Cue the Rocky Theme Music

Just when you thought labor pains were the worst thing you had to look forward to during delivery...*

As Bob continues to grow, (and, coincidentally, so do I), and we edge over the ridgepole of the mid-mark of this pregnancy and towards the steeply slanting downhill descent of the third trimester and eventual labor - the focus of my entire being has sharpened to one goal: avoiding unnecessary fork-and-knife work from my OB.

Sandy and I have had several conversations about this.** I have told him that I will not require him to coach me through contractions, or indeed to do ANYTHING in the delivery room, except to stay awake, keep an eye out for any knives, scissors, or other pointy implements, and then keep them the hell away from me. That is his job. That is his sole responsibility. I will not be able to concentrate on giving birth, if I am also busy scanning every medical professional that steps foot in the room for unnecessary cutlery. Episiotomies? Not Cool.

I didn't even know the damn things existed until a few months ago. I stumbled across a reference in a pregnancy book. Then I google searched. Unfortunately, THIS is the first thing that popped up. Are you f-ing*** kidding me???

So I immediately began researching my options. It would appear they are as follows:

1. Tear.

2. Get an episiotomy, and possibly tear anyway.

3. Eat well, exercise my pelvic floor muscles like I'm training for a vaginal Olympic medal, and treat my perineal area like it's a pampered Roman noblewoman. And possibly tear anyway.

Obviously I'm opting for what is behind door number three. But I'd never heard of perineal massage or oiling until I mentioned my fear of episiotomies to a bunch of pregnant friends, and one of them said her nurse acquaintances all recommended oiling and massage. Evidently one CAN do the necessary actions by oneself, but it is easier if you have someone else do it. And it's a good idea to have it done DURING the birth, also.

A different friend recommended the Hypnobabies series to me, so I bought their home study course. Fortuitously, it included a helpful pamphlet on how to perform the necessary ablutions and massages.

With diagrams.

...

Oh god.

I read the pamphlet cover to cover. I spent a significant portion of that perusal making indescribable noises and incomprehensible hand gestures, while Sandy watched me with some understandable trepidation from the other side of the kitchen table. When I was finished, I looked up at him. Then I looked back down at the pamphlet. Then I looked up at him again.

Then I said, "Um." I stared at the table for a while. He waited, patiently.

Then I said, "Um." I suddenly found the ceiling fascinating.

I mean, you'd think with as open and honest as I have been on this blog, with complete strangers, I'd be able to have a conversation with my most-beloved husband about the necessity of oiling and stretching out my perineal area prior to birth, and ask for his assistance with that, right?

WRONG.

"Uhhh..."

Sandy held out a hand. "Pass it over."

He, too, read it cover to cover. Then he looked up at me.

I mean really. What else can you do?

We DID, eventually, after much giggling and cracking of jokes, talk about it. After all, he's my best friend, and surely before our lives are over we'll deal with things far more intimate and horrible. Knowing that that is the case did not prevent much blushing on both sides**** during the conversation though. And some serious squirming on my part, because...I mean...eeeeeeeeeeeeeeee...

When it needs to be done, it'll get done one way or another. And luckily, there's still 14 weeks to go before we need to take the pamphlet out again, and start intently considering dumping olive oil all over my region, like I'm some kind of Greek salad.

And dear god, please let him still find me sexy when this is all over!!!*****

Here, for your erudition my ducklets, is the pamphlet in all its glory. Please note that it is copyrighted by the International Childbirth Education Association.

Front and Back Covers (including a totally unacceptable picture of a loving couple, presumably post massage...)

Interior (for the record, I call shenanigans on the brunette in the photo on the right hand page, who looks for all the world like she's enjoying a really wonderful spa session someplace horrifically expensive. Involving virgin's goat milk and honey, or something. Not. Cool.)

*Well. Labor pains, and crapping the bed...

**When I say "conversations" what I MEAN is me yammering things almost incoherently and Sandy standing as still as possible so as to avoid enraging me further, while nodding obediently and occasionally muttering things like, "yes" and "okay" and "of course" and "whatever you say." Living with a pregnant woman is evidently a very great deal like living with a rabid wolverine.

***Evidently Bob can now hear me. So I'm trying to clean up my language. And it would appear that I think he can also READ, through MY eyeballs, because for some reason I'm not even writing down entire swear words any more. Soon I will revert to the swear words of my retail career - "oh bother" "poot" and "dangit."

I'm pregnant. I don't have to make sense.

****Seriously? It's a miracle Bob got conceived.

*****Hymn # 63 in The Pregnant Woman's Hymnal.