So, I have a small group of friends who are either pregnant for the first time or just had their first baby, which has put me in a position that I never expected to be in when it comes to wee ones -- knowledgeable.
You do it once and other pregnant women want to commiserate. You do it a couple of times and they start asking for kernels of wisdom. You do it three times and, shit, you might as well be sitting on Mount Olympus speaking in tongues...baby tongues.
So, one of my friends recently told me she was pregnant for the first time. She had her first obgyn appointment and the Mister wanted to come along. She quickly texted me to ask what the protocol is for having the father of your unborn child in the room with you while another man, although licensed to do so, checks out your, um, girl.
I immediately started laughing, but then soon realized my dear friend was serious. So I got serious. It's a hard pill to swallow ladies...realizing your privates are not so private anymore. I had to break it to my compadre that her life was about to become a Larry David episode of awkward moments involving her vagina.
There was a day when dads sat by, sat aside, sat in the waiting room. Giving birth wasn't this magical, beautiful event to be shared. But no more. Now we got A Baby Story, I Didn't Know I Was Pregnant and even an entire Discovery Health channel dedicated to pregnancy and childbirth. There is stuff out there that makes me want to stick my fingers in my ears, squeeze my eyes shut and yell "Lalalalalala!" at the top of my lungs to make it go away. And I've actually done the deed...a bunch of times.
At any rate, the question did bring me back. To the first time. A time when I was modest. Ok, more modest.
I remember being very clear with my husband that I wanted him holding my hand, stroking my hair, whispering comforting words...all the stuff you imagine a supportive husband would do while you are doing the unthinkable, the unimaginable. The point is, I wanted his attention above the waist. No way no how was my man going to see the storm a-brewin' below my waistline.
Operation Keep the Dream Alive was on.
And then my water broke. And I was in labor. And some medical students came in for observation while the doctor checked my cervix (which, by the way, is in your vagina). And the nurse threw one of my legs over to said husband to hold. And then I was pushing like I had to poop really bad. And then I heard "See the baby's head?" And then I saw my husband's eyes get really big. And then there was a baby. And then I couldn't give a flying fig what was happening below my waist.
With #3, there has been even more poking and prodding since I am officially of "advanced maternal age" and also have a history of preterm labor (oh snap!). Modesty, shmodesty. Plus, with a full six years of mothering under my belt, there's just things that make me shrug my shoulders that would have made me cringe in a previous life. I guess that's what happens. Not that I'm rockin' The Lindsay Lohan getting out of cars or anything, but when you get into this whole pregnancy-childbirth-mothering thing, you do have more of a hey-whatever-needs-to-get-done-and-whoever-needs-to-be-there-to-get-it-done attitude.
So I told her, let him come. Good practice. And you'll laugh one day. Soon.
Up next? The milk! The milk squirting uncontrollably out of your tits! Oooh, just wait until I spring that nugget on her...
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