With The Squirt, I elected to have an induction and it failed. I ended up having a c-section which was neither the most or least enjoyable experience of my life.
What was the least enjoyable, you may ask? Well, it just might be the phone calls I get from various personages taking me on a delightful passive aggressive guilt trip revolving around the birth of my children!
When The Squirt was born, I was teaching the worst 5th grade class ever assembled by a soulless, neckless demon from the depths of Hell. I was compounding the problem, I'm sure, by being exhausted, uncomfortable and grouchy but truthfully passing the time with a pack of rabid babboons bent on giving me the Ebola virus would have been a more enjoyable way to spend my day. Then the phone calls began.
One side of the family remained willfully ignorant about the details of pregnancy and childbirth and didn't seem to understand why neither me nor my beloved obstetrician could pinpoint with any accuracy when exactly she would be born and how much she would weigh. I'm already getting the "have they told you how much she weighs?" questions again, and this time I'm answering with the information from my What Not to Expect app..... so today? About 4lbs. "Why is she so small?!? Is there something wrong?" Um no. Did you think that as soon as the sperm hit the egg a 7.5lb baby magically appears? I am under the impression that she grows. You know, gets larger every day. And if someone has invented an intrauterine scale then I certainly haven't heard about it. Le sigh. Last time someone expected to be able to videotape the birth and didn't really want to listen to my objections, so I got the nurses to tell people that nobody other that my husband was allowed in the room because of the Swine Flu outbreaks. L&D nurses are GREAT liars.
So one cold and rainy afternoon in November, I was forced to abandon the rabid babboon hoarde to field a series of passive aggressive phone calls from my own mother and grandmother. It appears that my mother had decided that my unwillingness to consult the Dark Arts to divine when my child would be born so that she could be assured of being present, and my inability to secure travel plans for picking her up from the airport when there were no day or time parameters to consider was code for me saying I Don't Like You And Don't Want You To Ever See My Child. Then to add insult to injury, I expressed interest in spending the last few days of the husband and my life as a couple as, you know, a COUPLE. Without houseguests. I am mortifyingly selfish it seems. Either that or my mother is secretly a 2 year old.
In the last few weeks, I've been trying to make it clear to various family that I don't intend to schedule a C-Section for the birth of kidlet #2. It does not appear to be sinking in for some, but others have decided that I am intentionally inconveniencing them so that I can be sure that they cannot be present when she is born. Out of spite, you know. I am spitefully choosing to give birth in the intended way if possible. Egg on my face, right?
My general feeling on the matter is this: I have a 2 year old. I will have a newborn. I would vastly prefer to avoid major abdominal surgery and the recovery involved. After a C-Section, you're not allowed to pick up anything heavier than your baby for like 2 weeks. Someone explain that to a 2 year old, please? All she would know is that Mama will hold the baby but not her, and I can't hurt her like that if I have the power to possibly avoid the issue at all.
Since I AM the one who will be giving birth to this little Riverdancer, I can't say I particularly care about making it convenient for anyone else. And it really chaps my ass that I'm dealing with passive aggressive guilt trips because my decisions regarding my body, my baby, and my family are inconvenient for people's travel plans. As far as I'm concerned there is exactly ONE other person on earth who has any actual right to be present for the birth of this little girl, and that would be her daddy. If it works out that the more long distance family is able to be there, great. If not, I'm not responsible for that.
So my decision to VBAC if possible is NOT made out of spite to you, Mother. Nor is it intended to relay some secret message of hatred towards you. It is about ME prefering NOT to be cut open and sewn back together when I have this handy dandy doorway all biologically ready for my child to exit. Why smash a hole in the wall if there's already a door to walk through? Of course, if medically necessary I'm not opposed to having another c-section, but it's nobody's decision but mine and my doctor's.
Oh, January, you cannot come swiftly enough.
To Quote Her Madgesty Herself: And I'm not sorry..... it's human nature.... and I'm not sorry, I'm not your b!tch, don't lay your $hit on me.......
Showing posts with label babies. Show all posts
Showing posts with label babies. Show all posts
Wednesday, December 7, 2011
Sunday, September 4, 2011
Mean Old People
There's something I don't like that I feel we truly need less of on this planet.
Mean old people.
And I do actually mean senior citizens. The media paints a picture of old people as this kindly, snowy haired understanding and supportive demographic, when in reality a damn lot of them are just mean.
And the thing is, it's the kind of mean that I totally am on the inside. The difference here is that time has not yet stolen my filter (though some people may argue that my filter is often defective). So maybe I'm extra sensitive because it's a slippery slope?
