Spoiler alert …

Childbirth hurts. Period. Don’t let ‘em tell you different.

Now go on and enjoy the best damn thing that will ever happen in your life. Period.

By now you should start wrapping up all the loose ends of your previous life, and might be enjoying your last week at work before mat leave. I found this time to be very emotional (although I also find new haircuts, choosing the perfect picture on a Kleenex box and planting flowers emotional, so don’t go by me) and as overwhelming as it was anticlimactic. There was a surprise shower sprung on me complete with baby-themed cake, a big fluffy stuffed animal (in theory meant for baby but whom I claimed as my own and christened Pooky) and more presents. I hugged all my friends and kissed my hectic full-time working life that had been a part of my life for over 12 years, goodbye, hopped in my car and wondered what the hell was in store for me in this new phase of my life. I cried all the way home.

As excited as I was to take a well-deserved break (I’m Canadian baby, one full year of mat leave!) from the non-stop frantic pace of my 12-year career, I found it difficult acclimating to home life. Visions of my fuzzy slipper clad feet resting on a table laden with bonbons and pregnancy books gave way to utter boredom at about the second day. I thought I would relish every moment of my slower paced life, but I didn’t know what the hell to do with myself. Shopping and cleaning and pretty much any movement whatsoever was out due to my very-pregnant state so I sat around and watched a lot of reality TV and probably thought too much about the impending labour. You can only call your husband so many times and say, “Watcha doing?” before it becomes grating. My second pregnancy was even harder as I had Tyler to occupy as well as me. “I know you’ve been watching Treehouse for three hours now but mommy’s tired. Here’s some string, go make something.”

And as annoying as it is when everyone and their brother has warned, “Enjoy it now because it only gets crazy after this,” all I have to say is: Enjoy it now, because it only gets crazy after this.

Although I was consistently at awe with the miraculous things that Pregnancy Bod was achieving, I was now very, very tired. Growing a tiny naked human being in your gut is nothing to sneeze at, and I wished that I didn’t squirt a little bit of pee with each sneeze. Watching my belly expand exponentially, I remember trying to recall what my feet look like. I knew they were there, I was able to stand virtually wobble free for moments at a time – but when I glanced down, all I saw was my very round tummy covered with the feathery fingers of stretch marks. (“They look like racing stripes… cool!” Mike raved. Bless him.) I would reminisce of my Pre-Pregnancy Body that would always obediently obey the command to spontaneously cartwheel or dance a little jig when the whim hit me. But at this stage in the pregnancy, I couldn’t raise myself off my comfy chair without the “Whoo-hoo” or “Ugh’s” that accompanied every exertion. I’d even become lax in maintaining Pregnancy Body as my bedtime routine was suffering. Brushing my teeth and washing my face required leaning over the counter, and the girth that separated me from the sink became a chasm that I couldn’t bridge

And I loved the feeling of baby moving around, even when he forgot his preferred exit route and seemed determined to kick his way out through my navel. I enjoyed the challenge of coughing and seeing if I can assume the cross legged/Keagle position before I sprung a leak. And wearing the same pants every single day, as they were the only ones that I could squeeze into made getting dressed in the morning a breeze. My house also benefited from my pregnancy as my husband, such a Dear, responded to every request like never before. It could, possibly, have had to do with my mood swings and the fact that it’s easier for him install a humidifier than to have dealt with the sinister wrath of my hormones, but darn it, when I want the carpet ripped out and hardwood flooring installed in the office – I WANT IT DONE NOW!!!

But the end is in sight, Gentle Reader. Around now is the time that your doctor might be prompting you for a Birth Plan. A Birth Plan is a list of all of your preferences and wishes for your delivery that you share with your doctors, nurses and/or midwife. Such things as who you want supporting you during labour and what kind of comfort measures you want to try are documented ahead of time so you don’t have to communicate these wishes when you’re breathing heavier than an obscene phone caller . For example if you’re planning for a natural birth and don’t want any pain medication (Why? Why? WHY??) you’ll want to notify the doctor of this in advance because it’s rather likely you’ll be ready to trade in your husband, house and the family cat for the beautiful man with the needle once in the midst of hard labour.

