and Maternal? Apparently, how I would feel is like a giant, clumsy, sweaty, disorganized mess. While the nursery is nearing completion, it’s not finished. While we have almost everything we need, I’m convinced I’ll never have the right amount of newborn clothes, or that she’ll reject everything I do have, and I’ll be cursed to troll the aisles of Rite Aid at 3am frantically looking for a fresh pack of onesies because my daughter has poo-sploded over every last bit of our stock. I’ve all but given up on looking presentable and wearing pants, because at this point….fuck you. Oh, and my feet. My poor enormous feet. (I can’t help but wonder where I dropped the ball on this whole “pregnant” thing to have devolved into such a whiny uncomfortable mess by 37 weeks. I mean, I’m taking prenatal yoga! What more do you want from me, pregnancy gods?!)
…And in what may have been the final nail in the coffin of my dignity (I hear all of that stuff goes out the window when you deliver anyway) I spilled pee all over the floor at my OB appointment this week. You know how they ask you to pee in a cup when you go to the doctor’s office? Yeah. Spilled it. Like, everywhere. When I finally emerged from what must have seemed like the longest pee in the history of peeing to the poor unsuspecting folks waiting for the restroom, the nurse took one look at me all flushed in the face (still holding the measly pee sample I had managed to squeeze out of my bladder after mopping up the original sample from the floor on my hands and knees…so gross) and said matter-of-factly with only a hint of a smirk: “spilled your sample?” Special thanks to nurse Leslie for making me feel like it happens all the time. I’m certain it does not.
How far along? 37 weeks.
Total weight gain/loss: It’s not even funny anymore.
Stretch marks? Why do I feel like this questionnaire is constantly mocking me?
Sleep: It’s 4:51am. You do the math.
Best moment this week: I did some Maternity photos with Sara and she managed to capture me not looking like a total whale. (That’s one of the teasers she sent me, up there.) The girl’s a genius.
Movement: This kid has no mercy. She kicks you where it counts.
Food cravings: Chocolate. And Tuna.
Gender: Girl.
Labor Signs: Um, yes.
Belly Button in or out? Just barely in.
What I miss: Range of motion. It’s freaking ridiculous how useless I’ve become.
What I am looking forward to: Not feeling like I am about to explode.
Weekly Wisdom: It’s ugly at the end. No matter how uncomfortable you think you are, it gets worse. Which is a scary thought, since it could still be a while.
Milestones: (Be warned, we’re entering dangerous territory here. I’ve reached a crossroads where I must ask myself: “Do I want to discuss the state of my vagina on the internet?” I hope you guys aren’t squeamish, ’cause it looks like the answer is yes.) Weekly checkups now include internals, and there’s actual PROGRESS to report. 80% Effaced. 4 cm Dilated. Baby at -1 station. And the dreaded MP has started to emerge. This shit is on like Donkey Kong.
I’m having a Jessie Spano Moment.
You know that episode of Saved by the Bell when the girls start a girl group called the Hot Sundaes, and Jessie gets addicted to caffeine pills so Zack has to talk her down while she maniacally screeches the opening bars to “I’m so excited!” but then in a shocking turn of self discovery she replaces the 3rd repetition with “I’m so scared” and collapses in tears? That’s kind of how I feel this week. (But without the life threatening caffeine intake.)
First of all, look at how much more enormous my belly has gotten in the past month? (See, I’m allowed to say “enormous” because I’m me. That still doesn’t give anyone else permission. You might want to make a note of that somewhere, everyone on earth.)
That’s a lot of baby growin’. And as the belly gets bigger, and the movements coming from inside of it become more distinct, saying things like “when she gets here” seems crazy, because she IS very much here, she’s got a mind of her own already, and she’s almost done baking. Except right now she doesn’t ask for much, and I can take her anywhere. I assume all of that’s going to change once this inside baby becomes an outside baby.
Anyway – sleep is something that’s becoming more and more elusive to me. Now that there’s six pounds of human chillin’ on my bladder I have to pee around every five seconds. That slows to about hourly when I sleep. And once 4:30 or so rolls around, my internal clock seems to think I’ve had enough of this pesky sleep business (it’s wrong) and wakes me up for good. I thought the sleepless nights didn’t start until the baby comes, but it looks like I’m training for that nightmare already.
