The Birth: Let’s Pregame This Bitch

One thing I’ve noticed about blogs written by women who happen to have children is that they all have one thing in common: the quintessential birth story; wherein they discuss the birth of their child(ren) in great detail. Some I’ve read have been funny, some have made me cry, and others had information that even I didn’t want to know that made my mouth start to pre-vomit salivate. This will be a little bit of this, a little bit of that. (That line was just rapped by a hamster in a hoodie, btw.)

Basically, I’m saying that in order to be a real “blogger” (and by blogger I mean someone who could stand to profit from their tales of misfortune and woe) this needs to be done, and quickly. I’m opting for the “24” timeline feel, where pertinent information is shared in timelogical order. Please note that my child is three, so most of these “times” will be bold-faced lies. I can’t remember what I was doing half an hour ago, so to hell with accuracy. It’s really pretty simple: one morning Danny lived in my body and later on that day he didn’t.

Pre-Gaming

5 days after seeing the “You’re Pregnant” sign on the tenth pregnancy test I’d ripped open frantically:

My first visit to the doctor. No one besides George knew I was knocked up, and I felt like I had a special little secret that only we knew. (That’s the part where you should start to pre-vomit salivate.) My visit was super pleasant, and I looked around the waiting room and smiled at all the visibly pregnant women rubbing their bellies. They were so cute! That will be me! It will be so magicaaaaal. (Strum strum strum harp sound effect.) I just happened to gloss over the fact that they looked more miserable than people in Atlanta waiting for the Marta.

Two days before Danny’s birf’day:

Here I am at the doctor again. This fucking place. I’m a professional appointment haver now. I have my co-pay out before I even exit the car, I see the lady at the front desk more than I’ve seen anyone in the history of my life, and I try not to shoot eye lasers at the still happy pregnant women. The only thing that was motivating me to even go to the doctor at that point was the fact that there was a Dunkin Donuts directly across the street from the office. Since I couldn’t eat during seven months of my pregnancy, my goal was to make up for lost time. I’d shove donuts down my gullet like it was 2012 and I had an hour to live . On my last binge visit a construction worker going through the drive through yelled, “You got some twins in there?” Good thing I didn’t have a gun with a silencer at that moment.

Sixteen Hours, Five Minutes, and Two Seconds Later:

I’m finally in the exam room. Speaking of which, the whole baby doctor’s office was like the grass maze in The Shining and I never really knew where I was going. I’d be in the waiting room, and a nurse would call me in just to make me wait in a smaller room.  Then, someone else would usher me into a little cubicle thing where they would weigh me and take my blood pressure and then that person would send me back to the still small but a little bit bigger than the cubicle office room where I’d wait to be called to the Holy Land, the exam room.

There, I’d sit shivering in a gown thinner than the cheap toilet paper they had in their bathroom and wait for approximately sixteen hours, five minutes and two seconds for the door to open and for the real fun to start. Bitter, party of one?

So a lady doctor walks in, someone who I’d already seen a few times but couldn’t remember her name even if bribed with a donut.  Their practice required all patients to see each doctor (SIX OF THEM) at least once before your baby was born.  This was “protocol”, they’d explained, because if my “regular” doctor wasn’t available when Danny decided to make a run for the border, I’d be familiar with someone else. But really, let’s call it what it is: the only socially acceptable gang bang. Lady doctor was going to check my progress, she said cheerfully.

For those not familiar with pregnancy shit and/or are grossed out easily, skip this paragraph and save yourself. Go! GOOOOO! OK, so “checking your progress” is the phrase these gyno folks use to describe a horribly invasive procedure that involved my northern region and about 75% of the gyno’s arm, including partial shoulder. And what’s really some bullshit is how they sound so chipper and pleasant when they say it, all “let’s get in there and check out how things are goin'”, all light and airy, no big deal, like, “Let’s check out the flights available from here to the Bahamas and you can totally use my sky miles to pay for it”. But instead, a glove snaps on and thirty seconds later your dignity will fly out the window along with the money you’ve just paid someone to fist you. So, this random doctor “checked” me, and asked when I was due. The 10th, I told her (it was the 4th) and she looked shocked. This woman, whose arm has seen more action than The Situation was shocked by my situation.

