Turn Baby Turn

by Alison Friedman in Mommy's Musings, Pregnancy

Yesterday I had my 33-week appointment with Dr. Fiiiiine and if I had the cast of GLEE following me around to convey the soundtrack of my life a) Bryan would hide under a rock and pray for an avalanche and b) Mr. Shu’s kids would be singing the 1960s tune by The Byrds, “Turn Turn Turn” and Finn would have a solo because I think it’s funny that he looks constipated when he sings.

Why “Turn Turn Turn?”

Okay, so we have time. A little bit of time, but time, nonetheless. Dr. Fiiiiine said she’s not going the C-section route just yet and this baby could decide to nose dive in the next three weeks, leaving us in good shape. Baby is doing some crazy ass Cirque Du Soleil shiz and is currently in the Frank breech position, which means her tushie is down and her feet are up by her ears, making a V. Our daughter has a future in yoga, apparently.

I asked Dr. Fiiiiine if when we reach 36 weeks and baby is still Frank, which, would frankly suck, does she subscribe to the turning method whereby she, or the perinatologist, literally turn the baby from the outside through some hard-core massage and other probably-unpleasant-but-worth-it techniques. Normally yes, she said, but it looks like I’ve been harvesting an anterior placenta and baby-turning is much less risky with a non-anterior placenta.

Record scratch.

Say what?!

So not only is this kid being difficult in her freaky position, but on top of that, I have an anterior placenta which pretty much guarantees a hell-to-the-no in regards to any doctor attempting to turn the baby due to probable rupture and separation of the placenta during such efforts. I get it. That would majorly suck. Look, I’m all for keeping things in tact for the sake of everyone’s health, but I’m still not liking the cards I’ve been dealt and would not take myself to Vegas right now.

We left with the plan that if by 36 weeks, baby has not moved, we book a surgery for 39 weeks. And if in that time between 36 and 39 she does move, great. And if not, I go under the knife. Dun dun dun.

So here’s the part where Alison cries. A lot. The thing is, I really don’t want a C-section. I know plenty of people who’ve had them and say it’s fine. But for some reason, I don’t want to miss out on this overly-hyped female experience of having a natural-but-with-drugs labor and delivery. Apparently, my radical hormones have made it so that I desperately want hours of pain, a needle in my back, numbness in my legs, likely damage from — as my friend calls it — the hoo-ha to the brown-eye, swear words, screaming, poop on the table, bleeding, ice packs, and that super sexy hospital underwear to keep it all tucked in. Yes, I crave all that instead of having an appointment and popping out a perfect kid in under 10 minutes. What is WRONG with me?!

Dr. Fiiiiine also informed me — after I sheepishly asked — that she’s not a VBAC-er, so that means that for any future kiddos, they also come out via surgery. So I quickly calculate that that means I’ll never know what it’s like to deliver a watermelon the old fashioned way (for which most normal people would say “lucky you!” but because of my insanity, I mope).

What can I say? I just always imagined a delivery like the ones in the movies: I am reading in bed, and Bryan is watching TV (or probably, more likely, he is playing Angry Birds on his iPhone while listening to something on Food Network), and suddenly my water breaks, we look at each other and laugh — ha, ha, ha, ha! — and we time contractions and then go to the hospital where he feeds me ice chips and holds my hand and tells me I’m still sexy despite the sweat mustache and perfectly messed-up ponytail and then the doctor comes in and I push three times and out comes a perfect baby and you never see the afterbirth or hear about the episiotomy and, oh yeah, my makeup isn’t smeared and there’s no double chin in our first family photo. That’s how it’s done in the movies.

Hollywood is on crack.

So whether it’s the real-life version or the Hollywood version, I’m still delusional enough to want a vajayjay delivery (in real life, by the way, I have no problem saying “vaginal” but I fear mockery from readers if I type it. I have some strange neuroses I need to get over). So here’s the deal: I’m going to choose to now believe in the power of Internet vibes and ask you to send all good turning energy to this baby. She’s strong and she’s stubborn, but I’d like to think if we all will her to aim her keppie to my crotch, she will obey. Otherwise, she is SO grounded and will have a 7:00 curfew on Saturday nights and not be allowed to have a CD player in her first car (oh wait, that was me).