I delivered the chipmunk in a different city, so the OB practice I’m seeing now is all new to me. I picked them because they had a midwife lady, but in the course of my appointments so far I’ve discovered that this means approximately shit. I get bounced from practitioner to practitioner so that I can meet everyone. Including the dudes who—no offense to dudes—I didn’t want to meet in the first place.
I have nothing against male doctors, but when I man tells me how my uterus/vagina “should” feel I get a little bit crazy. Sure, I talk about my boner a lot, but I don’t go around pretending to know what it’s actually like to wave one around. (As much as I wish I could.) Since in the case of a C-Section or complications I’d have to work with the dude doctors, the practice requires that I spend quality time with them being blown off about my pregnancy aches and pains.
My midwife blows me off too, but I appreciate it from her. She’s had babies. And she says “crotch.” As in, “well, you’re carrying very low. There’s going to be a lot of pressure at your crotch, a lot of discomfort. A lot of bad things happening in a very concentrated area.” Amen, sister. At least she gets it—and she’s ballsy enough to look me straight in the eye and tell me I’m going to have to suck it up and that yeah, sometimes most of your pregnancy blows goats and especially with your second child.
(She doesn’t say “blows goats” but if she did I’d probably try to make out with her or something.)
She recommended diaper ointment for my “bottom,” too. Since by “bottom” she meant “furious vagina” she may have lost some crotch-points on that one. But I can’t turn my bottom away from good advice.
So I’m 29 weeks tomorrow. Last night I had to get up to pee more than ten times. What this means, officially, is that I’m currently spending more of my life urinating than I am sleeping/thinking/breathing.
(Here’s a challenge—come up with a way to insult your bladder without referencing other potty-body-parts. Wow, it’s hard! I give up.)
Rest assured my bladder and I are not on speaking terms right now. Nor are my bladder and my uterus. We are not a well-oiled machine.
When I was pregnant with the chipmunk, I had similar insomnia issues, but I wasn’t so near-constantly miserable. Good damn thing! Cause I wouldn’t have been so serene and peaceful and excited about “finally getting bigger.” I would have been like “oh shit, oh shit. Oh shit.”
Thankfully, Alvin seems to be doing just fine. He’s a kicky little dude. He likes to party all the time party all the time party all the time. And really? That’s all that counts. Me and my crotch will wait patiently (and by wait patiently, I mean bitch constantly) for his arrival.
No related posts.