Here’s some typical questions that a birth plan would cover:

· What do you want to be doing during labour? (Walking around, making use of the shower or whirlpool tub, setting up a game of craps)
· What kind of help are you looking for during labour? (Special music you want to listen to, breathing techniques, a shot of Jack Daniel’s)
· What would you like to have happen when your baby is born? (Try breastfeeding immediately, having partner cut the cord, swearing off sex forever)
· What are your wishes for your hospital stay after baby is born? (Do you want to give baby his first bath, do you want your partner to stay with you at night, do you want your mommy to bring you cookies and milk)

Birth Plans are a great idea when they work. With my first delivery everything went well according to plan. I laboured at home for most of it, probably around 14 hours. We went to the hospital, where I endured another three hours of hard labour, making use of the hot tub and waddling around with the nurse as best I could. As I never held any preconceived notions that I would attempt to soldier through the pain for a natural childbirth, I was thrilled when the anesthesiologist, the true love of my life, came in. Even though it was the scariest, biggest, longest needed I’d ever seen, and hurt like hell to get, the relief that came to me as soon as he left was downright religious. There was a moment when I seriously debated naming my baby Epidural after that experience. I drifted off to sleep, as did Mike, the nurses covering us both with warm blankets, then turning the TV down so David Letterman’s voice was a lulling murmur.
I was gently nudged awake three hours later when David Letterman had given way to the soft porn they play on TV at 2:30 in the morning, and my nurse advised me, “It’s time to push, Honey.” I stretched luxuriously, still pain-free, daintily pushed three times and out come my beautiful baby Tyler. It was a dream labour, an effortless delivery and truly the happiest day of my life thus far.

My second pregnancy was a smidge different, being that Dylan was ready to meet us with a zealousness that could not be matched by the frantic nurses in my room. I was labouring hard, waiting not-so-patiently for my epidural when suddenly I had the frantic urge to push NOW a mere minute after I had been admitted into the hospital. I stated this calmly to my caregivers but was drowned out by the guttural caterwauling of a crazy lady yelling in agony from another room. When I saw the look on Mike’s face I quickly came to the realization it was me who was the screaming crazy lady and during the next four minutes of chaos, I yanked out my IV from flailing around in pain, had to have two nurses pry my fingers off of the sidebars of the bed and unfold me not so gently from the fetal position screaming, “You’ve got to lay on your back, damn it. NOW!!!”, bit my lip so hard that it almost needed stitches to repair and … oh yeah, squeezed a baby out. Barely. So Birth Plans are great but sometimes the baby isn’t as respectful of your choices as he should be and just does whatever the hell he wants to screw up your perfectly planned sequence of events.

If you’re a documenter like me, you tend to want to stamp an impression of every stage of your life in some creative and artistic way for future prosperity. I take Polaroids and press them into my diary so a picture accentuates my words, I keep scrapbooks of my kids with little mementos adorning each page, all my Pearl Jam concert ticket stubs are kept in an album, lint from my cat’s toes are nestled in a box under my pillow (I kid, I kid), but you get the picture. So I wanted something other than the worn elastic from my underwear or a bronzed toilet seat cover to symbolize my pregnancies. I debated getting my pregnant tummy slathered in plaster to commemorate its impressive size, but didn’t think I could wait long enough for it to dry without having to pee. So what’s a documenter to do?

Hop on the reality show bandwagon, of course, and sign on to be a part of Birth Days, a TV show that chronicles the ups and downs of pregnancy and bringing a new baby home. Mike and I had previously been on The Decorating Challenge, where we swapped houses with my sister and re-decorated each other’s bedrooms. The show was an experience we both enjoyed thoroughly and I wanted something new and exciting to look forward to.
Nothing like a full production complete with camera crew, sound guy and producer invading your home to keep you on the top of your game.
Cleaning the house became a full-time job and I had the additional burden of actually putting a brush in my hair and throwing some lipstick on whenever they dropped by to film a segment in addition to impressing them with my usual wit and charm. (The cleaning regime changed by about the fourth week, when I was too tired from childbirth, breastfeeding and sitting upright to care. “Just step over the pile of clothes on the floor and give me a second to wipe the baby puke off my robe.”) But apart from my normally well-behaved four-year-old little angel morphing into a smidge of a four-year-old little devil in front of the camera’s watchful eye, I’m glad we did it. It’s nice to see that time in our lives, warts and all, forever captured on film.

