I met the most wonderful girl in the world on Thursday - wonderful because she shares my view that all the 'glowing mummy' stuff us preggers are constantly fed is, well, rubbish. Naturally, I love anyone who thinks the same way I do - but even more so in this case, because I have come to believe I am an unnatural and terrible person, simply because I am not relishing every instant of my pregnancy.
The rational side of me realises that I can't really be blamed. Here's a challenge for you: pass a 20kg lead ball (or, what the hell, one made of feathers even) to your nearest mate and ask them to carry it around with them non stop. Whenever they go to the loo, bend to zip up a boot, try to go to sleep, those extra twenty k's are with them. Ok, I am the first to concede that were it not for my excessive cake habit, I could probably be carrying a good deal less than that - but I have to say, when stylish clothes (I'm talking garments that can be made with less than a thousand yards of fabric) and even hugs are beyond you, one does turn to the pantry. I do, anyway.
Sometimes, though, it doesn't matter how many times I tell myself it is ok that I don't enjoy my transformation to a real live Babuschka doll. This is mostly when I am at one of my pregnancy exercise classes, when my natural acerbism is betrayed by the sour little statements that escape me like the snores that, prior to my pregnancy, were something my body just didn't produce. At these moments, I feel like Daisy de Melker, Lucrezia Borgia and Cruella De Vil all rolled into one, as my fellow mommies start rubbing their stomachs vigorously to protect their still forming fetuses from absorbing my bad attitude like listeria from an unripened cheese.
This is why I love my new friend. She is not a stomach rubber. It's true that we met at a preg exercise class (oh, and while I can, I just need to drop in a word about these. Pre-pregnancy, I used to do handstand pushups and run up hills. Now, I bounce around on a large silver ball which, thanks to a pic that did the Facebook rounds lately, reminds me of the dangers of eating bubble gum, doing a move called 'the pony' - something which involves doing little jumps whilst wildly waving the arms, like a folk dancer trying to cheer on her favourite sports team).
I have found it really difficult to make friends in these classes. Again, I blame this on the fact that I sometimes struggle to be appropriate. For instance, a male instructor took our class the other day. When he innocently asked, "Are our all balls hard?", I couldn't help giggling like a Catholic school girl - which, of course, prompted yet another round of stomach rubbing by the other moms. Just the other day, the magnitude of our seperateness was brought home to me when we had to do an exercise against the wall. Every mom in the class clustered around one wall, smiling and patting each others' bellies - and because there was no room for me, I had to do the exercise on my own, on the other side of the room. It brought back vivid memories of always being the last picked for the team in PT, or how I used to feel when, as a child, the rest of the world celebrated Christmas with pressies and Father Christmas and I, as one of the only Jewish kids in my school, had to content myself with my dreidl instead (I love being Jewish but, really, when you are a kid, would you rather have matzah or Easter eggs?)
Like me, my new friend is more horrified than fascinated by the changes that have come about in her body. She, too, has watched herself become a psychopath who one moment begs forgiveness from her husband for her crabbiness, screams at him the next because he has dared to leave her side to go to work, and finishes the triad of scary moments by leaking from the eyes, again apologising incessantly. For me, the worst change has been to my belly button (yes, I am bringing this up again), which has now progressed to the point where it looks like I have Jabba the Hut's lumpy little head waving around outside my stomach. Unless I stick on a plaster, it feels like an earthworm with a carpet burn. And those plasters bring with them their own horrors, as a discarded plaster - even if it is my own - can make me feel instantly sick. Especially when they have become limp and wet. The only thing that can possibly rival a limp, wet plaster is a strand of hair wound around a cake of soap (especially if you are at someone else's house).
Also like me, my new friend is appalled by the idea of natural child birth. And yes, I know that this is the way nature intended, but then again, anesthetics aren't natural either. Consider this: You have had your thumbnail pulled off. Now someone takes a hammer and starts bashing your naked, vulnerable thumb. Next, they drive a screw into it. The only course of action is amputation - do you brave this op while wide awake, or do you choose for a little oblivion? That's how I feel about the choice between natural and Cesar.
I'll admit it - I am just not woman enough to handle the pain. Nor am I big enough to handle the indignity of soiling my gynae's operating table - because if you're pushing out a baby, other stuff is going to come out too, I reckon. How on earth does one handle such a scenario with aplomb - "oh, gosh, sorry doctor, my bad."
Many women I have met are incredibly judgey about my decision to have an elective Cesar. Which used to bug me, until I realised how judgey I am about water births and the like. The detractors of the Cesarian often argue that to be born into a cold, clinical world is not particularly welcoming for a baby already in shock from leaving the womb. My view is that, if my child is anything like me - a person who cannot touch doorknobs and who uses a shoe to flush public toilets - s/he will choose the stainless steel of the operating table over the manky soup of a birth pool any day. And if s/he doesn't - well, life is hard, and the sooner s/he accepts that, the better.
