“Let me know if you need a massage,” a girlfriend asked me yesterday.
“I don’t think you’d want to massage my vagina,” I replied.
My husband would say that I have a low tolerance for pain; he was doubtful that I could go through with birthing our first daughter naturally and medication-free because of how much I complained about the smallest things. Paper cuts and pregnancy are different than birthing. Complaining gets you nowhere when you’re in labor, but it helps me out in other instances.
Similar to saying aloud, “I’m embarrassed,” after tripping in front of a crowd, I will say, “my pelvis aches” to my classmates when they see me waddling around. It brings a sense of acknowledgement to the way I’m feeling and it helps me to be at ease with my discomfort.
People think I’m trying to be funny when I refer to my fetuses as parasites, but what better name for them is there? I love my unborn daughter, but she is just a little bit selfish. I don’t think she really cares how I feel about the way she sucks the nutrients from my body and then jabs her feet into my stomach so that it’s impossible to eat. She doesn’t consider how I might take offense to the pain in my pelvis being a result of the position of her spine.
Oh no, things are right fine on the inside. She has her xylophone –my ribcage, she has her trampoline –my bladder, she even has a nifty place to store her phalanges –my belly button. I’m thinking that she won’t take too kindly to hugs because every Braxton Hicks contraction incites a brutal fight between her extremities and my organs. I wish she could understand me when I tell her that I don’t like the contractions either, but they occur for her benefit.
So yeah, pregnancy is not walk in the park. It’s a waddle wherever you are after 30 weeks, and it’s going to take two to three times longer to reach your destination safely. I’m trying my hardest to stop picking up my other two daughters as much, it’s no longer convenient to have a washer and dryer in the basement, and it takes me several minutes to walk from the front seat of my mini-van to the back to strap the girls in and then back to the front to start driving.
I’m not complaining. Not really. I know that this will all pay off in a matter of weeks (when the pain strengthens in intense waves repeatedly, peaks, and then tapers off through days of afterbirth cramps). Someday I will hold my third daughter, in all her innocent and chubby glory. I will gradually forget the discomfort I felt while she grew inside of me, and years from now I will crave this experience again.
Tonight, however, I will pout a little and ice my vagina.