So the past few nights, as I lay awake between pees (pee’s?) I do a little mental tango, a’la Ms. Spano.
“I’m so excited…”
We’re gonna meet our baby! She’s gonna be so little, and we’re gonna be so in love.
“I’m so excited…”
I’m going to get to lay on my stomach, and drink a Margarita, and snuggle with my daughter, and just spend time getting to know this new little person.
“I’m…so…scared.”
Who the fuck said I could be a parent?!
…I mean, this is some scary shit. I’ve never been solely responsible for a newborn for more than 2 minutes while my sister used the bathroom. I panic about the name we’ll give her, the doctor we chose for her, how long to breastfeed, where she’ll go to preschool, whether she’s going to be a sleeper or a screamer, if LA is the right place to raise a child… Should I get the H1N1 vaccine? How am I going to balance work and motherhood? Will I ever lose the baby weight? Are Scott and I going to forget how to be awesome? Will I finish everything on my to-do list before she arrives? …and on and on and on….
But then it passes, and I’m excited again.
Here’s the update:
How far along? 36 weeks.
Total weight gain/loss: I’m no longer on speaking terms with my scale.
Stretch marks? They’re creeping out from under my tattoo. At least I’m pale and they’ll fade away, right?
Sleep: See above rant.
Best moment this week: I got to see her on the ultrasound for the first time since 20 weeks. She’s big.
Movement: She’s wiggling right now.
Food cravings: All of them.
Gender: Girl.
Labor Signs: Some minor cramping.
Belly Button in or out? Just barely in.
What I miss: My fall wardrobe.
What I am looking forward to: Not being pregnant.
Weekly Wisdom: The dude at my nail place was afraid to give me a foot massage, for fear he’d accidentally induce me. I don’t know where the wisdom is in that, but I thought it was funny/annoying.
Milestones: I had my last ultrasound. Next time I see her, she’ll be in my arms.
Be kind, please click:
Damn Gina! That’s a lot of Pregnant!
I am like, really super pregnant. Have you noticed? The other day, I made Scott come with me to the supermarket (which he really hates doing, something about everyone being idiots…) because I no longer wish to go out on my own for fear that strangers will get all up in my business. I’ve noticed, however, that if I drag my husband with me, the creepoid to touching me ratio goes down significantly, and so now I prefer to be accompanied by Scott at all times (which I generally prefer anyway, because I really like that guy.) I am so full of baby now, that there isn’t a moment of the day where I’m not aware that there’s a human inside of my body. She’s wigglin’ around in there, elbowing me in the guts, kicking me in the ribs, and being a general disturbance to my internal comfort. Secretly, I kind of love it. Outwardly, my complaining is at an all time high. (I’m Jewish. We live to kvetch. It’s something I don’t think my catholic hubby fully understood until he knocked me up. Oh well, you’re stuck with me now, Shanny.)
Last week, we took our first (and only) birthing class, and man was it stupid. We decided to go for an intensive five hour version instead of the 5 week course, because we’re big procrastinators, and I’m glad we did, because there’s no way we would have gone back for more after the remedial first hour of that nonsense. We learned where babies come from. Seriously. And then we learned how they get out. Seriously. And when the RN was asking (what I at first assumed to be rhetorical, but quickly realized she was seriously asking if we knew) questions about stages of labor and mucus plugs, there were folks in the class who eagerly scribbled down the answer like this was all brand new information. And so I ask you…how does someone get to be 8 mos pregnant, and not know what a mucus plug is? (If you don’t know, I hope you’re not pregnant, in which case you’re better off not knowing for the time being. And if you are pregnant, read a damn book! Jeez!) Anyway – there was some Lamaze included in this class, but not nearly as much as there was talking about how awesome it is that they can put morphine in your epidural and keep you numb for days. And when it came time for the breathing practice (which was the impetus for us having taken this course) I could tell that my husband had reached his limit and was no longer “in it” because his wide “I can’t believe we paid for this shit” eyes were making me laugh when I was supposed to be relaxing and visualizing my contractions rising and falling like waves. (We do still plan to practice the breathing at home, so we got a book…because I don’t want to be totally unprepared come game time.) It was basically a really expensive L&D tour with an emphasis on hospital policy. Money well spent, for sure. (I totally don’t wish I’d spent it on a really nice prenatal massage instead. Oh wait, yes I do.)