“We have to get this baby out of you,” she said. “From what I’m seeing, this kid is already pushing ten pounds. And I just felt his head. He has a lot of hair, by the way.”

I’ll let you digest that for a second.

Danny’s dad proceeded to projectile vomit and the doctor starts explaining what being “induced” means, and then asks, “How about tomorrow,” also super casually like we were making lunch plans. George starts scrolling frantically through the calendar on his Blackberry. That man actually said, “Tomorrow? Tomorrow is actually really busy for me.” Craziest thing? He’s still alive.

“Tomorrow is perfect. I’m good. It’ll work,” I chimed in, very matter of factly. The doctor cocked her head at me like a dog who’d just heard a high-pitched noise and said, “Huh?”

You see, I was in no mood to mess around. I’d had this during my pregnancy, and I was over having Danny live in my person. It’s worth noting that during my aforementioned “first visit” I’d asked the doctor silly questions like whether I could still run during my pregnancy (now I can laugh at that sentence) and if she’d be the one to deliver my then cashew shaped human. This was before I got sick sick sicker than sick and add about 90% and that’s how sick I was sick.

I’d left the office that day smiling and saying things like, “I feel good, things are good, I like her.”

By June 4th, I couldn’t have cared less who helped me evict Danny. I could’ve picked random people up off the street and started delegating, all, you right there in the wife beater- get a towel, any towel. Doesn’t matter if it’s clean. What’d you just say? Do you need to wash your hands? Nope, we have bigger things to worry about. And you next to wife-beater (no need for formal introductions) start fashioning a shank out of anything you see lying around. We’ll need a sharp object to cut the whateverit’s called after this thing comes out.

So no, George didn’t have to be there. He’d told me he didn’t want anyone else in the room but us during the delivery, so my parents were awaiting Danny’s birth in Georgia. I think back now and realize, I had a human funneling my nutrients and life-force for ten month, so my best friend from kindergarten (big ups, Rosemi!) can be in the got’damn room if I want. So you know what, George, Mr. Tomorrow Isn’t Good for me, you don’t need to be there either. Doctor whatever your name is (I pointed at her) and Danny (I patted my stomach), let’s do this.

She left the room to call the hospital to see if there was a bed available. I sat there shaking my head and thinking, I didn’t know you had to make reservations. Probably one of the other things I forgot to do, like oh, I don’t know, research things like labor and breastfeeding and how to put a diaper on a baby since I’d never done that before. She came back with a look on her face that instantly told me we were (in Suze Orman voice) DEE-NIED. “If I could say it to you in french I would, DEE-NIED.”  I love that bitch.

At that moment, I may have cried a little. I also may have punched George in the stomach like he was the hippo with the crown from Punch Out. We probably tried to slip the doctor a Jefferson (those $15.00 co-pays add up, kids) to work her magic. But noooo, I had to wait until June 6th to push this kid out.

My body was already showing signs of serious readiness (Google it) the doctor explained, so it could be earlier. Apparently this thing I had called a cervix was already quite “dilated.” How’d she know that, you ask? Let’s just say she checked. I believe a protractor may have been involved. Immediately after she told me this, I got super panicked. I expected to get up from the exam table and have Danny slide down my legs like he was on Splash Mountain. Thank the lord this was before shows like you have to be a fucking idiot “I Didn’t Know I Was Pregnant” because I would’ve been looking in the toilet bowl and in the legs of my jeans before I put them in the wash like a paranoid crackhead scanning the perimeter for police.

This is where you can choose to keep riding or get off the train that’s the Fuckery Express.  This will only get worse, and you’ve been warned.

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One Response to “The Birth: Let’s Pregame This Bitch”

  1. Tara Zustra Says:

    That is hysterical! I needed a good laugh!

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