It Hurts to Be a Ten Month Mama
This Birth Love Column by LLM
appeared in Issue 17.8 January 10, 2000 of the
OBCNEWS.
For a full listing of columns, go here.
So help me God, I'm tired of being pregnant.
I'm reaaallly sick of a belly that is large, heavy,
and straining. I'm sick of my uterus being a constant
weight on my abdomen- a hindrance to movement
and comfort. I'm sick of losing precious sleep
to peeing; it is difficult to get out of bed,
then I can never get back to sleep. Women bitch
a lot in their third trimesters. But I'm in my
fourth! And if I hear another person ask me if
I should be induced or "something" I
will not be responsible for my actions!
Am I actually having a baby anymore? It was all
so clear when I was less voluminous. I was so
connected, so sensually pregnant, so in love with
life and my expanding form. Now I'm just bitchy!
Now I'm just sick of it! I'm sick of my children
calling me "Snorlax"! (Ask your Pokémon
fan kids about this one, friends.) I'm sick of
extremes in mood- there are no plateaus anymore,
just ups, then downs- no middle ground. Extremes
of thought and mood, extremes of intellect- I
will be coherent, then my brain will shut off.
There it goes...
(My dog is wet from the rain and whining at the
kitchen window. I don't want to let him in. He
is muddy, and my house is dirty enough as it is.
Readers may recall that my dogs annoy me when
I'm pregnant. Well, they especially annoy me when
I'm in my tenth month! Just thought I'd share
that.)
Pregnant... forever pregnant. It seems like I
have a certain amount of irritation and torment
to go through before any of my babies are ever
born. A definitive number of CONTRACTIONS (they
are not "sudden orgasmic uterine shudders"
anymore) must be experienced before birth begins.
There is nothing abnormal in this, it is my way-
a way that can be very eroding when sleep is never
adequate nor rest forthcoming.
There are a certain number of tears to be shed
before my birthing time- measured in cups, not
droppers-full... always tears, always truth and
sadness hitting me square in the heart and dripping
from my eyes. Always so much to feel and go through
before birth- every emotion, every pain from the
past is present and as heartbreaking as if brand-new.
My old birth trauma wounds especially haunt me...
There even seems to be a calculated amount of
physical discomfort I have to go through. A certain
amount of helplessness and disability: right now
I can still manage to put my shoes on without
my kids' help, and I can pull myself out of chairs
most of the time- which means I probably have
another two weeks to go. Two weeks... kick, kick.
There are feet moving in my upper abdomen. It
is a strange sensation... I am a vehicle for feet.
I'm always expecting bloody show. It's amazing:
when a woman really wants to be pregnant, she
is constantly checking the toilet paper in dread
for signs of menstrual blood. Then when a woman
is tired of being pregnant, she checks for signs
of show. Very young girls wait and check in anticipation
of their first periods; older girls check the
toilet paper in dread of a lack of menstrual blood...
older women check for blood, and wonder when the
bleeding will finally end. Women and their blood
have such an incredible intimacy.
But I'm not having any bloody show whatsoever.
(Though bumps and shadows on the toilet paper
do seem to be blood, if I hold it to the light
just so...) I will indeed be pregnant for at least
two more weeks. I can live with this- but it would
be so much easier if people would just stop driving
me nuts about going so long. This is crucial to
mention: almost everyone around me is concerned
about the baby remaining healthy within my body
past forty weeks. I have found that there is only
one segment of society who stays calm about my
ten month pregnancies- and that is older women.
Ironically, the very women most of us regard as
the sad victims of the prototypical twentieth
century hospital birth/rape are the ones who say
to me- "oh, my brother was a ten month pregnancy!"
Or, "I went that long. Just remember to sleep
as much as you can, dear." These women come
from a generation when women's bodies were considered
the safest places for babies to be. How could
it have happened that once upon a time a woman's
womb was considered a sacred, safe place- yet
it is now institutionally and medically regarded
as a potential teratogen to the health of her
baby?
The so-called "best before" date rears
its ugly head: as if my body will go rancid if
I go past it- as if my placenta will sour and
deteriorate, and try to smother, starve, whither
and age my baby terribly with its unintuitive
female incompetence. What a lot of crap! My only
baby who went his full ten months- my sixth- is
the healthiest child I've ever had. Never an ear
infection; never a cold; he is also the youngest
talker and youngest walker ever in my family.
(And shhh!! In many ways he seems to be the smartest
child, too. Don't tell the others!) His birth
was the easiest and pain-free. Was this because
of his long, slow gestation? Could be.
But I'm tired. Happy baby dreams and blissful
smiles of late golden pregnancy are gone now.
Though as spent and hopeless as I feel sometimes,
I always try to remember the wisdom of letting
my body and my miraculous human evolution do the
job that it has been mandated to do by time- have
a baby. My body's inherent intelligence is a lot
more trustworthy than early twenty-first century
bumbling by medical practitioners who are more
interested in covering their butts legally than
the butts of their "patients" during
pelvic exams. I have little faith in human cerebral
ideals of childbirth! So onward I travel though
my tiring and long slumber of laaaaate pregnancy.
Forward little feet will take me as we wait to
finally meet in love and gentle abandon... little
feet that I will hold in my hands, will kiss and
smell with my face- little feet that I'll recall
were once still inside me, still bewildering me,
still seeming like tiny intrusions and curious
distractions.
I am indeed having a baby. Incredible as it may
seem, sometimes it's easy to forget that. Sometimes,
in my sadder times, it seems like my belly is
a living manifestation of all of birth's pain;
it grows as the pain of birth does. Then it seems
like I'll be pregnant forever...
Other days, when I'm feeling stronger, everything
is so vibrant, and real- living and intense. Ohhh,
my contractions are getting strong now! I am trying
to write in the middle of one. The pressure and
aching in my cervix are impossible to ignore!
Now it's left me. I will have to bear many more
of those before my birthing time comes.
My baby is moving around as I'm writing. Wouldn't
it be something if there was a birth announcement
in lieu of a column next week? Wouldn't it be
something if I were holding my baby with my breasts
and my arms instead of my belly? But it's not
likely. I'm a slow cooker. Born to be one, as
is my daughter... I myself was a ten month pregnancy:
born in a saner time when episiotomies were routine-
but drug inductions were not.
It hurts to be a ten month mama. It's tiring
and it's eroding, but what is the alternative?
Birth violence. Tubes, drugs, needles, knives-
but no more violence for me. I trust my body will
give birth. I trust in birth. And my children
will too.
To read the follow-up to this story, see I'm
Proud to be a Ten Month Mama. Go to the Ten
Month Mama Page for more about long pregnancies.
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