Stop and Smell the People

The Baby Diaries: Curiosity (and burning booties) killed the cat…

[For those of you new to StopandSmellthePeople, Welcome! This is our latest installment of the Baby Diaries. My wife, Anna, has written her take on going through pregnancy with me (plot spoiler alert – it was awesome – she loved it). Once she’s done writing, I put my spin on things with italicized bolded black letters in brackets. Enjoy!]

The Baby Diaries: Curiosity (and burning booties) killed the cat…

Mike and I had a lot of questions during our pregnancy. A lot of questions. An eternal fountain of questions. Each seemed as urgent as the next. As they popped up in our neurotic heads and our every worry-driven conversation, we dutifully typed them into our iPhone notepad, building a long list of curious absurdity that we regurgitated at each doctor’s visit.

I would like to say that all you people out there only egged us on. You know who you are. The ones that ask questions like this, “Anna… you’re about 5’2,” right? You are so teeny!!!! Do you think will you be able to deliver the baby naturally?”  It’s their nice way of saying you are so small… are you small everywhere? You can see the wheels a spinnin’. They look at your big belly. Must be a big baby in there. How exactly is this going to work? [Well, you see, it all starts with a couple glasses of wine and some Barry White music…]

And so our next doctor’s visit would go something like this, “Doctor, so people have suggested I won’t be able to deliver the baby naturally because I have a petite frame. Is this a dumb question? I mean will I have to have a C-section?”

And really you have to give it to the man. How on earth does he keep a straight face through these visits? One couple after another all scared to the point that their brains are no longer involved in the process.

Mike and I were sitting in his office, iPhones out. The doctor said, “Some women have what’s called contracted pelvic bones. That can affect their ability to deliver naturally. But the fact that you are petite has nothing to do with whether you have contracted pelvic bones.”

And that’s when I heard it. The inhale. Crap! Mike is going to say something. He just took in a breath to fuel whatever is about to come out of his mouth.

I looked over. His right eyebrow shot up into an arch. He furrowed his brow like a Las Vegas heartthrob-has-been, and said in a voice to fit the part, “Soooo, Doc…” Pause. Pause. He moves his head from side to side like a used car salesman, “you’ve seen her pelvic bones…. How are they?”

“Oh my goodness!” I said (well, it was a version of ‘oh my goodness’ but not those words exactly). I could barely freaking breathe. “Could you please zip it?”

As I mentioned, Mike and my doctor have the same sense of humor and the same enthusiasm to share it. I looked at my doctor, “Don’t you dare answer!”

“And you,” I said to Mike, “rein it in!” [Look, I’m not the one who lobbed the softball over home plate!]

He really does have Robin Williams like qualities at times and nervous Nelly ones at others. One trip to the doctor’s office, he said, “Doc, Anna lives her life attached to a heating pad. I am worried this is going to hurt the baby.”

True, I do love me some heat. I mean I drive around every single day with the seat warmers in my car turned on high, even in the summer. I love it. [The woman sits in front of a gas-log fireplace burning on high in July! She’s missing some nerve endings or something.] But Mike was absolutely adamant that somehow the heating pad was a danger.

The doctor and I looked at each other and burst out laughing. “He’s serious,” I said through rolls of belly laughter.

“At this stage in the pregnancy,” the doctor, explained, “the heat will not affect her pregnancy.”

“No,” I said, barely able to get the words out through my laughter, “he’s worried about the…(deep breath) the..(big belly laugh)… (gasp) he’s worried about the electro magnetic fields!” I almost had an accident I laughed so hard. [When you pee yourself every day you can no longer call it an “accident.” It’s a way of life, preggo!]

“No,” the doctor said, “don’t worry about the electro magnetic fields from the heating pad.” It’s still funny. I am still laughing.

So with that vote of confidence we headed home. I nestled into my side of the bed, with the heating pad under my lower back. I had those wonderful fleece booties that have little bean bag like inserts. You can heat them in the microwave.

They smell like lavender and are a God-send to aching pregnant feet. Mike even offered to heat them up and bring them to me. So sweet. [I am absolutely adorable.]

“Thank you,” I said. Five minutes later, up the stairs he came and dropped the heated booties on the bed and walked into the bathroom. I looked up to grab them and slip them onto my feet.

“Mike!” I screamed. “They are burning. They are smoking! They are turning brown! That smell! That acrid smell! The chemicals are going to poison the baby!” [Seriously. They smelled like a landfill on fire.]

He ran over to the bed, grabbed the booties, flew downstairs and tossed them out the front door. Together we ran around opening windows, turning on ceiling fans and freaking out. The pollution in our home… our sanctity… our temple of neurotic pregnancy…all tainted! We got a huge trash bag and threw away every pillow and linen the burning booties touched. [I even threw out my shirt. And we both scrubbed down in the shower because the smell was on us!] When the race against the poison cloud finished and the last toxic fumes escaped through the bedroom window. We looked at each other and

burst out laughing. “We are crazy,” I said.

“Yes, we are out of our minds,” Mike said as he hugged me tight, “Let’s say a little prayer for this baby that he survives his lunatic parents!”

“Amen!”

[Okay, another "Baby Diaries" in the books. I want to thank Shirley Hollar and Andy Bovender and others who kept complaining that Anna hasn't been writing enough. Every time someone said that to me, I told her! The guilt eventually beat her down and she finally carved out some time to write. We all win! MR]