Here’s the update:
How far along? 35 Weeks. 35 Days to go. Holy crap.
Total weight gain/loss: Whatever.
Stretch marks? I think I’ve angered them. I fear my tattoo will never be the same.
Sleep: Can’t get enough.
Best moment this week: She tickles me now. I can almost picture those little fingers.
Movement: Oh yeah.
Food cravings: Rice Krispie treats have taken over my subconscious mind.
Gender: Girl.
Labor Signs: a LOT of painless Braxton Hicks.
Belly Button in or out? Still in. Almost flat.
What I miss: Being comfortable ever.
What I am looking forward to: Oh, lots of things.
Weekly Wisdom: Skip the birthing class your hospital offers.
Milestones: 35/35! That’s a big deal in pregnancy land!
Be kind, please click:
Floating Along.
I think this is the time when most Mamas-To-Be start counting the days until their little one’s arrival. Naturally, I’m digging my heels in. I want this girl to bake as long as possible. Of course, I’m hormonal and already falling in love with the beast in my belly, so I have moments of the day when I can’t wait one more second to meet her – feeling her cute little booty push up under my belly button makes me want to pinch all the cheeks she’s got, like NOW, and with the discomfort that comes with late pregnancy starting to set in, there are times when I think I just can’t take one more roundhouse kick to the ribcage or hiccup echoing through my nether regions. On the flipside, I can’t help but be very aware that my life is about to change FOREVER (I mean…FOR-EV-VER. Picture the dorky kid in The Sandlot repeating that over and over, and you’re starting to get a sense of what’s it’s like in my head these days) and I’ll savor the days of sleep and peace and quiet before that happens, thank-you-very-much. Plus, I still have a lot of stuff to do.
So, little girl – if you want to stay in there until at least your due date (I’m sure I’ll rue the day I typed that) it’s a-ok by me.
How far along? 34 weeks…right about now I’m thinking it’s time I reclaim my original due date and give myself an extra week. It works that way, right?
Total weight gain/loss: I don’t want to talk about it. And how dare you ask me that, internet questionnaire.
Stretch marks? I thought I saw one on my right boob, and my heart filled with despair. Turns out it was just a sleep line from my sheets. Phew.
Sleep: God, yes.
Best moment this week: I ate an ice cream cone that was pretty delicious.
Movement: …And she’s found my cervix again.
Food cravings: Carbs. Lots and lots of carbs.
Gender: Girl.
Labor Signs: Nope.
Belly Button in or out? In. No line on the stomach either. It’s the small victories that count.
What I miss: Bladder control.
What I am looking forward to: Wearing shoes again.
Weekly Wisdom: I thought pregnancy blew before. I had no idea. And I’m pretty sure it’s all down hill from here. (But I love my baby! Miracle of Life!)
Milestones: When she hiccups, I can feel it in my butt. It’s really weird.
ALSO: If you’re a new mom, or mom-to-be (or are just lazy, and want to do all of your cooking for the month at once) I’ve recently added a new page to this site – The Freezer Meal Recipe Sharing Page, where you can add recipes to share, and grab some new ones for yourself. Check it out.
ALSO, ALSO: Today is the last day to enter my 75$ Fabulous Stationery Gift Certificate Giveaway. It ends at midnight to night, and they have awesome baby announcements and other stuff you probably want. CLICK HERE to enter.
Pregnant Women are People Too.
For whatever reason, people do really seem to think that being pregnant makes you public domain. Public domain for talking to (thanks, Super-Market checkout man, but I don’t need your advice on breastfeeding), public domain for touching (I can’t tell you how many near-strangers have [hopefully] unknowingly fondled my vagina while trying to find my baby in there), public domain for prying and personal questioning (was it an accident?), and worst of all, public domain for making mind-bogglingly harsh comments that you would never dare say to someone who wasn’t pregnant (I’m getting to that part.)
Let’s be honest: Gaining weight for any reason sucks. (Yes, I’m back on that topic again.) I know there’s a baby in here, and I already love her more than anything in this world, but that doesn’t really take the edge off the fact that my face looks like an overinflated basketball.
Keep that in mind while you read the following top five crazy-ass things that people have said to me this week:
1. Hey Fatty. (As far as I can tell, this is a pretty standard “I think I’m being cute, but I’m lucky you’re not murdering my face” pregnancy comment. Still stings.)
