Is it a bad omen if your first birthing class is canceled by a bomb threat? Just asking. Just wondering. Don’t think I’m one of those paranoid nut jobs who believes every little thing is a sign — “So when the pigeon with the white feather flew north, that’s how I figured the tornado would wreck the mobile home park.”
The class really was canceled by a bomb threat. No, it wasn’t someone in the class trying to get out of it. And yes, I have been to class since and there were no problems. Well, aside from me learning some stuff that will grow hair on your tongue and make your toes turn green. I’m not sure I wanted to know any of this — did a little surprise ever hurt anyone? — but I’m sure getting my share.
Like what, you ask? Do I need to say anything more than “mucus plug?” Such a thing, I just found out, really exists … and it made me pass out. You watch movies and all that ever happens is a woman’s water breaks. Turns out that’s not that common. But I guess it sounds better than “mucus plug,” two words I never again want to hear together.
Turns out getting pregnant is relatively easy. It’s the whole get-the-baby-out thing that takes a lot of practice.
For instance, there is not a separate hatch for the child. No shoot appears. No ejector seat is used. And that old saying about how it’s like giving birth to a bowling ball through your nostril seems to be remarkably accurate.
This became painfully clear when the woman teaching the class held up a plastic set of pelvis and hip bones and said, “See this here? Your baby’s going through that.”
And just to impress upon the point, she shoved a doll through. It hurt from my toes to the tips of my teeth, and I have not uncrossed my legs since.
This is all terribly new to me, and it makes me think that whatever school of thought you subscribe to about who we are and where we come from, one thing is clear: There wasn’t no thought put into how to get that baby out.
It reminds me of an engine compartment. Ever work on your car engine? There’s always one bolt that cannot be reached from any possible angle, and for that reason, the alternator can never be removed. It’s a wonder babies can get out at all.
But they do! I’m living proof. So now we’ve got to learn how to do it. And I’m freakin’ out.
I’ve got to learn how to comfort, how to massage, how to breathe, how to ask the right questions, how to be supportive, how to not pass out, how to time contractions, how to look for indications of labor and how to make sure our birthing plan is followed.
And after all that, I’ve still got to remember the dang car keys! Are you kidding me? I’m definitely renting a helicopter ‘cus I will forget which pedal is the gas when that big day comes in December.
I’ve also learned that there is no one indicator of labor setting in. No siren that goes off, no test you take, no sure sign that the time is now and I had better hop to it.
That just doesn’t work for me. I want something obvious, like on a turkey. Know how you buy a turkey and it comes with one of those pop-up thermometers to tell you when it’s done. Why don’t they invent something like that?
“Ah, looks like it’s done. And the mashed potatoes are ready, too!”
But instead, it’s all timing of contractions and monitoring her condition. It’s packing for the hospital, and knowing the quickest route there. It’s learning what a mucus plug is, and how to identify it in a line-up.
Shoot, with all that, who has time to worry about bomb threats?