I’m 33 weeks pregnant. While I always wanted to start a family and have kids etc, the idea that I have a tiny human being growing inside of me still manages to take my breath away (literally and figuratively).
Before I got pregnant, I would always joke with friends and family about how quickly I would run to the anesthesiologist during labor and ask for an epidural before my cervix even had a chance to dilate. I know myself and I know that pain is not something I like to endure. I don’t have a military mentality about gritting my teeth and getting through it. “Hoo RAH!” Not so much.
I have very close friends, including sisters, who have given birth taking every imaginable course. Whether an emergency C-section, scheduled C-section, home birth, natural birth in a hospital, hospital birth with medication assistance – I’ve been around the mommy block when it comes to labor stories and opinions. I knew from the moment I looked at the two separate pregnancy tests both displaying two pink lines smiling up at me, that I was in for a wild ride.
In many ways I have had a stereotypical pregnancy and in some ways I haven’t. Spoiler alert: this is true of every pregnant woman and every pregnancy ever to have occurred in the history of mankind. Every woman’s body is different and so is every baby. I didn’t get morning sickness except for a little queasiness here and there. I know that means I have just placed myself firmly in the “Enemy camp” of many of my readers who spent 12 weeks hugging the toilet. I have no words for you apart from, “I’m so sorry. Can I bring you some ginger ale?”
I’ve had the occasional craving (FETTUCCINE ALFREDO AND CALZONES, PEOPLE). I’m convinced our son will come out saying, “’Ey Ma-MA! Wheresa mah fetttuccine?!” There’s not a drop of Italian blood in my body so I’m not quite sure what to make of this.
The one thing that has proven to be quite the opposite of what I had envisioned for myself is my birth plan. The once snarky, “HIT ME UP WITH THE MEDS, DOC!” girl has been replaced with the wobbly but determined resolution of, “I want to try to have my baby naturally. Plan A is no epidural, but I’m not dismissing Plan B entirely.” This decision has befuddled me to no end. My dear husband has been supportive (although the bill for my Doula/Labor coach about made him choke, bless him) and my family and friends have been all kinds of happy and excited for me.
I know that as long as my son makes it out safely, I’m gonna be so overwhelmed/exhausted/weepy/hungry it really won’t matter how he got there yet it will totally matter that he was given to me and John and we will do our darndest to love him to pieces the widdle wumblyrumpkin bubbabottom! I am SO excited about the nicknames too, you guys. I LOVE RIDICULOUS NICKNAMES. John and our dear cat Clara have been the main recipients but to have a little being who will be too little to understand and too tiny to run away from all of my gushy shenanigans is going to be a dream come true on so many levels.
In conclusion, as an outsider looking into the world of being pregnant, I was SO sure of one thing – getting an epidural. It was like the no-brainer of all no-brainers. The fact that as I have asked and discussed and prayed about what to do when my turn came to pay the pregnancy piper (oh man. weird visual. But I’m just gonna leave it there anyway) and I found myself leaning towards at least giving the natural route a shot… it’s flabbergasting.
I’m strangely at peace about it and, as with all of life, I’m holding it with open hands. Babies get to decide when and how they arrive so I may end up cradling my precious son after a C-section or after being induced or who knows what else. I thank God that I’m not the first person to ever do this. As I wait in the wings of my last few weeks of pregnancy, full of anxiety and expectation and terror and joy… I hold my unexpected plan A in one hand, and the hand of my sovereign God in the other.
7 weeks to go, y’all.
Wanna go get some Italian food? Perfect. ME TOO.