Frank Breech: World's Worst Porn Name

Dear Cletus,

So after months of anticipation (read: fear) and excitement (read: anxiety) about experiencing labor, it turns out you're going to buck expectations and be born via c-section. If nothing else, this proves that I have passed along to you the "f-it" gene. Congratulations.

So last week we go in for our now-weekly appointment with my OB/GYN, a person I now see more regularly than my best friend (and who, coincidentally, may know just as many personal details about me. When you know someone who is so familiar with your nether regions, you - or at least, I - just decide to screw it and go whole hog in terms of intimacy. I now tell her my life story every time I go in, from my worries about breastfeeding to my phobia of sharks. She didn't know she was a therapist when she took me on as a patient, but she has settled into the role nicely).

Anyhoo. Before the actual exam, we have an ultrasound. Hooray! Fun baby pictures! We haven't seen you since the five-month mark, at which point, according to babycenter.com, you were the size of a banana. Since then, you have apparently grown enough to be considered the size of a crenshaw melon. We weren't entirely sure what a crenshaw melon was, but we understood that you apparently had changed a lot and so were very excited.

So we go in for the ultrasound, the tech slathers my belly with the goo and starts moving the sensor-thingie around. We see you on the screen, and then the tech says, "Well that's not where the head's supposed to be." We are then told that you are in a frank breech position, which means your head is facing up toward my ribs and your legs are folded up around your head. If nothing else, you're flexible.

Frank Breech: world's worst porn name

Thirty minutes later, once we are ushered into the exam room, the doctor says she wants to "check" me. This involves slathering goo onto a gloved finger, which she then inserts into the hole you're supposed to come out of. As you can imagine, it was uncomfortable on a variety of levels. 

Apparently, "checking" me confirmed what she had thought when seeing the ultrasound images, and your dad and I were told that although you might turn on your own between now and your due date, it's really best to schedule a cesarean section. She said this in a very calm voice, while still managing to convey that the chances of you turning on your own were on par with Coco Crisp being named baseball's 2012 MVP (that's right - it's a sports reference, everybody! I've been putting my maternity leave to good use!).

Even though your dad and I were taken by surprise by the idea of a c-section, I think we rolled pretty easily with it. I don't know about your dad, but the reason for my quick agreement had to do with the fact that I had watched an online video of a natural birth the day before.

Cletus, I don't know who these people are that talk about the "miracle" and "beauty" of giving birth. It was the grossest thing I have ever seen. Ever. No one should ever have to look at anything like that. They should show that video to every twelve-year-old who takes sex ed. It will scare girls into locking up their legs until they are in their forties. Homeland Security should show this video to potential terrorists as an interrogation method. And FYI, the woman in this video had had an epidural and seemed pretty comfortable, so I'm not talking about the pain - I'm just going based on the pure gross-out factor. 

If your morbid curiosity leads you to want to watch said video, you can see it here. But don't click on the link unless you want your retinas to wish that they had been seared with a red-hot iron in place of what they just saw. 

So with that gory image still fresh in my mind, the idea of a nice clean c-section - in particular, the part where I get a curtain up so I don't see what is happening with my belly - sounded like a great option. The icing on the cake was that we got to pick your delivery date. It kind of felt like playing God, to be able to pick your birthday - a day that you will live with forever. Anyways, we settled on June 11th - we figured 6/11/12 has a good ring to it and it's on a Monday, which gives your dad the chance to finish out the work week prior to meeting you. Assuming I don't go in to labor beforehand and have to have an emergency c-section. In which case, eph it all. 

Your dad, by the way, was only half listening to anything that the OB/GYN was telling us about what to expect during and after the surgical procedure. Once he realized that a c-section was in the cards, he began madly texting his sister, mother, best friend, and probably his entire fantasy baseball team to tell them the news. I would have been irritated with him for not being more focused, except that we heard back almost immediately from his best friend, who made possibly the greatest observation ever when he texted that the fact that you are facing the wrong way means you are definitely Mike's kid, since you inherited his horrible sense of direction.

How normal people get from Point A to Point B

How your dad gets from Point A to Point B

You think I'm exaggerating, but I'm not. Your dad once drove from San Francisco back to Sacramento, and his convoluted route somehow got him back home without actually crossing any bodies of water. We're still not sure how he did it. 

So it only makes sense that you'd be facing the completely wrong way in utero. Genetics, baby!