2. Wow, so your Dad took it off, and gave it to you, huh? (My Dad recently lost 35 lbs. Go Dad. Four separate people said this to me on Tuesday.)
3. You’re like a huge blob! (I mean…)
4. How much weight HAVE you gained? (Would you ever ask someone non-pregnant this question, Bob?)
(and my personal favorite…drumroll please…)
5. Pardon my saying it, but you look like an elephant. (Under no circumstances will I pardon your saying that.)
Early in my pregnancy, I would hear further-along women wishing death and dismemberment on people who said such things to them, but I’d laugh it off. I thought to myself “they aren’t really calling you fat” or “they’re just trying to be funny, I’m sure it’s affectionate.” And while I’m giving folks the benefit of the doubt that those things are true, I must ask on behalf of all pregnant women everywhere that you non-pregnants consider your words a little more carefully when dealing with someone who has been uncomfortable for the better part of nine months and is full of raging and irrational hormones.
I’m 33 weeks pregnant. It’s august. It’s hot. I’m tired (like, more tired than I’ve ever been.) My patience is not what it used to be. Nor is the thickness of my skin. While some of these comments made me laugh in disbelief, others brought me to tears. (I’m not proud of it. I usually have a better sense of humor than that…but c’mon, cut me some slack here.)
On that note – here’s my update:
How far along? 33 weeks.
Total weight gain/loss: Yeah…like I’m giving you people any more ammo.
Stretch marks? My puberty stretchies are turning red and threatening to blow. (Oh, joy.)
Sleep: all. the. time.
Best moment this week: We got our stroller! Sometimes I push it around our house and imagine she’s in it. Shhh.
Movement: So much.
Food cravings: I don’t want to put another thing in my body that will end up on my ass.
Gender: Girl.
Labor Signs: Nope.
Belly Button in or out? That’s a close up of the situation above. (You’re welcome, world wide web.) My cavernous belly button is still holding on.
What I miss: Focus.
What I am looking forward to: Finishing up all my work so I can sleep and nest.
Weekly Wisdom: Deep breaths.
Milestones: I can now make out body parts. She has Scott’s butt.
Please click here to vote!
Ring of Fire
I’ve been thinking about the birth a LOT lately. The ring of fire is coming for me, and there’s nothing I can do to stop it. So, a couple of nights ago, with our birthing class still a few weeks away, Scott and I settled into our couch and popped in the Ricki Lake/Abby Epstein Documentary THE BUSINESS OF BEING BORN. The doc takes a [rather heavy handed] look at the American approach to child birth, and (as I’m sure it would for anyone with a baby in their uterus who’s inevitably going to be heading for the exit) it really got me thinking. Before we ever conceived, I always felt that I’d like to give natural childbirth a go. [Insert pause for all of the experienced birthers out there to snort-laugh at my bright-eyed first timer optimism. ...I know, I know, the pain of childbirth is going to blow my effing mind straight out my ears and all over the wall behind me.]
But what is natural anyway? One of the things that irked me about the doc was the smug as shit holier than thou attitude of many of the pro-home birth interviewees, as if anyone not birthing by their definition of “natural” was a fool. In this case, I’m talkin’ drug free. As I’ve mentioned before I was with Marissa when her water broke sending her straight to transition [without passing go, without collecting 200$.] I witnessed live and in person as my Sister’s contractions went from “I think this is it, I’m gonna hop in the shower” to “TODD GET IN THE FUCKING CAR RIGHT NOW OR I’M GOING TO FUCKING KILL YOU!!!!” in forty five minutes flat. It did not look comfortable. It did not look fun. But despite her literally grabbing (the incredible) Dr. Smalls by the collar as he came in to check her progress and demanding he give her whatever drugs were available and STAT, the time for intervention had passed, and I held my sister’s hand while she scrunched up her face and followed Todd’s calm coaching counts, pushing Eva into the world without the hospital staff doing so much as pulling her chart or inserting a heparin lock. For all the medical interventions that Eva’s birth required, we could have delivered that baby on the side of the road in downtown Oakland (which we almost did, and I’m still relieved we didn’t.) At the time, I had reservations about being in the room for a birth, for fear that it would scare me out of ever wanting to do it myself. In retrospect, I can honestly say that I felt empowered – my Sister did it all by herself. She grew a baby, and she birthed that baby, and when it was over, so was the pain, and she was lovingly cooing at the newborn on her chest even as they delivered the placenta.
