It's no secret that going #2 for pregnant women can be a struggle. No, that's not the right word. Outright painful is more fitting. In my head while these 'episodes' occur the whopping two times out of each month, it seems as though I am working a small melon out of my intestines. Surely it's three melons coming out........it seems, at times. That's when the whole Lamaze class I took so long ago comes back into full force and I feel like a pioneer woman. Despite the fact I have always planned and executed confidently the choice to be drugged during labor. That's right, Lamaze only comes in handy for me when I am getting my dook out. Could I be more classy? Would you rather have smiling pictures of my children posing for you when you come to my site? Too bad.
So! Speaking of dook! I remembered today when I was in labor with my first child for, oh I dunno, what was it 392 hours? I had my beloved drugs, so I was resting and thanking GOODNESS I wasn't in pain. Then I started to feel like my whole body was being squeezed by a giant glove. A suffocating glove, not a cute garden one with ruffles. It was like one with spikes on the wrist and it was made of black leather with motorcycle gang logos scrawled on it. It was a mean glove.
Kind of like that scene in Star Wars Episode IV when Chuey, Luke, Leia, and Han are stuck in the trash compactor and the walls start closing in on them.
Nurse more drugs please! Only with this nurse's visit I began to notice this intense feeling that the biggest poo of my entire life was about to shoot across the room from my bum.
The nurse entered the room, upped my numbing dosage without even asking me about that Lamaze class I took {bless her heart}. Being a lightweight in the pain department has never been an issue for me. Who wants to be squeezed to death by mean gloves anyway? When you don't have to be? Not me, I say. Okay so the nurse. She was all about to leave when I made her stop and listen to me tell her about this intense poo coming out. I told her I needed to use the restroom. She sort of laughed, as if I forgot about that whole body-numbing thing going on. Which I did. For some reason. Totally forget about. So when my brain joined my mouth I demanded sternly for a bed pan because THIS POO I CAN'T STOP IT! She went off to get the bed pan. Only poking her head back in to ask {as if we were in the maternity wing of a hospital or something} if I felt the "urge to push".
Urge to push? What was she talking about? Here I laid for days in this freaking hospital bed and find myself awakened by a mean glove squeezing my body and now my poo is about to jet out of me and break windows and she peeks back in to ask about "feeling" and "urge"? I was so confused- what part of me telling her it's just going to come right out here on the bed! was she not getting? Nothing was cute about this. NUH_THING.
She came back with the doctor. Not a bed pan. I was finally a 10. Something none of us thought would ever happen. And it wasn't poo. It was my baby. It was Zane. I thought Zane was poo. That will forever be funny to me.
Can you see this in a Hallmark birthday card? One with a picture of pine trees and a lake.
Son, when I was giving birth to you it felt like I had to take a huge dook, but really it was you. I love you.