So anyways: get ready, Cletus. You're going to be born on 6/11/12 at the latest, and unless you change positions, you can expect to be pulled out of your warm amniotic fluid and into a cold sterilized operating room by my OB/GYN/therapist's gloved gooey hands. But hey - it can only get better from there, right? 

Love,

Your soon-to-be mom

I Wonder If These People Are High

Dear Cletus, 

So today I got my weekly bulletin from babycenter.com about your prenatal progress (33 weeks along). I have a love/hate relationship with that site. Some weeks, the updates and information are very helpful and make a lot of sense. Other weeks, I wonder if these people are high. Take today's weekly update:

"Many women are still feeling sexy at this stage — and their partners often agree."

- First of all, I think I do look sexy - from the shoulders up. However, my Buddha-esque belly is not getting me a lot of offers for one-night stands from random men.

- Secondly, OF COURSE YOUR PARTNER IS GOING TO AGREE WITH YOU IF YOU SAY YOU ARE SEXY. FOR GOD'S SAKE, HE'S NOT LOOKING TO PREMATURELY END HIS LIFE. Mike knows that there is only one response he can give if I ask him, "Do I look sexy?", even if as I ask, I am simultaneously shoveling lard down my throat and talking about how my goal in life is to have more children than the Duggars. That response is: "Absolutely. Now get that spoonful of lard out of your mouth and let's hit the sheets."

"Bored with pregnancy? Try this! "Every time I start to get bored with my pregnancy, I lie down and rub my belly. Sure enough, my baby starts to kick, and I think about how wonderful it will be when I'm able to hold him." — Barbara"

- Who are these people like Barbara who get bored with pregnancy? Did they not see the movie Alien? Do they not know what is going on in there?

I experience a lot of emotions surrounding pregnancy. Fatigue? Yes. Exhaustion? Impatience? Frustration? Of course. But boredom? Hell no. That is because I am always aware of the fact that there is a small person inside of me that will ultimately cost me hundreds of thousands of dollars before she turns 18. I will pay for her college and probably her wedding, and there is a fair chance I will pay for her therapy someday too. This little tiny human inside of me, while still IN me, has all the genetic trappings of a completely separate person who will think nothing like me, who will have her own ideas and thoughts, and will probably think I'm an idiot. Knowing all of this does not invoke boredom; it invokes anxiety as well as a healthy sense of competition, since I am determined to win all arguments until she is at least 9 (review my therapy comment above).

"This Week's Activity: Wash your baby's clothing and bedding. You know all those adorable outfits you bought or received at your baby shower? You should wash anything that will go near your baby's skin to remove any irritants in the fabrics. The gentlest detergents are those designed for babies and those that are labeled hypoallergenic or good for sensitive skin."

- Yeah, ok. Super excited about doing tons of laundry. Thanks, babycenter.com. I'll get right on that after I've worked an 8 hour day, commuted home, done my workout that is supposed to also be essential for prenatal vitality, eaten a healthful dinner full of fetus-healthy vitamins, and gotten at least 8 hours of revitalizing sleep. Yup. Laundry is at the top of that list.

Also, Cletus, I don't know if you realize this, but babycenter.com has compared you with various fruits and vegetables almost from day one. At one point, I was told you were the size of a lentil, a blueberry, a fig, etc. In today's bulletin, I was informed that you are now approximately four pounds, or the size of a pineapple.

Maybe it's just the hormones kicking in and making me testy, but I'm not sure why the folks at babycenter.com think I don't know what four pounds feels like. Seriously, every time I heft a gallon of milk into a shopping cart at the grocery store, I'm lifting about that much. Why the continuous comparisons? Just say four pounds. No need to make the experience of your growth more "tangible" - my freaking huge belly is all the tangibility I need.

If babycenter.com really wanted to keep the weight comparisons, they should at least make them more interesting. I would much rather read an update that compares you to an uncooked pheasant or something equally weird, than something as mundane as a pineapple (I would at least then be prompted to google "uncooked pheasant weight"). Or even better, a weight comparison such as: "Your baby is now twelve weeks old and weighs half an ounce; if your baby were cocaine, the street value would be over $500!"

Ooh, Cletus: at four pounds now, think of how much you would be worth if you were made out of cocaine.

We'll just chalk that random thought up to the wanderings of a hormone-crazed mind.

Love,

Your Soon-To-Be Mom