It’s all about the Pelvis, Baby

Like old war stories and legendary football game tales, for we women, the births of our children represent something to be proud of-- a battle we’ve fought and won. 

Today is my son Jon’s 20^th birthday. As an additional birthday gift, I promised him that this year, I would not remind him, at certain important times of the day, what it was like in my “Labor and Delivery” room 20 years ago. I might have gone a bit overboard last year, when at 8:30 pm, I said, “You’re crowning!” He didn’t like that much, but I enjoy reminding him that I went through Hell to get him into this world. It’s all part of the mother-guilt continuum. In my defense, as the mother of two boys, I still consider it my duty to “out-gross” them now and then.

There’s a world-wide, centuries-old, sisterhood for women--where the only joiner fee is to have actual birth experience to share. Each birth is different and special. Each birth has its “Slasher Movie” elements, too. In fact, I think some thriller movies must record actual women in their 2^nd stages of labor.

My birthing story begins with a claim...that the “Giving Birth Act” simply has to do with getting an oblong peg through a round hole. The complexities enter into the picture based on the size differential.

I’ve been told all my life that I had wide hips. A doctor even congratulated me once for my hip breadth, saying that I should have no problem delivering children. It turns out he was snorting too much K-Y Jelly. For birthing---it’s ALL ABOUT THE PELVIS and mine is the size of a Cheeto.

As for the oblong peg...a successful vaginal birth also depends on the circumference of your baby’s head. With Jon, he decided to stay in the womb an extra 2 weeks past his due date for the sole purpose, apparently, of enlarging his head. Ultra-sound images suggested I was either about to deliver a nearing 12-pound baby...or a manatee.

My August 30^th, 1989 performance of “Pushing a Manatee through a Cheeto” was one for the record books. At one point I was on all fours, feeling more like a mare in a barn stall than a woman, praying for death. Unnatural sounds came out of all orifices. My eyeballs bulged, my ears and nose grew. I even think I pushed a unicorn-horn out my forehead. When Jon finally emerged, after 8 hours, I expected him to be hideous, a side-ways-football-headed “Stewie” from “Family Guy.” But he was an 8 lb. 12 oz. adorable doll with a perfectly normal head. No explanation from the doctor, no, “I’m so sorry, Heidi, for scaring the unicorn-horn out of you...our ultrasound machine must be on the fritz.”

Oh well, I got a good story out of it. 

And a wonderful son.