Watching the documentary, I couldn’t help but feel that Ricki and company were poo-pooing my decision to give birth at a hospital. That by having a trained surgeon deliver my baby, I was asking for trouble. My husband (who is apparently a little crunchier than I ever knew – he’s got his own ideas about what he won’t allow during birth – for example, he feels very strongly that I be allowed to push when I feel ready, and wants me to be able to move around if I feel the need) was definitely shaken by some elements of the doc, wondering how he can protect me from being “pitted” or “sectioned” upon our arrival in Labor and Delivery. Ricki and Co certainly paint a dark and hopeless picture of childbirth within the hospital walls. I reminded Scott, (and myself) that Sara braved a very long (23 hours, I think) labor in the same hospital I’ll be delivering in, with the same OB who will deliver me, and no one forced her into any interventions – she also did it completely drug free, under much different circumstances than my speed-birthing sister. Contrary to what some of the interviewees in “Born” would have you believe, it is possible to give birth in a hospital without anyone trying to pump you full of pitocin and yank your baby out prematurely.
What I did get out of the film however, was the motivation to sit down with my OB and discuss in no uncertain terms how I’d like this thing to go, in an ideal world. (Key word being IDEAL – there will be no anally typed out birth plans or grand declarations of how my birth will define me – I don’t want to spend the first days of my baby’s life regretting decisions I made under the pain of labor. I know that some of my peers feel that not committing fully to my wishes for a natural birth by doing months of mental preparation, having a detailed birth plan, and coaching Scott on protecting me from myself when I start to scream for drugs in the eleventh hour is a recipe for failure. I know that others would call me a crazy hippie for even considering skipping the epidural. In my mind, whatever happens, there is no failure in delivering my baby, so long as she thrives when she gets here.) We went over everything from induction, to episiotomy and I left the office really feeling that we are on the same team. Although she’s made her personal opinion clear (“if you broke your arm, you’d take painkillers for that”) she also described a birth where she laid on the floor to deliver the baby so the mother could squat. (All I could think was “I hope you were wearing goggles.”) I want to let my body do what it was made to do – I believe in my ability to bring this girl into the world drug-free, but I trust the doctor I’ve chosen to guide my baby and I safely through the process, knowing that she is aware of my intentions, and trusting that if she tells me something is medically necessary, it’s not because she wants to make it home in time to catch The Rock on SNL.
Still, the debate rages on in my mind. I won’t lie – the pain of labor and ESPECIALLY the pain of birth scare the living shit out of me. I’ve always been a painkiller person – happy to pop whatever pills are prescribed to take the edge off of whatever pain I might be feeling. (Hell, I was asking for more Demerol before my eyes were open the last time I went under the knife, and I told my gastroenterologist post-endoscopy that he was “harshing my mellow” when he attempted to discuss his findings with me in the recovery room.) I’ve been cut open on the operating table from skull (a mastoidectomy at age 3) to pelvis (an appendectomy at age 10) and pretty much everywhere in between. I’ve never tried to endure any of those ailments or operations sans medication…so why now?
The truth is, I don’t really know. I’ve heard both sides of the argument. I’ve had friends tell me that conquering natural childbirth changed their lives, and I’ve had friends tell me that checking in to the hospital and getting hooked up to the epi made them feel like a princess while they delivered their children without so much as a twinge of sensation from the waist down. I’ve been told that allowing interventions prevents your body from releasing the hormones necessary to bond with your new baby (although I have to imagine that the human body would come up with a way to circumvent that obstacle) and I’ve been told that nobody gets a medal for enduring the agony of contractions drug-free, so “what’s the point?” I’ve also heard the horror stories. Too numb to push. Body not ready for labor, sending baby into distress resulting in C-Section. One intervention leads to another. On the flipside, some women need the epi so they can relax and allow their labor to progress. Some women need it so they can sleep through heavy contractions, otherwise they may end up on the operating table from sheer exhaustion rendering them unable to push. Some women need it because, well, they just don’t like pain. I’m far from an expert on the topic, so I find that as my due date creeps closer, I’m drinking in all of the literature I can, trying to make the decision that’s going to be best for me and my little girl…although I have a feeling she’s probably got a plan all her own.
