So the first thing I usually like to tell people is that I am Latina. It just explains so much about me. I think, if you could see me on webcam, I might come across as prototypical Latin female: plump, with blonde highlighted hair (natural, of course -- if natural means having peroxide pain equal to seeping hemorrhoids on your scalp). I am pretty simple -- that is, true to the etiquette that makes my culture so mannered and alluring.
The birth of my first child was, no doubt, a full-out family affair. Think My Big Fat Greek Wedding, except shorter, louder, and more intrusive. I was in labor for almost thirty-six hours. One of the most annoying sights was that of my now ex-husband (another story) watching the Food Channel and making notes during it. There was once a day, however, when this same man ushered a new persona within me: that is, the woman who would once never fart in public would soon be taking a wild dump on the birthing table.
All day I had been contracting and heaving, not much different from that scene in The Exorcist, sans crucifix. I was especially troubled by the fact that I really had to poop. I asked the nurse if I could please, please use the bathroom. See -- and I am sure those of you who have had children will know what I am talking about -- when one's water breaks, there is a chance of cord prelapse. In laymen's terms: the umbilical cord starts to hang out from the coochie. Not good!
So to protect against that, I was not allowed to get up. But how was I to poop without the use of gravity? Pregnancy had bestowed upon me hemorrhoids the consistency of some sort of alien planet's surface matter. Not to mention I also had the worst constipation -- I mean, I was more backed up than a latrine in the old country.
Soon enough, that glorious moment arrived. My first turtlehead -- being that of my daughter Isabella -- began to poke out! My then husband shouts, "Wait, wait... I gotta go take a shit!"
To this day, I don't know if he was nervous or what. Bet then I was suddenly by myself (because the silly doctor had walked away thinking I had a few more hours before crowning took place). I didn't know what hurt more -- the pressure the baby put on my asshole, or the watermelon turd coming out. The nurse ran in. My DH was already out of the bathroom and looking quite refreshed! The nurse tells me not to push while she goes and fetches the doctor.
The doctor finally arrives, smears this foul cherry stuff on my in my actual cherry, and tells me to push. I tell the nurse, "I have to poop!" She tells me, "No, that is probably the baby putting pressure on your rectum."
"I HAVE TO POOP!" I yell, while the doctor is telling me that if I don't get this baby out, I will get a c-section. I am yelling back, "If I don't get this poop out, it will suffocate the freakin baby!"
I decide to push the baby while concentrating on not pushing the poop out. (Tsk tsk, I know -- I was a first timer, so I didn't know...)
Finally. I just push so hard that my DH said I literally turned purple. I think I even popped the white heads adorning my pregnant chins. I pushed and pushed, and out came a big brown baby. My now ex-DH was just aghast. "You gave birth," he said, "but not to the baby."
The nurse whisked the newborn away. And I am sure that to this day, it is in poop heaven.
Oh... my daughter Isabella was born about forty minutes later. Come to think of it, she hurt less!
