I was searching through some old paperwork and found this old birth plan, and it reminded me of simpler times--when I was bolder and freer with my words. I use it here because, well, it's pretty funny. And it does make a good point about boundaries. enjoy.
Birth Plan for K. M. Mainard O’Connell, et al.
Dear Doctors, Nurses, attendants,
residents, orderlies, and cafeteria workers:
Herein lies the Birth Plan
extraordinaire for our precious bundle of protein, as yet unnamed. Knowing that the “birth plans” are roundly
mocked and often ignored, we have endeavored to make this an enjoyable
information dissemination device, and we hope you actually read the damn
thing. We have also added several boxes
of Girl Scout cookies as well, as… acknowledgement (not a bribe). You have hard job, and we are glad that you
do them – may you do them with a small sugar high.
And yes, this “birth plan” has
been composed in Comic Sans font, because that is precisely how we roll in the
MO clan. Onward!
Pain Medication
I am a powerful Amazon warrior
demigoddess of incredible strength and stamina, belied by my small stature,
lack of exercise and layers of adorable fat.
Although the first fruit of my loins broke my waters early and I had to
be induced with the wicked (but surprisingly effective) Lord Pitocin, I do know
the alluring call of blessed St. Epidural (May She Be Ever Available To Those
In Need). My second loin fruit came
forth so quickly as to prevent any pain meds and I was an amazing BEAST of
power and self pain management; I passed out
a lot, which was actually quite helpful come to think of it, I’d really
recommend using that neat trick of evolutionary medicine if you ask me. I like to imagine that I don’t need pain meds. That said, it is the sole responsibility of
The One Who Caused This (Dear Husband) to attempt to speak sense to me if I
need pain management to progress, for my help or that of the baby. Really, it’s like his only job, or at least the one I’ll listen to him for,
so if you really think I need something then you’ll have to talk to him. I have once before taken “Stadhol”, described
to me as “like 4 or 5 margaritas, so you feel the pain but you just don’t
care,” and this was a vicious lie. I
felt everything and cared a whole hell of a lot, and as it turns out I’m a mean
drunk, so let’s avoid that one this time, for your sake as well as mine.
Caesarian Section
While I will literally do
anything under God’s shiny sun to avoid this surgery, should it be medically
necessary to save the life of myself or the child, please tie my tubes or
something while you’re in there to spare us all the indignity of this happening
again. As one who is now officially
“advanced maternal age” (and I’d like to punch in the groin the man who came up
with that term) I am more than happy to increases the size of our future family
through prefabricated children birthed by others. “Snip Snip”.
One important funky note: I
have a genetic neuropathy Charcot Marie Tooth Disease which makes electrical
things weird for me (in brief, my nerves conduct electricity very slowly
because my peripheral nervous system myelin protein sheathing lacks a
code). Sometimes electrical measuring
tools don’t work as well as they should.
Previously I received a partial of “walking” epidural out of concern for
this condition, and it was awesome.
So HEED YE NOW: YON ANETHESIOLOGIST needs to speak with here wench prior
to poking. But I’m open to poking. Obviously.
(That’s what she said.)
Emotional Scarring of the Husband
As the due cause of all my long
suffering, Dear Husband shall be emotionally scarred by being required to do
the following: fetch ice, rub my back continuously, hold my hand as I try to
break his fingers, cut the cord, handle the baby, follow baby to any testing,
and generally maintaining an attitude of contrite apology. If you sense at any time that The One Who
Caused This is shirking in his duties, feel free to administer a light tap
upside his head, or perhaps a good squinty-eyed glare. It is, after all, his fault.
Episiotomy
No.
Just…no. Didn’t need it twice before, so you’d best
have a REAL good reason for suggesting it now, as all my intuition says that
humans don’t need a cloaca. This is The
One that I’ll totally complain about later on social media (#prproblems), just saying.
Baby Penis
Shall remain fully intact, because efforts by
adult men to regrow their foreskin are just sad, and we have one intactivist
friend who is just insufferable about it—I mean he talks about his penis all the time (ALL the time) and everywhere,
and we would spare our son that shame.
