Birth and pregnancy happen, especially when you least expect it. It seems that it is universally applicable that trying too hard at anything puts too much pressure on ourselves and we end up with performance anxiety. This is why on my first pregnancy, I conceived while still in the “planing to plan to have a baby stage”. There was no pressure, we were just sexing it up and having a good time…maybe too good of a time. When I found out that I was pregnant, I was ecstatic. I had waited for this moment since I had gotten married, maybe since my husband proposed. There is just something so liberating about intentionally making a baby ( *or planning to plan to have a baby) with the man that you love, aside from all the baby making, birth control free nookie. And I don’t just mean the fact that I took it as a license to eat carbs without guilt for 10 months. Heck to the yeah, I could finally eat and exhale! I was overjoyed, to say the least. Do you know how awesome it is to NOT worry that someone is going to mistake your baby doll dress and burrito belly for a baby bump? It was glorious!
Then I made the mistake of reading all of those nightmare inducing, statistic laced pregnancy books. All the good times I had planned for gave way to worry and anxiety. Thank God, I hadn’t tried to educate myself before conceiving or I would have been scared to death, maybe even chalked up the whole idea. I’m pretty squeamish about pain, blood and body fluids and let’s face it..that’s all giving birth is aside from the miracle it all results in. Before getting pregnant, no one told me about gestational diabetes, the disfigurement of stretch marks, outtie belly buttons, linea negrias, noses spreading, feet growing, acne, bacne and spider veins. Nobody told me that the “glow” was code for ugly, exhausted and fat. Worse, nobody told me about what happens when you give birth. NOBODY told me how excruciatingly painful it would be. No one gave me a heads up that there was NO modesty or dignity in giving birth. My friends never told me that transition labor would feel like a cracked out, ninja ghoulie was trying to chew it’s way out of my lower abdomen. Nobody told me that trying to birth a baby would take as long as a transatlantic flight. NO.BODY.TOLD.ME!! Not even my Mama! Why?Why did no one tell me????
I had no idea that I’d be put into a gown that couldn’t possibly cover my protruding belly without completely exposing my pasty white derriere complete with assne. No one told me that I’d have 27 doctors, nurses and passersby sticking there hand in my woohoo to check “how far along” I was. I wasn’t told that I’d be bored out of my brain, watching Jerry Springer, when I’d be struck mute by pain and only be able to whisper the words, “Oh Sh*t” and “Oh God” alternately and on repeat. Most importantly, NO ONE told me that I might have a bowel movement on the birthing table. Between you and me, that’s a deal breaker. I would have opted for a surrogate or adopted a little brown baby from Mexico (then maybe I would have had a chance that the baby would look like it was actually related to me).
But no one tells you these things. To be clear, I intentionally starved myself for the two days before I was induced. When the time came, I gave it my all. I got 25 stitches for my trouble and a gorgeous baby girl. My husband assures me that I did not poop on the birthing table and the only thing I pushed into the world that afternoon was our firstborn. Did he tell me the truth? Or was he trying to restore some of the dignity I had lost from the hourly dipstick checks? I’ll probably never really know. I’m just hoping in the throes of a heated discussion I never hear “ Oh yeah, well you did sh*t on the birthing table! It was real and it was spectacular!” For now, I choose to believe in a world where there are unicorns, fairies and no one poops the table while giving birth. If there’s a next time, I may just be done with it and have Indian food the night before induction. I say go big or go home. Sh*t happens!