December 2008

Well, I’ve decided to put down Toni Weschler’s: Taking Charge of Your Fertility (because after a year…shit gets old) and instead focus my energy on Taking Control of my Birth Plan.  Sounds much more exciting to consider the possibilities of my labor and delivery than to get so wrapped up in the consistencies of my cervical mucous – screw you mucous!

So I’ve picked up a new read.  A ‘scream-out in the awesomeness that is my vagina’ sorta read.  A ‘negativity is not helpful in childbirth, and we don’t say ‘pain’ – its called A RUSH!’ Type book.  Now isn’t that special?

Ina Mays: Guide to Childbirth. The whole first section of the book is filled with pages of birth stories intended to illustrate how beautiful and organic, and natural child birth can be.  Its loverly.  The stories are told from women who have birthed at a place called The Farm.  Where the hippies go.

I myself, am merely a hippy poser who only likes to imagine the potential her vagina has to be awesome – but would rather not find out.  I was beginning to contemplate birth control, which would be counter-productive at this point.  So I skipped past A LOT of the stories.

I’m getting to the part where I almost died of gas pain last night – and why this labor shit is NOT FOR ME.

My father-in-law treated Zack and I to dinner the other night.  I debated all day over whether I would chose the Chicken Marsala or Lasagna…and then which dessert? (because I always have dessert).   I was pretty amped.  So as we are walking into the restaurant my stomach was feeling a bit dodgey but I figure I’m just hungry, and maybe a little too excited.  We sat down and began to chit-chat with Mr. B and suddenly a wave of really intense horrendous gas pain struck me all at once.  I excuse myself to the bathroom hoping that the walk there and back and a squat will loosen things up.  No such luck.  I am practically doubled over in the bathroom stall trying with all my might to fart – for the love – could I just FART – there is a Wedge Salad with really good Blue Cheese and bacon and a fucking Creme Brulee I have to ENJOY.  Please, Oh God.

But nothing happened.  I left my jeans unbuttoned under my sweater and returned to the table.  They knew something was wrong – but how do you explain gas pain over dinner at a nice restaurant?  Oh wait, I’m not one for tact!  It went a little something like this: “I have terrible gas!”. And so all were let in on my misery.  Nevermind me.

Buck and Zack carried on a conversation about politics or the cosmos, while I silently labored my gas thinking I’d be a great candidate for an epidural.  I writhed and wiggled felt hot flashes and just wanted to lay down.  Instead I leaned forward in my chair just a tad, just enough to send me straight to the floor.  It’s amazing the table didn’t TKO my face on my way down.  The look on Mr. B’s face across from me was priceless.  The waitress came rushing over to help me off the floor – I was in total shock and laughing hysterically.  I was so worried that my ass was hanging out of my unbottoned jeans as I stood up.

I compose myself – hang pathetically in the background of important conversation for another 5 minutes and then have to excuse myself once again.  I have GOT TO FART DAMMIT.

As I sat there in that bathroom stall all I could think of (beside the blinding pain) was the chapter I had just read on Sphincter Control. So I practiced.  I relaxed my face….I willed the gas OUT.  It did not come out.

I returned back to my dinner party unzipped and in despair and yet somehow managed to pull myself together enough to spoon Creme Brulee into my face.  Finally we were in the car and on our way home – which might as well have been “the ride” to the hospital to deliver my Gas Baby.  People, I have never hurt so much in my life.  I was gutted.  Couldn’t recline my seat because all Zacks tools and crap were in the back and I was just DYING.  All night last night – horrible pain.  This morning?  Finally feeling a little better.

All of this to say that once again my pain scale has been redefined and the outlook for my willingness to accept, and invite, and survive an unmedicated childbirth?  Seriously questionable.


*another re-post here. what a wussy.