Should baby be blessed with both sets of genitalia, both sets shall
remain intact, because God doesn’t make mistakes and maybe we should respect
whatever gender identification he/she/ze will develop over the course of
his/her/their thoroughly psychoanalyzed and over researched development (I WILL
be an awesome mom). Basically, we love
this kid no matter what, so don’t go “helping” by messing with his/her/their
junk. Not that you would, but you hear
horror stories, and we still live in Arkansas, which is a lovely state with
many fine qualities but did produce the members of our State Legislature this
year, who were an abysmal failure and thus make me question the sanity not only
of the culture that produced them, but the people who voted them into
office. Remember, only you can prevent
legislative shenanigans. Vote.
Breastfeeding
Is awesome!
I am totally all about the crunchy granola goodness of “breast is best”
reactive zealotry. But …sometimes
breastfeeding is hard too. So if for
some reason my milk doesn’t come in quickly (though my record is an 8ft stream
across the room), let’s whip out the industrial milker and go to town with a
few horsepower strapped to my chest.
Seriously though, I’ve been leaking for months now, so I think we’re
good to go, but it brings me to point two:
I’ve got this raging jealousy of
all other nipples, especially fake ones.
It’s like I’m so concerned about “nipple confusion” that I’ve got
“transcendental nipple jealousy” verging on “unrealistic nipple rage.” My boobs, only my boobs, no formula. I am momma, hear me roar. So let’s avoid pacifiers too, until I’m
feeling less threatened by small stationary objects.
Unless I really, really, brutally
need a nap or I’m unconscious or dead, and then let The One Who Caused This try
to feed and soothe the baby, so he may be blamed for any confusion and thus
soundly scarred. It’s ok. We’re good like that. Our relationship is one of complete mutuality
and respect. You know the book “Fifty
Shades of Grey”?
It’s nothing like that at all.
Immunizations and Preventative
Care of Baby
shall all be given, on time,
correctly, because who are these crazy people who want to expose their newborns
to completely preventable diseases?
Crazy people, that’s who. So you
drop that silver nitrate in his eyes and smile as you do so. Make sure he sees you smile. Shoot him up (still smiling!) with whatever
vaccines are now recommended for noobs, because Heaven only knows what that
fruitcake down the street has refused for her little disease vectors, and this
is the only protection we’ve got against the stupidity of those destroying the
herd immunity. So you go right ahead
with whatever schedule you have planned and
smile. We support you. Science!
In the event of my untimely death
Please make sure I’m really dead,
not just mostly dead, and then DO NOT let anyone pump me full of that crazy goo
they use to preserve dead bodies. So
gross. I’d much prefer to have my organs
harvested (for the ciiiiiiircle of liiiiiiiife—but no really seriously I need
to be irretrievably brain dead, double triple check) and then cremated. My Dear
Husband knows my wishes: to be carefully distributed into hundreds of little
dimebags to my friends and family to dispose of as befitting our
relationship. I would love for someone
to get my ashes into a pepper shaker at the Vatican, just because that sounds
like the punchline to a great joke, so if you think you’ve got an angle on that
one, feel free to take a dimebag on your next vacation to Rome.
Last but not least
I am a pastor and no member of my
church is to visit me unannounced and without my express permission. Jesus loves us all but I am out of my mind
with hormones and pain and the second I went into labor I joined the proud
ranks of those on maternity leave, and I just can’t handle the collision of my
worlds right now. Please find a kind way
to say I’m unavailable, or maybe the ward is quarantined; try not to lie
because that’s a sin but I’m asking for your help. I mean, you and I both know what just
happened to my nethers here, but I’m still stretching for that aura of mystery
in my professional life and, having not achieved it yet, I’m gonna keep
reaching. Help a girl out.
The exception are clergy members,
‘cause they’re my buds.
Please know that I am eternally grateful for your service and assistance in this time of need, but also anything you say can and will end up in an anecdote or sermon. Like that clueless resident attending my second birth, for whom my son was only her second delivery: her name was Dr. Highman. Say that out loud, like a woman delirious with pain. Dr. Highman on Labor and Delivery. Paging Dr. Highman. Let it sink in.
Hymen.
I will tell that joke until the
day I die. It’s just who I am.
Thank you for reading this far,
may our lives be better for having met each other. May the grace of God go with you, and I hope
I have your favorite cookie here. You
deserve it.
Peacefully,
Rev. K. M. Mainard O’Connell
