As of Monday, I will be 30 weeks along with this pregnancy. It will also be almost June, the month I keep deferring to, as in "No need to get that baby stuff in order till June." Now it's anybody's guess if Little Guy will show up early, late, or on time, which would be August 8, but there's no arguing with the fact that we are certainly nearing his arrival. And that means it's time for the big freak out to begin.
This week it hit me, or I let myself realize, that I need to go through the whole birth experience yet again. I have two kids. I knew what I was getting myself in to. Mercifully, walking out of a hospital with a healthy infant tends to blunt the unpleasant memories of the hours before the bundle of joy arrives. Unfortunately, middle of the night thoughts in the weeks leading up to doing it again reminds me how much I don't enjoy this aspect of motherhood. In fact, "hate" is not too strong a word.
Obviously, it's the rare woman who raves about how wonderful childbirth was. Usually stories range from pride in what the body can accomplish in extreme circumstances to pride in having a spectacular tale of woe to share. I had one long labor and one relatively short one. To me they were unpleasant, but not dramatic enough for true labor story glory. Yet, they were icky enough from my point of view to make me dread going through it again.
I like to prepare for situations. I read, I research, I analyze my options. For something as unpredictable as childbirth, preparing has it's limitations, which is truly maddening (although an accurate preparation for parenthood as a whole). What I wanted when we were getting ready to have Erik was the natural childbirth experience. I'm not anti-doctor or anti-medicine. I vaccinate my kids and myself. I call the doctor's office when I have a question about their health. I can only endure a migraine so long before I'm reaching for a prescription. I have concerns, though, when such a new, fragile life is part of the equation. Getting to be born with as few medications and stress-inducing procedures as possible seems like a good plan. Turns out, I'm not the mom to provide that, though. I tried. I failed.
As I was skimming through childbirth information last week, it occurred to me that it was foolish for me to ever think that someone of my personality could relax my way through childbirth. We did the right classes, but practicing relaxing? Ha! Didn't happen. I don't relax by clearing my mind, focusing on my breathing, and all that. If I'm stressed, I need to do something -- a walk, a run, clean a closet, read a book. But to just be? My brain turns off for nothing. I don't even nap unless I'm sick. There are just too many things I'd rather be doing. So, I had hardly mastered the art of calm when Erik decided to come into the world. (Too bad, because now that he's here, I could really use it!) He took his sweet time and my exhausted body asked for the drugs I'd resisted after all and they still didn't do much good. Anna arrived in speedy fashion and I, not believing a baby could possibly be born in less time than her poky brother, tried yet a different medical approach. Nope, not much more pleasant.
Again, it's not that I think there's something wrong with modern childbirth. I just read Get Me Out: A History of Childbirth from the Garden of Eden to the Sperm Bank by Randi Hutter Epstein. I'm beyond glad that I live at this point in history and not even just a few decades ago. My worries about getting through childbirth have to do with control issues and not, thank God, fears for my life. My problem is trust. I haven't had the same doctor see me through all my pregnancies. For various reasons, I see someone new almost every time I'm at the doctor's office. I don't doubt that the folks I'm dealing with share my desire to have a healthy pregnancy and a healthy baby. I do wonder if they share my approach to getting there and, if not, I don't see the same person often enough to hear why they do things the way they do. Sure, I'm glad that the nearest hospital is not unlike a spa in decor and amenities. I do wonder, though, if the folks working there can see past their policies and procedures to respect the individuals before them. Either there's no time to explain why hospitals do what they do or I was too out of it to understand, but my memories of labor involve being scared and confused. Not fun. Not fun, at all.
So, this is what I fret about these days. In a way it's like the bride worrying about the wedding and forgetting to prepare for the actual marriage beyond the big day. On the other hand, I've just written off my three-kid life as completely crazy. There's no possibility of order or calm. I'm just hoping the kids all grow up enjoying each others' company somewhat. For me, though, I really wish I could feel at peace with the uncertainty of the whole thing. I wish I felt like it was okay to want to do things in my own way and okay to feel nervous that that's unlikely to happen. I wish I didn't feel like I am disappointing everyone when I don't slap on a happy face and blather on about how excited I am about the changes in our house and how open I am to whatever the doctors feel is necessary. Happy happens when Anna hugs my belly or Erik brags about having two boys in the house with just one sister. It most certainly doesn't happen on command.
The lesson here could be that control freaks shouldn't become parents. I'm hoping it's really that there's a great deal of patience and flexibility that God wishes I'd learn and He's using the children as my teachers. I'm incredibly stubborn, so it's likely going to take their entire lifetimes for me to even begin to get it. My apologies, kids. Just know that Mom was just trying to get things started right for you in her own rigid, obstinate way.
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