At the risk of spouting off on a topic that has been over-discussed to the point of boring everyone to tears, I want to take a moment to talk about C-sections. I’ve had two of them. And I want to make a case for relaxing a little on the bad rap they get.

If you’re a first time mom, you’ve heard some version of, “well, you wouldn’t want to have a C-section.”  Possibly from your health care provider, possibly from your friends, and possibly from one of the many articles out there declaring that “unnecessary” C-sections rob women of the joyful experience of giving birth.  Because apparently no female should be spared the sensation of having a watermelon rip out of her hoo-ha, preferably without drugs.

Let me take a moment here to say that I’m not down on “natural birth” mamas.  That decision was the right one for them and I’m happy it worked out. Now let’s go on a little visit, back to First Time Pregnant Me.  I was TRAINING for delivery day.  I was walking five miles a day right up to the day I had Ian.  (Yes, really.) I was lifting weights and strengthening my abs. I WAS READY. And boy, did my recovery benefit from this.  But you know what I could NOT do? I could not make my body go into labor.  So I found myself, nine days past my due date, with a sad, old, worn out placenta and doctors who were hoping against hope that my induction would be the terminal event for my high-risk pregnancy.

Well, it wasn’t. My placenta could not deliver enough oxygen to my baby. He was distressed. I had an emergency C-section, and a beautiful, darling, healthy, beloved baby. Without that C-section, I would have gone home with nothing but a tragic story. There was NO REASON to think I couldn’t deliver my baby successfully.  I was strong, I was healthy, I was under 35, and I’d had good pre-natal care. It seems, however, that I was gifted with a body that is not so good at giving birth. Without two C-sections, I suspect I’d have had stillborn babies.  There’s a word you don’t hear much anymore, right? “Stillborn.” There are some words in the English language that could use a revival, but I’m pretty sure nobody is hankering for that one to come back into everyday use.

Obviously I’m not suggesting that you put in a call to schedule your elective C-section right now. That would be CRAZY TALK. Just… try not to WORRY about it. By the time your baby starts smiling at you, you’ll be healed up from the surgery. (The pregnancy might be a ‘nother whole story but never mind that right now.) They’ll give you painkillers when you need them. Your baby won’t remember any of it, and, once you look deep into his teeny, weeny, adorable little eyes, neither will you.

Once upon a time, it was not unusual for me to be out and about and have young men come up to me and start awkward conversations.  The goal: find out if I had a boyfriend or, somewhat later: a husband.

Today a young man came up to me and started a shy, awkward conversation.  Then, He Called Me Ma’am.  His goal: find out if I might be thinking of selling my car.

To be fair, it wasn’t a totally unreasonable question. Watching me and Ian enter and exit that car is probably a lot like watching the clown car at the circus, and if you happen to be in the market for a Honda Civic Coupe, it might seem worth a shot to ask me if I might be thinking of selling it.

But I WILL say that this conversation could not have been any more awkward. It’s like being the wing-girl for your hot friend, except your hot friend is… your car.

Hey, uh... this might be kind of a weird question, but... can I get your number?

Back in the day when my friends and I were all hot, intelligent young women who, for some reason, were still willing to hang out with Young Guys Who Don’t Get Us, my male friends all told me that they appreciated the fact that I Spoke Guy. So now, from the other side of thirty, when my friends and I are all hot, intelligent women who, for some reason, love Men Who Have Learned To Sometimes Act Like They Get Us, I am going to do it again.

Dear Husband of A Pregnant Woman:

I love being a mom and I’m deeply grateful to be blessed with not just one child, but the imminent arrival of a second, healthy child, so what I am about to tell you is Not Complaining.  I’m just trying to put this in perspective for you.

My uterus is the size of a soccer ball.  No matter how many times I hear “cute pregnant woman” or “you look great!” I’m no fool.  My belly is pulling the cuffs of my pants up, my waistband is higher than Erkel’s, and Even My Socks Don’t Fit.  If I drop a tube of toothpaste at the grocery store, I have to do the weightlifter squat like I’m about to bench a 500 lb barbell in order to retrieve it, because I have kissed my waist goodbye for the forseeable future.

From the back, I still look like a normal sized human, so others are resentful of my wanting enough personal space to account for the soccer ball, and keep impatiently asking me to “excuse” them when they wish to get by.  Or worse, they just bump into me.  A lot.  (Note to those who don’t know:  A pregnant belly does NOT “suck in.”  Sorry.)  Folding myself up small enough to buckle my kid into his carseat in the back of my two-door car feels like being birked.  In fact, I feel roughly like I have a 12 year old sitting on my rib cage at all times, and my unborn child’s needle sharp feet regularly inflict sharp blows to my bladder and/or kidneys.

In other words, I Do Not Feel So Sexy These Days.

Which is why I want to tell all of you, Husbands of Pregnant Women, that although I understand that when you talk lovingly of the Nymph You Took On Your Honeymoon, you mean, “I can’t believe she loves me enough to let me do this to her,” what your wife hears is, “Well, you USED to be beautiful.”  In terms of this whole man/woman thing, that is going to be about as successful as trying the pickup line, “Well, I’m really into your pretty friend, but she shut me down, so… wanna hook up?”  (In case you are in the “Don’t Get Us” category, that line will only work on the type of woman who is Don’t Get Any On You Crazy.  Don’t use it.)

Your wife, who feels approximately like a whale that has somehow found itself beached on the couch of your landlocked home, has a living being sucking the energy out of her.  The closest she gets to “nymph” these days is watching old episodes of Charmed. If you have told her, sincerely, that she is Really Very Pretty once an hour since the middle of her second trimester, she may laugh this off and continue giving you the “you are so hot” look.  (Note to YOU: Of course you are still hot.  You can still touch your toes.  Your wife has not failed to notice.)  If not, however, she will be too tired to tell you that You Are Being a Blockhead.

She will go to sleep, leaving you and your fond memories of her Nymph days alone together, so you may go squat in your mancave and cuddle up with them.  When she wakes up tomorrow, barely able to put on her shoes without assistance, she will not look back on this evening fondly.

Which is why I am telling you… SHUT UP about the Nymph.  The only thing your wife wants to hear right now is, “You are Really Very Pretty.”  You’ll thank me tomorrow.

Sincerely,
A Mom Who Still Speaks Guy