Surfing the Pregnancy Waves
My last pregnancy, I ran regularly, right up until the contractions started. I thought keeping up this exercise routine would make my labor easier.
It didn’t.
That worries me because labor is excruciating. Sometimes, when people have experienced something really painful, they like to say that it’s worse than labor. I always nod and feign sympathy, but I don’t really believe them. Even if a woman says she once had five machetes lodged in her back, I think it probably wasn’t as bad as my labor. Unless she says she had five machetes lodged in her back while she was giving birth. Then I think, okay. Maybe we’re tied.
After my son was born, an acquaintance said to me, “Congratulations! Did you have an epidural? You did? Oh, I have 550 children, and I never had an epidural.” I wanted to say that’s probably because epidurals hadn’t been invented yet, but I didn’t. That would have been rude. Instead I’m taking the high road and writing about her in the local paper. (She doesn’t live here, so that makes it okay.)
I feel like labor is this intense athletic event that I don’t know how to train for. Obviously, I have to do something differently this time. So I’ve substituted running for those yummy Panera muffins, paired with romantic comedies.
I’ve also been listening to self-hypnosis CDs that promise to make my labor easier. I’m not sure if they’re helping. Sometimes they’re stressful, actually. On a couple of CDs, the woman narrating counts backwards from 100 and tells me that with each number she says, I’ll become so relaxed that eventually the numbers will just disappear. My body tenses when she says that! I teach math. Why would I want the numbers to disappear? So when she says, “95. Deeper relaxed,” I think 94! The next number is 94! Plus, does she mean the numbers will disappear from my mind, or from the universe altogether? Because I just don’t want to be responsible for that kind of cosmic imbalance.
Sometimes she tells me I have a power switch on the back of my head that I should switch off. This makes it so I can’t move any part of my body because the mind is in total control of the body. This is also stressful—because as soon as I turn off the power switch, I want to move. My leg feels cramped. Or my arm is falling asleep. Once I had an itch, and I couldn’t stop thinking about how bothersome it was—and if I can’t ignore an itch, how am I going to ignore contractions? (I’m not supposed to call them that, though. I’m supposed to call them pregnancy waves. I’m not supposed to say labor, either, because that connotes work. It’s birthing.)
Actually, I’ve never listened to a full CD. I typically fall asleep within five minutes of putting on the headphones. The narrator claims this isn’t a problem, that my subconscious is still listening even when I’m asleep. In fact, before I fall asleep, she commands my subconscious to listen. She’s pretty assertive, too, so I thought we had that one covered.
I’m beginning to suspect my subconscious is a bit of a slacker though. Once I woke up to hear the woman saying confidently, “Now that you have your special place, your birth will be so easy.”
What special place? I didn’t have a special place. I figured my subconscious was taking notes for me, but it didn’t know anything about it either. So really quickly I thought of a special place—because I didn’t want to be that lame student in the back who never does her homework.
Then the narrator started talking about playing with my unborn child in my special place. What child? The one in my womb? She’s there with me? Now?
So I had to picture my baby with me real quick to catch up—even though that meant the poor little thing was premature, and I had to picture several NICU machines and wires to keep her alive and healthy—but Baby understood because, obviously, she doesn’t want to be a slacker student either.
To be honest, my baby sort of ruined my special place. I’m totally eager to meet her, but I thought my special place was for relaxing. Once my baby joined me, she pretend pooped all over, then she needed to pretend breastfeed, and then she launched into one of those pretend prolonged wailing sessions that no amount of shh-ing and swaddling can cure. And it just wasn’t very restful. If I promise to take her everywhere with me for the first year or so of her life, can I at least take a hypothetical mind vacation without her?
No, according to the assertive yet soporific voice.
Baby and I had barely played together for two minutes before the woman instructed, “Now put your baby back inside the womb and leave your special place.”
Put her back inside? That means that at some point, there must have been instructions on taking my baby out of the womb. How did that happen so easily? Because if I knew how to do that, I wouldn’t have to waste my time sleeping through these CDs.
