When she called me at 1am to tell me that she just peed on a stick and it was positive I knew that we were officially friends. Maybe even best friends. She is counting on me to play a big part in her labor and delivery and I am honored that she is entrusting this to me. It’s not everyday that someone gives me permission to yell at them to MAN UP AND PUSH! YOU CAN DO THIS! DON’T YOU DARE ASK FOR MEDS! QUIT CRYING!
OH! And I love how semi-crunchy she is with her parenting. She babywears and cloth diapers but didn’t cosleep or breastfeed and I coslept for nine months and breastfeed but use disposable diapers and while I wear Avery I’d rather her just learn to fucking walk already.
On Wednesday Bobbi and I bundled up our kids and went on an adventure to the Birth and Women’s Center in Dallas for Bobbi’s first prenatal appointment with the nurse/midwife/whatever.
Hindsight. It’s a mother fucker.
Anyway, this was my first visit to a birthing center (Bobbi’s too) so I didn’t quite know what to expect but I knew that it would be perfect. Like a bed and breakfast for labor and delivery. The adjacent park was beautiful and I could see myself holding hands with my husband walking along the tree-lined path through contractions and feeling at peace with what I was doing.
We walked into the converted home (I believe it’s about 100 years old) and were immediately confronted by an adorable waiting room. Seriously. Your grandma lives here. Our presence was detected and we were invited upstairs to to wait outside the office so Bobbi could fill out some paperwork.
The walls along the stairwell were lined with baby footprints from the babies that were delivered at the birthing center. My uterus cried out. They were so tiny.
We all go into the exam room and the midwife/nurse/whatever starts asking Bobbi the routine medical history questions (you had eye surgery twice? You will definitely need to fill me in on that!). She seemed cold. Mechanical. Not like the crunchy hippy embracing midwife that I was expecting to encounter. In fact, there was a lot about her that was off-putting. Not only that but I felt like she was annoyed that our children were in the room. I kept them occupied during the exam but it’s kind of hard to chase down one-year-old Ian while he’s running around the sofa while I’m nursing Avery so that she’ll quit fussing. Gimme a fucking break. I only have two hands, nursey!
I digress. Like, a lot.
Afterwards we were asked no less than ninety billion times how we got in without taking the tour first. OH THE MOTHER FUCKING TOUR! Apparently the tour of the birthing center is a sacred ritual that gains you access to the building and allows you to schedule appointments.
One of the midwives (I assume she was a midwife; she did not introduce herself) finally offered to give us a quick tour (Halle-fuckin’-lujah) of the place.
The birthing suite was really nice and the bathroom was sparklingly clean. No afterbirth chunks in sight!
OH! Speaking of bathrooms. The birthing center is a place where human beings come out of your vagina. GET SOFTER TOILET PAPER. It was like cheap gas station toilet paper in the bathroom. My ass did not appreciate their stinginess.
After the tour Bobbi and I asked the midwife some basic questions about the center and I asked her about VBAC (vaginal birth after ceserean). She pretty much said that they don’t do them at the center but that they have a relationship with OB’s that feed into Baylor Hospital who do them and they don’t want to rock the boat on that relationship. Really? I thought that birthing centers were a safe haven for women to get away from the CUT ‘EM UP GET ‘EM OUT TAKE THEIR MONEY mentality of the hospital.
What this made me see is that birthing centers are businesses too just like hospitals. Yes, their philosophies may be different but they’re in it to make money.
Oh well. It’s like I always say: Mo’ money, mo’ problems.
So you know how I’m totally awesome at this writing stuff?
And how I love to (force) share my opinions with others?
And how you’re ALWAYS saying, “Lauren, why aren’t you a professional writer? Surely publishers are blowing up your email begging for your awesomeness!”
Well, they’re not. Because they’re all STUPID ASSHOLES. (Potential new employers- I don’t mean it, really I don’t. You’re pretty and have you been working out and yes I’ll pick up your dog’s shit for you).
What I’m trying to say is that I have a writing gig. A real one. A PAYING ONE. Oh yeah. I am the newest writer for The Examiner which is one of the largest online publications IN THE UNIVERSE.
I am a local writer (and will bully my way to a national spot someday) with my very own column because I’m kind of a big deal.
By now you are probably screaming at your monitor, “REVEAL THE DAMN URL ALREADY!”
Fine. Piss on my moment.
Oh yeah. I get paid to write about Twitter. How fucking rad is THAT?
What I need from you, my sexy readers (and Dad), is some lovin’. Please check out my page and read the articles and leave comments and tell your friends. That’s all.