There’s a whole lot cooking in that bod of yours while baby has set up shop in your tummy.  Not only are you growing a tiny human with skin, fingernails, genitals and all, but your body is going through massive amounts of changes that it may not feel particularly congenial towards.  Dealing with all that stress, the old temple is bound to spring a leak here or there.  In my first pregnancy, I started to feel a little crampy and noticed some very light spotting.  This alarmed me of course, and I contacted my doctor right away.  She assured me it was very common, but I fretted every minute until my appointment when she checked me out and gave me the thumbs up.   But by my second pregnancy, after I had already suffered a loss with a miscarriage earlier that year, every hiccup or twitch was cause for concern.  I found the miscarriage really stole the innocence and lightness of pregnancy from me, and each trimester became a marathon of what-if’s and I-hope-it’s-nots.  It was only after each baby was freshly extracted from my uterus and wailing on my belly that I was able to heave a sigh of relief that everything really was going to be okay.  But then the burden of fretting about the pregnancy morphed into the horror of, “What the hell am I going to do with this screaming purple bundle?”

Here’s some great advice, easy for me to say and impossible for you to do:  Don’t worry.  Stuff is inevitably going to happen to freak you out, and nine times out of ten it’s nothing to be concerned about.  Talk amongst your friends whom have experienced childbirth and guaranteed they’re all going to have a story of something fishy that caused them concern – then turned out to be nothing to worry.  So make like Frankie Goes to Hollywood and RELAX.  Or do something to take your mind of any worries and do what I did, get a kitten.

Now that I had been living in a cat-free house for several months, I started the campaign for a kitten.  It had been years since I had had a one, as Darby and Whiskey luckily had such long lives.  Mike thought it would be too much for me to handle with a three-year-old, a big swollen belly and a much lower patience tolerance, but I as far as I’m concerned a house isn’t a home unless you have to fish cat hairs out of your soup.

Enter the spitball of black kitten-ness that is Maggie Angola Jezebel Jade.  She turned our household on its ear with her energy and impressive commitment to non-stop mischievousness.  A plant perched atop a shelf?  A perfect opportunity to push it off and watch the large radius the dirt sprayed over.  A plastic hamper?  Just the thing to rhythmically drum her paws against, making a loud thumpa-thumpa-thumpa noise (preferably at 3:30 in the morning).  A Christmas tree with a shiny star on top?  Just the thing for seeing how many swats it will take to have Mom’s favourite glass ornament fall to the ground and shatter in a million pieces on the carpet.  But there is also one other thing that Maggie’s really good at.  Providing endless hours of entertainment for Tyler, an area that I can be sorely lacking in when I’m pregnant.  It’s hard to tell who’s having more fun as the both race from the kitchen to the living room for the 308^th time in a day.  Only Maggie will last through the duration of a four-hour train-playing session, just as fascinated with Thomas, Edward and Harold as Tyler is when the trains whiz around the track.  They both love bugs, hate baths and are afraid of the smoke alarm.  And best of all, Maggie was just the thing to keep Tyler entertained when mom needed, “Just another 20 minutes,” of sitting on the couch and watching The View.

Right about now I was beginning to have enough of this life changing experience.  The aches, pains, nausea and all the other accoutrements accompanying pregnancy were starting to take their toll on my body and mind.  My Facebook status updates, that had once started as a ‘Debbie is experiencing the wonder of life under her sweater’ had morphed into ‘Debbie is itchy, grumpy, sweaty and tired and wants this thing out NOW’. My girlfriends Casey and Lou became my lifeline in dealing with the pre-baby blues.  Mike was great, and tried to console, but somehow commiserating to my uterus-free husband about my body-betraying laments didn’t help.  Only my gals,  having been pregnant before, could see my lack of bladder control and raise me an acid reflux and uncontrollable flatulence.

A typical phone call would go like this: 

Ring Ring.

Lou:          “Hey.”  (It’s the days of call display.  Nobody says, “Hello?” anymore pretending we don’t know who is at the other end.)

Me:          (Exaggerated sigh)  “Hi.”

Lou:   “How are you feeling?”

Me:    “Did your boobs itch?”  (No need for small talk.)

Lou:   “Yup.  I noticed that right towards the end.  Totally sucked.”

Me:    “Ugh.  And what’s with the leg cramps? I’ve get that Restless Leg Syndrome like crazy every night.  It’s like I have David Beckham’s legs on steroids trapped in Rosie O’Donnel’s body.  Drives me nuts.”