So - here is to moms who call a stretch mark a stretch mark and not a badge of honour, and who involuntarily close their legs at the thought of a 12-hour labour. I know there are more of us out there, somewhere.
The rational side of me realises that I can't really be blamed. Here's a challenge for you: pass a 20kg lead ball (or, what the hell, one made of feathers even) to your nearest mate and ask them to carry it around with them non stop. Whenever they go to the loo, bend to zip up a boot, try to go to sleep, those extra twenty k's are with them. Ok, I am the first to concede that were it not for my excessive cake habit, I could probably be carrying a good deal less than that - but I have to say, when stylish clothes (I'm talking garments that can be made with less than a thousand yards of fabric) and even hugs are beyond you, one does turn to the pantry. I do, anyway.
Sometimes, though, it doesn't matter how many times I tell myself it is ok that I don't enjoy my transformation to a real live Babuschka doll. This is mostly when I am at one of my pregnancy exercise classes, when my natural acerbism is betrayed by the sour little statements that escape me like the snores that, prior to my pregnancy, were something my body just didn't produce. At these moments, I feel like Daisy de Melker, Lucrezia Borgia and Cruella De Vil all rolled into one, as my fellow mommies start rubbing their stomachs vigorously to protect their still forming fetuses from absorbing my bad attitude like listeria from an unripened cheese.
This is why I love my new friend. She is not a stomach rubber. It's true that we met at a preg exercise class (oh, and while I can, I just need to drop in a word about these. Pre-pregnancy, I used to do handstand pushups and run up hills. Now, I bounce around on a large silver ball which, thanks to a pic that did the Facebook rounds lately, reminds me of the dangers of eating bubble gum, doing a move called 'the pony' - something which involves doing little jumps whilst wildly waving the arms, like a folk dancer trying to cheer on her favourite sports team).
I have found it really difficult to make friends in these classes. Again, I blame this on the fact that I sometimes struggle to be appropriate. For instance, a male instructor took our class the other day. When he innocently asked, "Are our all balls hard?", I couldn't help giggling like a Catholic school girl - which, of course, prompted yet another round of stomach rubbing by the other moms. Just the other day, the magnitude of our seperateness was brought home to me when we had to do an exercise against the wall. Every mom in the class clustered around one wall, smiling and patting each others' bellies - and because there was no room for me, I had to do the exercise on my own, on the other side of the room. It brought back vivid memories of always being the last picked for the team in PT, or how I used to feel when, as a child, the rest of the world celebrated Christmas with pressies and Father Christmas and I, as one of the only Jewish kids in my school, had to content myself with my dreidl instead (I love being Jewish but, really, when you are a kid, would you rather have matzah or Easter eggs?)
Like me, my new friend is more horrified than fascinated by the changes that have come about in her body. She, too, has watched herself become a psychopath who one moment begs forgiveness from her husband for her crabbiness, screams at him the next because he has dared to leave her side to go to work, and finishes the triad of scary moments by leaking from the eyes, again apologising incessantly. For me, the worst change has been to my belly button (yes, I am bringing this up again), which has now progressed to the point where it looks like I have Jabba the Hut's lumpy little head waving around outside my stomach. Unless I stick on a plaster, it feels like an earthworm with a carpet burn. And those plasters bring with them their own horrors, as a discarded plaster - even if it is my own - can make me feel instantly sick. Especially when they have become limp and wet. The only thing that can possibly rival a limp, wet plaster is a strand of hair wound around a cake of soap (especially if you are at someone else's house).
Also like me, my new friend is appalled by the idea of natural child birth. And yes, I know that this is the way nature intended, but then again, anesthetics aren't natural either. Consider this: You have had your thumbnail pulled off. Now someone takes a hammer and starts bashing your naked, vulnerable thumb. Next, they drive a screw into it. The only course of action is amputation - do you brave this op while wide awake, or do you choose for a little oblivion? That's how I feel about the choice between natural and Cesar.
I'll admit it - I am just not woman enough to handle the pain. Nor am I big enough to handle the indignity of soiling my gynae's operating table - because if you're pushing out a baby, other stuff is going to come out too, I reckon. How on earth does one handle such a scenario with aplomb - "oh, gosh, sorry doctor, my bad."
Many women I have met are incredibly judgey about my decision to have an elective Cesar. Which used to bug me, until I realised how judgey I am about water births and the like. The detractors of the Cesarian often argue that to be born into a cold, clinical world is not particularly welcoming for a baby already in shock from leaving the womb. My view is that, if my child is anything like me - a person who cannot touch doorknobs and who uses a shoe to flush public toilets - s/he will choose the stainless steel of the operating table over the manky soup of a birth pool any day. And if s/he doesn't - well, life is hard, and the sooner s/he accepts that, the better.
So - here is to moms who call a stretch mark a stretch mark and not a badge of honour, and who involuntarily close their legs at the thought of a 12-hour labour. I know there are more of us out there, somewhere.
Yep there are. Let me extend an invite to a whole Facebook group of us - The Cesarean by choice awareness network - https://www.facebook.com/groups/403330643071622/
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