Labor Day weekend

Did I mention that it was our anniversary yesterday? Six years of wedded bliss were marked with the end of our marathon childbirth course. I am happy to say that we have survived and, in fact, thrived under the martrimonial confines that is legal partnership. We'd both do it again if given the chance which is nice to know. We also fared remarkably well in birthing bootcamp with the guidance of our instructor and the good humor of our friends who joined us.

Since the closest english class available was given at a natural birthing center, we knew we were swimming up stream having already signed all hospital paperwork requesting that full medical intervention be provided at the onset of anything resembling pain. Every relaxation technique, tool, and mantra was explored in the attempt to ward off the temptation to seek artificial pain relief. Combination breathing and uses for birthing balls and stools were demonstrated; positions for early, transition, and back labor were practiced; and two videos documenting women laboring in and out of water were shown. But still, I am not convinced.

I mean, I can undestand why some women choose to go that route. Some want to meet the challenge of pain and conquer it and others want to connect to their ancestors who for thousands of years have achieved unmedicated births. But I've experienced pain before, thank you, and don't feel the need to embrace the ring of fire for the sole purpose of saying I did. And frankly, the notion that women have labored unmedicated for centuries and continue to do so successfully doesn't give me the slightest bit of comfort or encouragement. I'm sure that if you asked my ancestors who were forced to drop their babies in the midst of picking cotton only to resume work with their sucklings on their backs if they would have liked the benefit of a PDA I'd bet that they would have replied with a resounding "Hell ya." Don't get me wrong: I respect women who have chosen the unmedicated route but have no intention of digging deep within myself to connect with the power that is my womenhood. I've been dug deep enough by the Gummy Bear over the last 8 months. My proverbial threshold has been reached. I'm glad that I know what to do if, for whatever reason, an epidural isn't an option but I feel confident in my decision to anticipate one.

I think one of the best take aways from this weekend was seeing J's reactions. Because a childbirth class in a birthing center Berlin would not be complete without the placenta meet and greet, everyone had the chance to see and--yes--hold a newly aborted placenta. I don't want to see my own placenta, let alone someone elses, so I passed but my husband who never ceases to amaze not only opted to see one but to hold one. He strutted back into the room proudly declaring that placentas are pretty cool. Turns out the placenta which, interestingly enough is the only organ humans create for a purpose and then expel, looks like steak. There also appears to be a variety of nifty uses for ones placenta. You can take the scientologists approach and eat it, for instance, to replenish lost hormones and nutrients. You can bury your mutterkuchen (or Mother cake in German) under a tree as a symbol of your growing child. Or you can send it off to a homeopathic pharmacy to get it dried into a cure all pill for mother and child. Huh. Who would have thunk it?

Practically, though, J changed a diaper for a first time and was able to ask questions about childcare. We had some good laughs about the indignity (no, I'm sorry, the wonders) of childbirth, got practical information about what to expect, and we checked off one more milestone on the journey to parenthood. Turns out it wasn't a bad way to spend our anniversary --or appropriately Labor day weekend--after all.