Gestation: 34 Weeks, 3 Days
My friend Mary Rose had her second child, Maya, completely naturally. No drugs.
What she did have was a wiccan-ish circle of women, her mother and sisters, who began spontaneously moaning and grunting along with Mary Rose as she labored while her husband Patrick skulked in the corner, his peckish penis petrified by p***y power.
Mary Rose said she’d never felt so powerful or complete as a woman.
Well. I’ll be missing that. Because I’m having a scheduled cesarean as I feel it’s safer than a VBAC (vaginal-birth-after-delivery-where-there’s-a-one-percent-chance-your-womb-could-explode-like-the-Death-Star).
Maybe I’m crazy, or just lazy, but I’m ecstatic.
I’ve been giving Bridget (which is the name Henry, Clare and I seem to have settled upon for the baby) these little pep talks about waiting the requisite amount of time to be delivered.
I’ve discussed with her the merits of the amniotic sac as a home, warm, fluid, a ready supply of nutrients, as opposed to the outside world with the whole breathing air hurdle and a set of inverted nipples to try to get milk out of.
I’ve got my whole birth week organized. Who will stay with Clare on each of the days I’m in the hospital.
What I need to pack in my suitcase. What food Henry will put in the house. Who’s on the visitor’s list; George Clooney yes, Gwyneth Paltrow, no.
When the tides will come in and go out.
I have a fatalistic sense that a wrench will be thrown.
That my Old Testament God, who wants to be feared, will demonstrate yet again how powerless I am by suddenly throwing an extra baby, who’s been hiding behind my liver, in my womb.
Or maybe a baby dragon.
So, I’m pretending to be casual and accepting about it all.
Who’s in charge? Not me. Not this lowly humble servant.
No God. You got the powah! But you should know that women in Brazil don’t even consider vaginal deliveries. They schedule their C-sections like they were mani/pedis.
So, why don’t you beleaguer those Brazilian-waxed Brazilians and leave me and my little demi-God plans alone?