Lou:   “I didn’t get the RLS, I got charley horses that would wake my up in the middle of the night.  I’m still smarting from the episiotomy.  You should really consider perineum massage.”

Deb:          “Huh?”

Lou:   “You know, the perineum.  The spot down there between your (expletive delete) and your (expletive deleted).”

Deb:   “I know what the perineum is, I’m just wondering how to incorporate a massage in that particularly sensitive area?”

Lou:          “You’re suppose to rub it for ten minutes every night to stretch it out in preparation of a head the size of a watermelon plowing through it.”

Deb:   “Ugh.  Don’t so ‘plow’.  So what are the mechanics of this massage?  You just uh… take your finger and rub?”

Lou:   “Well you don’t get a Swedish broad to walk on it.”

… and so it goes.

So polish off your gal posse now and make full use of their expertise and support.  Enlist your mom, aunt, neighbour, any female of the species who you feel comfortable using the word ‘vagina’ in front of and pour out all your fears, anxieties and questions to and open and willing ear. I remember just talking through my discomfort and blue moods went a long way into making my pregnancies more bearable and even enjoyable.

Mike … went and probed an alien last night – just to see if THEY like it

April 28 – Had the florist meeting tonight, I brought along my trusty notebook so I could write poems during any downtime.  I finished my best friend’s parents’ poem, which was particularly challenging as her father always tends to grade my work.  “That piece in the paper last week was a little weak, I’d give it a C+,” or, “Not bad work on the last magazine article.  A-.”  Somewhere between the tulips and the roses I came up with:

“Knowing this poem would be critiqued,

I agonized over what to say,

What succession of profound words,

Could possibly prompt an A?”

I was relieved to have completed the poem but have no idea what I chose for the flowers.  I think they might be purple.

May 07 - My latest  motto is ‘less quality, more quantity’.  Whose idea was this, anyway?  I skipped the caterer’s tasting meeting – how badly can you screw up chicken?  Chicken … what rhymes with chicken?

May 15 – New rule: Because I can’t write a personalized poem to a stranger, I’m taking the easy way out.  Sorry in advance to all the people on Mike’s side of the family whom I’ve never met, but you now fall under the heading of ‘generic’.

“It’s a very special time for us,

As we become husband and wife.

We’re so glad you could be here to share,

This happy moment in our life.”

May 28 – I just received news that the Platt family called to say they wouldn’t be attending.  Forget about the seating arrangements and numbers that now have to be rearranged – I’m pissed because I had all four of their poems in the can!  From now on, nobody gets a poem until they’ve sent in their RSVP. 

June 06 – Each poem is written on fancy purple paper cut out with craft scissors (with the snazzy zigzag cut) with a sparkly pen in perfect penmanship.  They are then lovingly rolled into a tube and tied with purple ribbon, then the ribbon is scored so the ends curl in perfect symmetry.  This was fun the first ten times.  Now I wish we’d gone with the cookies.  Or eloped.

June 20 – One month and counting.  I’m not checking my e-mail because returning messages would require stringing words together, and I don’t want to write any more than I have to.  I finished Mike’s poem tonight:

“Michael Robert, you are the light,

That leads me through this life.

There is no moment I’ll cherish more,

Than when I become your wife.”

… and when I finish these damn poems.

July 05 – I can’t think.  The phone goes unanswered and I barely see What’s His Name.  He keeps mumbling something about picking out a cake.  Cake, shmake – I’ve got 12 more poems to write.

July 19 – It is the day - correction – night before the wedding and all the poems are finally complete!  I’ve never been so relieved in my life.  This undertaking is finally behind me.  I need sleep.  Apparently there’s some big do tomorrow that I’m going to.

July 20 – It was absolutely, positively the happiest day of my life.  Everything happened so seamlessly.  Mike looked ravishing and got misty-eyed when I floated down the aisle.  I spent the day in a roomful of people I loved, who had the warmest wishes and most thoughtful words for us.  I drifted on a bubble of bliss all day long.

There was a lot of buzz about some silly poems that everyone really enjoyed, but I was far too dazzled with my wonderful day and my even more wonderful new husband to pay much attention.

“The planning is over, I’m finally here,

The day I’ve taken his name.

Any stress I had has disappeared,

In a cloud of love and champagne.”