Friday, July 1, 2011

C-Section Conversation

A: Lovesies?

J: Yes?

(Yes we call each other Loves, Lovesies, Lovers, and occasionally HoneyLoves - anything that ends in a plural for some reason. As if we were addressing a room full of our lovers.)

A: If for some reason I have to have a C-section you're not allowed to look.

J: Oh God no. **face starts to turn yellow**

A: Because I watched one yesterday.

J: Please stop. I don't even want to hear another word.

A: I'm not going to describe it to yo-

J: -Stop. I can't listen.

A: I'm not saying anyth-

J: -No. I don't even want to think about it.

A: But I-

J: -I don't feel good.

A: Hone-

J: -Not another word.

***long pause while I watch the color drain, and then slowly come back to his face and appendages***

A: **trepidly** Honeys?

J: Yes?

A: Will you look when-

J: -No.

A: Let me finish. Will you look for the normal vaginal delivery?

J: Oh I'll look down there until the end of the world.

A: . . .

J: For the child.

A: Obviously.

We took a tour of the hospital yesterday to see what our rooms are gonna look like, and I was pretty impressed. It was like a hotel room, but with spotlights on the ceiling and an IV pump. As a matter of fact, I may have stayed at one like that in Vegas.


There were no pregnant ladies anywhere though which was a little weird, but totally confirmed my ill-advised line of totally-made-up thinking that people only go into labor at night. I know that's (probably) not true, and that women can go into labor at 10am if they happen to, but in my head labor happens in the middle of the night, rushing to the hospital in your pj's, dad's hair all crazy-like, night nurses looking like they just had their fourth cup of hospital coffee and it's about to pay off, and loud screaming phone calls to the future grandmas-to-be shouting, "MOM! Get on a plane I'm GOING TO HAVE A BABY!" Then she screams, "Don't push 'til I get there!" And I scream, "I can't help it!" Then before I even get up to my Vegas-hospital room I've delivered a screaming baby girl in the elevator by myself because the nurse and my baby daddy decided to take the stairs, and when they find me I've cut the umbilical cord with my teeth, and am successfully breast feeding my newborn whom I have swaddled with a blanket I fashioned out of a patch of my nightgown I also cut with my teeth.

I apparently also think elevators move at a rate of two inches an hour.

Anyway, we're at thirty-one weeks! And I'm wearing the same thing I was last week!

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