The Quarrelsome Wife and Her 7 Stages of Labor and Delivery. (Without TMI)

I’m about to do something I vowed never to do – write a mom blog. Oh, how the mighty have fallen. This I promise you:

I promise never to describe the color, quantity or consistency of my child’s poop.
I promise never to describe the color, quantity or consistency of my child’s spit up.

Like, seriously mom bloggers, stop it and leave that to webmd.

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Proverbs 21:19 Better to live in a desert than with a quarrelsome and nagging wife.

I was 4 months pregnant when my husband said, “I’ve been reading a lot about natural child birth.”
“Hippie, no! Stop right there. When YOU have the next baby, we’ll talk about it.”
“Hear me out. I’ve read a lot about the effects of medication in labor…”
“Oh really? Read anything about the success rate of marriages afterwards?”

He never brought it up again.

Stage 1: Denial.

For an entire day I was having contraction-like stomach pain. I mentioned this to Jon and forced it to go away. That’s right. In complete denial I thought I had actually “willed it” to stop.

It was just like the movies. Out of nowhere, a happy unsuspecting prego keels over in the midst of an intense contraction. At 2 am I woke up and went to my bathroom, praying that this was not labor but simply about to be the worst bathroom experience of my life.

 

Stage 2: Fear & Suppression.

It wasn’t. “If this is a contraction,” I whispered to myself “I’m in so.. .much …TROUBLE...”

I prayed for the rapture but Jesus never came. The nerve.

I took a deep breath, left the safety of my bathroom and did what all the doctors and midwives said to do: Call the nurse line and explain your contractions before you decide rush to the hospital. After a few unsuccessful phone calls and terrible contractions my husband said, “Get in the car.”
“But the midwives said…”
“Get in the car.”

I guess he’s not keen on the idea of kitchen-floor-daddy-deliveries.

Stage 3: Compliance.

I was going to have a baby.

April 5^th was the day ALL THE babies were born. I was told I would be waiting in triage a little longer than usual because there were no delivery rooms available.

No room in the inn.

The nurse asked me what my pain level was. “Ten.” I said without hesitation. She shot me a funny look and rolled her eyes as if to say, “Oh honey, please. This is labor and you’ve just started.” During the next contraction she checked me. “Oh. Okay. So you are experiencing back labor.” Meaning my kid wanted to be born looking at the sky. Not the usual position and sometimes more painful.

HA! Back labor. I’m not a wimp. Vindication.

Stage 4: Rage.

“What are your plans for pain management? Do you want an epidural?” She asked. I couldn’t find the words to say, “I don’t want this pain but I also don’t want you or anyone else touching me and I can’t figure out which scenario I hate more. Also, I hate you.” So we just stared at each other a long while in complete silence.

She eventually left. We never spoke again.

I sat in triage for hours. My squeamish husband was a trooper. Held my hand and distracted himself with beeping monitors.

Jon, “Cool! It shows how big your contractions are!”
Me, “That’s fantastic.”
“That last one was almost off the charts!”
“Yeah. I KNOW.”
“…maybe I’ll go get your pillow from the car.”
“You do that.”

 

Stage 5: Impatience.

In the early morning, my sister and mom visited me, still  in triage.  I was ready to run into someone else’s room, lay on the floor next to a delivering mom and coach her lazy, selfish baby out into the world.   “Get it done woman or scoot the hell over.”

Finally, my sister went to the nurse,“My sister is about drop a baby in your triage.”

They gave me a room.

Step 6: Delusions and Paranoia.

I began to believe everyone, including my own mother, was lying to me about any progress whatsoever.

Some more rage.

Step 7: Ownereship. (And/Or Hunger)

I looked at the clock. “(explicit language) Lunchtime. I want to be eating a (explicit language) chicken burger by (explicit language) lunchtime.”

I’ll spare you the rest of the details. Jon buried his face in a pillow, I had a baby and then I had (explicit language) Chick-fil-A.

The moral of the story: Don’t mock your husband or you’ll push out an upside down baby completely lucid and your husband will be the traumatized one.

Dirty hippie.

Proverbs 27:15-16 A continual dripping on a rainy day and a contentious wife are alike. Trying to keep her in check is like stopping a wind storm or grabbing oil with your right hand.

(Yes, I’m being sarcastic. Those proverbs are hilarious though.)

Memphis Matthew Lee
born 10:39 a.m
April 5 2016.
6lbs 4 oz 19 inches long.