It didn’t.
That worries me because labor is excruciating. Sometimes, when people have experienced something really painful, they like to say that it’s worse than labor. I always nod and feign sympathy, but I don’t really believe them. Even if a woman says she once had five machetes lodged in her back, I think it probably wasn’t as bad as my labor. Unless she says she had five machetes lodged in her back while she was giving birth. Then I think, okay. Maybe we’re tied.
After my son was born, an acquaintance said to me, “Congratulations! Did you have an epidural? You did? Oh, I have 550 children, and I never had an epidural.” I wanted to say that’s probably because epidurals hadn’t been invented yet, but I didn’t. That would have been rude. Instead I’m taking the high road and writing about her in the local paper. (She doesn’t live here, so that makes it okay.)
I feel like labor is this intense athletic event that I don’t know how to train for. Obviously, I have to do something differently this time. So I’ve substituted running for those yummy Panera muffins, paired with romantic comedies.
I’ve also been listening to self-hypnosis CDs that promise to make my labor easier. I’m not sure if they’re helping. Sometimes they’re stressful, actually. On a couple of CDs, the woman narrating counts backwards from 100 and tells me that with each number she says, I’ll become so relaxed that eventually the numbers will just disappear. My body tenses when she says that! I teach math. Why would I want the numbers to disappear? So when she says, “95. Deeper relaxed,” I think 94! The next number is 94! Plus, does she mean the numbers will disappear from my mind, or from the universe altogether? Because I just don’t want to be responsible for that kind of cosmic imbalance.
Sometimes she tells me I have a power switch on the back of my head that I should switch off. This makes it so I can’t move any part of my body because the mind is in total control of the body. This is also stressful—because as soon as I turn off the power switch, I want to move. My leg feels cramped. Or my arm is falling asleep. Once I had an itch, and I couldn’t stop thinking about how bothersome it was—and if I can’t ignore an itch, how am I going to ignore contractions? (I’m not supposed to call them that, though. I’m supposed to call them pregnancy waves. I’m not supposed to say labor, either, because that connotes work. It’s birthing.)
Actually, I’ve never listened to a full CD. I typically fall asleep within five minutes of putting on the headphones. The narrator claims this isn’t a problem, that my subconscious is still listening even when I’m asleep. In fact, before I fall asleep, she commands my subconscious to listen. She’s pretty assertive, too, so I thought we had that one covered.
I’m beginning to suspect my subconscious is a bit of a slacker though. Once I woke up to hear the woman saying confidently, “Now that you have your special place, your birth will be so easy.”
What special place? I didn’t have a special place. I figured my subconscious was taking notes for me, but it didn’t know anything about it either. So really quickly I thought of a special place—because I didn’t want to be that lame student in the back who never does her homework.
Then the narrator started talking about playing with my unborn child in my special place. What child? The one in my womb? She’s there with me? Now?
So I had to picture my baby with me real quick to catch up—even though that meant the poor little thing was premature, and I had to picture several NICU machines and wires to keep her alive and healthy—but Baby understood because, obviously, she doesn’t want to be a slacker student either.
To be honest, my baby sort of ruined my special place. I’m totally eager to meet her, but I thought my special place was for relaxing. Once my baby joined me, she pretend pooped all over, then she needed to pretend breastfeed, and then she launched into one of those pretend prolonged wailing sessions that no amount of shh-ing and swaddling can cure. And it just wasn’t very restful. If I promise to take her everywhere with me for the first year or so of her life, can I at least take a hypothetical mind vacation without her?
No, according to the assertive yet soporific voice.
Baby and I had barely played together for two minutes before the woman instructed, “Now put your baby back inside the womb and leave your special place.”
Put her back inside? That means that at some point, there must have been instructions on taking my baby out of the womb. How did that happen so easily? Because if I knew how to do that, I wouldn’t have to waste my time sleeping through these CDs.
