I'm convinced there is a moment in every pregnancy when one realizes that what goes in must come out. For some, this moment comes as you anxiously pour through your first pregnancy book and make the mistake of wandering too far towards the back. For others, this moment comes while you're "takin' a 10" during the graveyard shift at 7-11, go to pee after having a smoke and realize that you didn't eat too many churros, you were just pregnant. It's apparently a very common mistake.
The best way to describe this sensation is that it's a cross between realizing you forgot to pick up your elderly grandmother from the airport 6 hours ago and that scene from "Raising Arizona" that involves a child and the roof of a car. You know the one. I don't remember the exact moment specifically during my first pregnancy, but this time around I have a distinct memory of brushing my teeth, sometime during my fifth month, when my eyes shot open, my hand instinctively went to my stomach and I shouted, "Oh fuck!" through a mouth of toothpaste. As I cleaned up the mess I thought how ridiculous it was that I seemed to have forgotten this key part of the process. Of course I knew I'd be giving birth, but somehow I'd managed to speak and think about it in the abstract, not allowing myself to recall the preparation, the anxiety, the packing of the bags, the first ride home with somehow who, until recently, resided between your kidneys and was now dressed and wearing an ill-fitting hat. And maybe there was good reason for this denial. If you and your infant are fortunate enough to make it to the end of the line, then the odds are incredibly good that the baby is coming out, one way or another. And odds are also good, given modern technology, that you'll be bringing home a strong, healthy and incredibly dazed person. I suppose it shouldn't matter how this happens, that the end result should justify almost any means to get there. Sadly, it matters a great deal.
I now think back to the hours of preparation and consideration I gave to my first birth experience. I thought I did everything right; hired the best doula, researched every scenario until my eyes bled, asked endless questions at every appointment, etc. If the measure of a successful birth was measured in the form of a checklist, then I was Tracy Flick. And then it happened. I was nearly a week overdue, puffy, miserable and not sleeping. Chris was gearing up for an incredibly grueling and emotional sentencing involving victims he'd become quite close to. I went to my appointment on a Thursday and was told that I had until Monday to muster up some descent contractions or I'd need to be induced. The next day I had acupressure performed to get things going, bought some herbs to aid the process, went to the sentencing and informed my exhausted, drained husband that I couldn't be pregnant any longer and that I was going to swallow the magic pills. His shoulders slumped as he packed his bag and asked, pleadingly, if he could please just have "one night of descent sleep." Because I was also overdue for a feeding, a compromise was reached and I agreed that he could have a night of not falling asleep at the desk with a highlighter in hand...and I could have an entire plate of nachos. Of course, I went into labor at 11 that night with contractions that seemed to be just intense enough that neither of us could sleep and we essentially stayed up all night. And for the next 2 1/2 days.
I don't think I need to go into details, other than to say that I panicked and completely lost my shit. I curled up on the couch and went into a place so freaked out that I can only liken it to my first experience tripping acid. It was at a techno show at an old theater and started out quite pleasant, then took a turn for the worse when Carol Burnett's daughter (seriously) climbed on stage and an entourage of Michael Alig look-alikes, led by Richie Rich, flounced in wearing too much makeup and 6-inch calunka-chunk platforms. My mouth dropped, I got the chills and I fell into a chair. My dear friend Jack, also my caretaker of the evening, sat down beside me and sternly told me, "Listen girl, those are just really terrifying people who love costumes. You can either be terrified and let them ruin your night, or you can keep dancing and have a flawless time!" I chose Option B and other than keeping a leery eye on the huge mound of feathers pulsating near the front of the stage I did have a flawless time and danced my little heart out.
Since there are no glow sticks or drum and bass loops involved in natural childbirth, such a moment never came. By the time I'd gone through 24 exhausting hours with no real progress to show I was so defeated that I actually started to feel indifferent to even having a child. All it took was one veteran nurse to casually suggest that some drugs might help and I was able to rationalize my way into every medical intervention at the buffet, minus a C-Section. 10 hours after that and our healthy, red, screaming son was born. We would comment endlessly on how perfect he was, unlike "some newborns" then look at the pictures again six months later and realize that not only was his head completely cone-shaped, he was also the spitting image of Wallace Shawn.
Given our first experience, I suppose it was only natural to have a fair amount of anxiety and determination as I considered my options for the little being we've come to refer to as "Baby Minty." While not necessarily opposed to hospitals, we agreed that the thought of staying in a hospital for 2 days was horrifying, as was being away from Wallace...I mean Flynn. So very late in the game we opted to have our baby at a birth center. Which is conveniently located just out of arm's reach of the hospital across the street and the drugs housed inside. Making that decision was so exciting and comforting but as I sit here, 7 days from my due date with a baby hiccuping very (very) low in my body, I have my moments of doubt. Most days I feel strong and prepared. I think of all the women I know who have made this decision, who have supported me and cheered me on, who have given bits of wisdom and actually smiled when they recall their birth experiences. But all it takes is a moment of feeling tired, a moment of recalling contractions so intense they rattle your molars and you feel as if they're going to split your body in half, each fiber of your being making a brittle, crackling sound as it falls to the floor and I can't help but wonder what the hell I was thinking. In these moments I crank up fight-songs by The Clash and Sonic Youth, I watch Ricki Lake give birth in her bathtub, I visualize how I'll breath when "the moment" comes, I remind my husband that nothing makes me more irritable when I'm in pain than bad breath and toss another tin of Altoids in his bag. More than anything, I think about what I remember most from that first birth experience. Not the pain, not feeling afraid that "something" may go wrong, but feeling like I'd spent months studying for a test only to show up and find out I'd been using the wrong chapter. This birth may end up the same as the last but I think about how much more excited I am for the entire experience this time, knowing with my entire being that I'm bringing home a healthy baby with at least two working fingers. I don't need to spend two days with only the scent of aromatherapeutic oils to soothe me and a strap to bite on to make me feel like a better mother. I need for my son to see this process come full circle, to introduce him to this new person who's been turning his world upside down for the past 10 months and will likely continue to do so well into old age. The most I can say right now is, "we'll see..."
oop! Ricki's baby is about to crown!