Take, for example, the husband's great great aunt. She's well over 90 and just mean. She's doted on the husband since he was a kid for his enviable intelligence and self-confidence (thanks genetics!), so when he brought me home as the girl he wanted to marry, I was immediately subjected to Cranky Old Person Critique and clearly was found to be lacking, despite the fact that in addition to possessing intelligence, self-confidence and wit to rival or often exceed my husband, I also can find a trash can and operate a washing machine. All my my ownself, ya'll. And you wonder why I have designs on becoming Queen of the World.
So my first experience of unpleasantness was the first time I met her. As time progressed, the encounters grew more and more ridiculous until shortly after The Squirt was born. Now, you ought to know that I spent the "floundering" time of my early to mid twenties nannying for a series of fantastic families in Atlanta and Richmond. Through doing that as well as having babysat and camp counseled since I was 15, I am pretty comfortable with babies and kids. They don't freak me out with their babyness. When The Squirt came home, we were actually quite comfortable with how to take care of her. I'd done it with so many other babies that didn't come out of me that doing it with my own was pretty much second nature. We were laid back. And she was an easy baby (but now often a Toddler of Doom). All in all, I've had a hand in raising 4 or 5 babies from very early babyhood on.
So Madame Unpleasant comes over to see her Precious Great Nephew and the Chosen Child that he frivolously begat upon an Undesirable. At the time, The Squirt was about a week and a half old, and settling nicely into a routine. When she arrived, Squirt was sound asleep in the cradle we'd set up in the living room so that she could be used to sleeping in a not-silent environment. She'd been asleep for about an hour, which is pretty good for a newborn. Anyway, when she started making her "I'm awake and hungry now" noises, I got up to get her from the cradle. Unpleasant says "You're going to have to take some parenting classes, aren't you, because you're already messing that child up." Thus continued a good half hour of praising everything my brand-new-to-this husband said or did with the baby, and disparaging me. At this point I could have hauled off and punched the witch in the throat, however in the interest of familial peace I chose ice cream instead.
So my question is this, why are old people so MEAN? I mean, sure, they have the advantage of having lived a lot longer than the rest of us, but I don't think age gives one carte blanche to be rude. I'm putting Old People in time out.
Mean old people.
And I do actually mean senior citizens. The media paints a picture of old people as this kindly, snowy haired understanding and supportive demographic, when in reality a damn lot of them are just mean.
And the thing is, it's the kind of mean that I totally am on the inside. The difference here is that time has not yet stolen my filter (though some people may argue that my filter is often defective). So maybe I'm extra sensitive because it's a slippery slope?
Take, for example, the husband's great great aunt. She's well over 90 and just mean. She's doted on the husband since he was a kid for his enviable intelligence and self-confidence (thanks genetics!), so when he brought me home as the girl he wanted to marry, I was immediately subjected to Cranky Old Person Critique and clearly was found to be lacking, despite the fact that in addition to possessing intelligence, self-confidence and wit to rival or often exceed my husband, I also can find a trash can and operate a washing machine. All my my ownself, ya'll. And you wonder why I have designs on becoming Queen of the World.
So my first experience of unpleasantness was the first time I met her. As time progressed, the encounters grew more and more ridiculous until shortly after The Squirt was born. Now, you ought to know that I spent the "floundering" time of my early to mid twenties nannying for a series of fantastic families in Atlanta and Richmond. Through doing that as well as having babysat and camp counseled since I was 15, I am pretty comfortable with babies and kids. They don't freak me out with their babyness. When The Squirt came home, we were actually quite comfortable with how to take care of her. I'd done it with so many other babies that didn't come out of me that doing it with my own was pretty much second nature. We were laid back. And she was an easy baby (but now often a Toddler of Doom). All in all, I've had a hand in raising 4 or 5 babies from very early babyhood on.
So Madame Unpleasant comes over to see her Precious Great Nephew and the Chosen Child that he frivolously begat upon an Undesirable. At the time, The Squirt was about a week and a half old, and settling nicely into a routine. When she arrived, Squirt was sound asleep in the cradle we'd set up in the living room so that she could be used to sleeping in a not-silent environment. She'd been asleep for about an hour, which is pretty good for a newborn. Anyway, when she started making her "I'm awake and hungry now" noises, I got up to get her from the cradle. Unpleasant says "You're going to have to take some parenting classes, aren't you, because you're already messing that child up." Thus continued a good half hour of praising everything my brand-new-to-this husband said or did with the baby, and disparaging me. At this point I could have hauled off and punched the witch in the throat, however in the interest of familial peace I chose ice cream instead.
So my question is this, why are old people so MEAN? I mean, sure, they have the advantage of having lived a lot longer than the rest of us, but I don't think age gives one carte blanche to be rude. I'm putting Old People in time out.
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