reflections part 3: birth

Honestly, I may never have decided to have a kid. Then if you'd told me ANYthing about birth, I DEFINITELY would never have decided to get preggo. However, having been through it all, I'd totally get knocked up again someday (in theory. providing I don't have to repeat the subsequent divorce, baby-daddy drama, and single parenthood). But yeah, in the context of that elusive-as-the-abominable-snow-man stable and loving relationship, (pregnancy and) birth would be a cinch, now that I know how to do it.

and here's how:

1- don't freak out.
2- obsessively research and read EVERYTHING you can find about the physiological processes of labor and delivery so you feel prepared.
3- listen to other women's stories of their experience of labor and take them with a grain of salt. They won't match yours.
4- GET PSYCHED.

I, being the hippie dipshit I am, went totally drug-free. If god strikes me down with another little human parasite, I'm totally doing the birth part at home. Drug-free was nice, because my body went into endorphine-adrenaline overdrive, which apparently it's supposed to do. Anyway, my intensely personal and largely graphic birth timeline:

Tuesday, February 23, 2011

3:36 PM: This email is sent to my coworkers:

I keep having contractions and getting confused whether I’m having contractions or have to poop. It might be both.

7:00 PM: I go to have my photo taken for the church picture directory. It was like fucking fourth grade. I am having contractions (which feel like someone grabs your belly from your ribs to your groin and scrunches it up in a fist) every 10 minutes, and this man I've never seen before is asking me to turn my chin a little more to the left. "A little more. That's it, now relax your fingers under your chin. Pull your chin into your chest a little" JUST TAKE THE PICTURE I'M IN FUCKING LABOR.

Wednesday, February 24, 2011

9:00 AM: My dog needs to be walked. I hear that walking brings on baby. I will try this, esp since I was getting my belly squeezed by a GOD's fist every ten minutes all night long. I walk dog. Doubling over every 6-7 minutes to breathe. My poor dog doesn't understand that my profanity is not directed at her and that no, she actually isn't behaving like a goddamnmotherfuckingshit that is intense.

10:00 AM to 3:00 PM: I alternately sit on the exercise ball in my room in the dark "meditating" to buddhist chanting music and do "cat-cow" yoga poses to coax baby out into the 30 degree weather.

6:00 PM: Hospital with my mom.

8:00 PM: Watching 30 Rock with my mom and dad in between contractions and giggling.

10:00 PM: Hit wall (also known as transition). From there if I talked specifically about it it would be all birthy and shit. like dilation and stuff. This is also the time my dad left. Pussy.  Suffice to say:

I cried

I vommed

I screamed

I squatted & hands-and-knees-ed it

I got pissy with the doctor when she wanted to stick her fingers up my chatch yet again

I got pissy with the doctor when he wanted to break my bag of waters

I got pissy with the doctor when LOTS OF THINGS*

I got the Nuggo out with my bare hands

and I squished her to my chest
at 1:34 AM Thursday
February 25, 2011

I did NOT:       I DID:
poop                have a doula, with whom I am still in love
whimper          need help to piss. (it's hard when a 7lb human is falling out of your hoo-hah).
take drugs        sneak food into the hospital. Fuck their policies. I needed my strength.
have an IV       say thank you to the nurses everytime they did nice shit for me.

*When I first check in, the doctors did not have a record of my birth plan. That had been approved by my ob-gyn. I called bullshit, and busted out my OWN (second) copy. Bearing the doc's signature. I still had to push back on several issues that the hospital wanted to do to me, THAT HAD ALREADY BEEN APPROVED THAT I DID NOT HAVE TO DO. Like:

*break my water

*stay confined in my bed

*check my cervix every 3 seconds

*make me wear a hospital gown (i had my own dress that gave me feelings of safety and empowerment and other psychological BS)

*not eat anything (THIS IS THE DUMBEST RULE EVER. I'm sorry, I'm about to do the purported equivalent of participate in an entire Pro-NFL game without any sort of sustenance? Yeah, that's the best idea)--also: who made this comparison? Someone who has probably never done both. Even more likely, someone who has done NEITHER. Most certainly, some academic fuckwit studying caloric expension in a finite amount of time and applying it over broad and incompatible circumstances.

Next time: underwater. with a scuba-mask on.