Being pregnant is a little bit like sitting on death row. Every morning you wake up, take a nice stretch and look at the cute little birdie singing her morning song on the tree branch outside your window.
Then, out of nowhere you suddenly remember that you’re one day closer to the dreaded inevitable… the day you will have to expel an 8 pound human being from your body. And at that moment the little birdie turns around, looks at you and says, “You’re fucked!” and flaps away.
The day is coming and there’s nothing you can do about it. This thought haunts you every hour of every day until it actually happens.
At the grocery store: Holy shit – that huge turkey is the same size as the human being that I’m going to have to expel from my body.
Out with your friends: Sweet Jesus – this bowling ball is the same size as the human being that I’m going to have to expel from my body.
Watching TV: Somebody put a bullet in my brain – Mini Me is the same size as the human being that I’m going to have to expel from my body.
FYI – other things around my house that weigh 8 pounds:
Our flatscreen TV
Load of laundry
Five power drills
Eight Double Gulps
Magazine rack full of magazines
Bundle of firewood
And there is no nice way to expel a footstool from your body.
With Ellie I had a C-section, which, after 30 hours of labor and months of waking up in the middle of the night in a cold sweat, scratching at the invisible bugs on my arms brought there from the mind numbing obsessive thoughts of the disasterous life-long effects on my Nether Lands from expelling an 8 pound baby from my body, did not seem like such a bad option.
And it wasn’t until the pain medicine wore off.
Once the pain medicine wore off I was certain I would never be able to stand, walk, cough, drive, laugh, sneeze, sleep, move, pee, poop, think, blink or eat peanut brittle again. I felt like if I even breathed too hard I would anger the stitches and they would break apart and the huge gaping hole in my abdomen would start screaming German profanities at me.
I would live out my days sitting catatonic in my Craftmatic adjustable bed holding a pillow against my stomach watching Golden Girls on a full bed pan begging Nick to just pull the trigger.
But consider the alternative. My friend “M” has done it both ways and swears that a vaginal delivery is the way to go. But then two weeks after her last son was born her uterus fell out while she was taking a shower. Apparently it’s not uncommon, and it’s caused by something called “purple pushing”.
Ooooookkkkkk. I don’t know about you, but I don’t think those two words belong in a sentence together at all. However, when my brain sees them sitting side by side like that, holding hands and leering at me like those creepy little twins in The Shining, my mind starts to shut down and let my alternate personality Ted the construction worker take the wheel for a few days.
She’s very sensitive about her uterus falling out so I haven’t asked her if she’s changed her vote.
I consider myself lucky that for the most part my Nether Lands have remained trauma-free, save for the time when I was 15 and I technically lost my virginity by attempting a scissor kick off the high dive at Peony Park. Had it been Medieval times my stock would have plummeted after that ill-fated afternoon.
IF we ever decided to have sex again (and that’s a big IF) I would have to hand Nick a little hand drawn map describing what has been moved to where.
“Oh no, that’s not a rhinoceros made out of silly putty. I think that’s actually attached to my body. And I think you’re supposed to do something with it.”
For weeks I’ve been thinking about an “Option C”, and I brought this up yesterday at lunch with my friends Dan and Jeff, who immediately came up with a very viable option, as if it was something they too had been concerned with for quite some time.
The uterine zipper.
Once the baby is ready to come out I would simply lay on the operating table and my doctor would unzip my stomach, pull out the baby, and then -zip- done. When my uterus isn’t being used to grow babies (some day I promise there will come a time when it will be baby-free) I could use it as a handy pouch to store sandwiches and pencils and combs and stuff.
The uterine pouch would work especially well for storing warm lunches, like roast beef and pot pies.
Problem solved. I’m mentioning it to J.T. (my trusty OB) at my 28 week appointment on Monday. I believe this may be the start of the birthing revolution.