Category Archives: Pre-baby

Loathe of the Ring

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I went in for my annual exam yesterday. (Let that sentence be a warning unto you, fellas.) An unexpected benefit to delivering a baby is that these annual visits are much less dreadful.

First of all, there’s only one person in the room who is expecting to look at your vagina. Though, I will tell you, a pelvic exam is much less festive without bright lights, beeping machines, a mirror, 15 nurses and your spouse in tow.

Also, the infamous “you may feel a little pressure” is a laughable warning to give a woman who, the last time she heard that, proceeded to push a nine-pound replica of her husband out of her lady parts. I’ve got your pressure right here.

Anywho, I love going to doctors offices because of how they decorate their exam rooms with 1984-looking, plastic replicas of human organs. For example:

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The NuvaRing on display in the middle there gave me pause. For those of you not familiar with it, The Ring is a form of birth control that resembles and feels like those glitter/water bracelets you wore 20 at-a-time in the 80’s.

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Except, you don’t put this bracelet on your arm. The Ring accessorizes you from the inside.

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I gave it a go once. For about two hours in the summer of 2007.

I was little confused at how it should work, so I read the manual. Those are always so helpful. I did as instructed, but something didn’t feel right. I took it out and called my doctor’s after hours line.

Me: Hey, I don’t think I did this right.

Doc: I don’t make house calls for vaginal birth control. If you like, you can come back to the office tomorrow and I can put it in for you.

Me: Would you make fun of me if I did that?

Doc: Yes.

Me: (sigh) Nevermind.

Doc: Why don’t you get your partner to help you?

Me: {crickets}

For the next hour, I tried to make it work sitting, standing, crouching. I considered taking a running jump and landing on it. I even Googled potential solutions. Don’t do that, by the way.

Then, out of desperation I called out to Dave:

Me: Baby! I need your help!

Dave: No.

Me: Yes! The doctor said so.

Dave: There’s no way I’m doing that.

Maybe it was frustration, or how hard I was laughing by this point, but suddenly, it worked!

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Things I did not understand until I had a baby

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They say having a child gives you a change in perspective. They are correct. I’m not talking about a new-found understanding of sleep deprivation as a form of torture, “experiencing a love like no other” or even the development of your new pain tolerance standards (would you say it was labor painful? or just broken limb painful?).

What I am talking about is the acceptance–if not the active practice–of things you used to have no tolerance for, like:

Cars full of crap. 

Before baby: So, you’ve procreated and now you can’t clean out your backseat? Really? Sure, I’ll ride back here. No problem. Let me just brush these soggy Cheerios off the seat and side step these three sad, gnawed on action figures. No, no, really it’s fine. I’m sure whatever wet substance I just put my hand in is not pee.

Now: This morning, our backseat inventory included: four books, two very large stuffed animals, a beach towel, a spoiled bottle of milk, two milk bottle caps, sand, one sock, a car seat the size of Texas, and an Elmo mirror. Don’t look in the trunk, it’s a mess. However, should we take a spontaneous trip to the beach, we’re all set thanks to the beach umbrella, a beach chair, two beach towels and the bucket of beach toys that reside in the trunk. Last week, we also toted around TWO strollers for our one child.

The lure of the Mini Van.

Before baby: Have you lost your mind? You birthed a baby, not the Brady Bunch. No one requires a vehicle that big unless they have four kids who take surfing and/or pole-vaulting lessons.

Now: Whoa. Maybe we need one of these:

Every now and then, I entertain the idea of a larger vehicle. The only thing that keeps me from seriously considering a mini van is Dave’s theory about getting a larger house, car, or office: in every case, the more space you give yourself, the more stuff you’ll end up collecting to fill it. If what we are doing to our four-door Volkswagen is any indication, we do not need this temptation.

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Hey, preggers! Read this.

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Dear Momma-to-be,

Hey, sister. How are you feeling? You look amazing today. I know you’re all glowing and double fisting BBQ chips right now, but I want to talk a bit about labor and delivery.

Wait. Where are you going? Look, if you listen to me for just a few minutes, I’ll bring you a jar of Nutella. 

Now, then. Let’s cut the chase. Here’s how it’s going to go down:

You will be strong and powerful* 

Why are you blinking at me like that? Have another chip or 10 and hear me out.

I’m sure you were hoping I’d say “you’ll be great!” or “just get an epidural and it will be a piece of cake!”

But this is serious business, this human-creating thing. Labor and delivery is work. It’s exhausting, intense, miraculous work. It is work your body was made to do. And–you Type-A’s will appreciate this–your body does it so well. 

Your job is to breathe, focus and allow your body to work its magic. I don’t mean to belittle your fears. They are valid. The thought of going into labor is scary; the unknown always is. But you will rock this, lady. I promise.

By the way, it does’t matter whether you deliver vaginally or via c-section:

  • your body will produce a life; 
  • you will witness a miracle; 
  • you will be strong and powerful. 

However, if you deliver vaginally, you will poop on the table in front of your spouse. He/she will not mind because the baby’s-head-is-coming-out-of-your va-jay-jay-and-OMG-that-is-SO-COOL-honey-you-have-to-see-this-bring-in-the-mirror!  

Sister, please don’t over-think this. Prepare by going to a good Lamaze class and having your spouse read The Birth Partner, but don’t over-think it. There’s no need to; your body knows what to do and it will do it when the time is right.

One last thing: I am so proud of you. For nine months, you will have sacrificed beer, wine, brie, hotdogs, roller-coasters and sushi. You’ve peed 27 times a day; and by the time your ninth month rolls around, you’ll not be able to tie your shoes–or see your own lady parts. Know this: you are a ridiculously impressive, beautiful vessel of life. A vessel that will very soon be able to drink again. Hang in there.

In the meantime, rest up, read this book, schedule a mani/pedi, and get ready to have your world rocked by this tiny, beautiful creature that love, your uterus and God made.

xoxo,

Margie