Reading pregnancy literature while pregnant is hazardous to one’s state of “OHM”. Sounds counter-productive, I know, but I have found myself ignoring, more and more, the tedious, nit-picky pregnancy advice that moms are inundated with as they gestate, mostly from well-intentioned magazines, newsletters, and TV shows. I know, I know- baaad mommy! I am so the slacker mom. Sue me and whap me upside the head. So I came up with a random list of the things I…just…can’t…seem to care about so much. Maybe it’s the second pregnancy slackage. Am I a terrible person, doomed to have a baby with seven toes and a tail? You decide.
1. Caffeine. The day I don’t drink a cup of java in the morning is the day that I cease to breathe. You can pry my Starbucks out of my cold, dead fingers…no matter that I’ll probably be dealing with Super-ADHD-kid in a couple of years. coffeecoffeecoffeecoffeeyum
2. Kegels. I mean really. I do them every now and then, but my pelvic floor is disturbingly lazy. By the time I do five or six, my lower half is roaring in dull protest. Then I forget that I was doing them in the first place, so I move on. Yawn. Don’t…seem….to…care….
3. Prenatal vitamins. One place I read said to “take them religiously”. My midwife insists that even Flintstones chewables are somehow going to make the difference between trollbaby and gorgeous latin offspring. I’m lucky if I get them down 3 days a week.
4. “Childbirth refresher class”. Reading this in one of my recent pregnancy magazines made me laugh. My forgetfulmommybrain isn’t SO far advanced that I can’t seem to remember the last birth. Mind-knumbing, agonizing pain for 30 hours tends to leave a mark on the memory….and on the pelvic floor, apparently.
5. “Babymoons”. Apparently this is the new indispensable thing for birth. In a perfect world, where I have Angelina Jolie’s abs and R has Brad Pitt’s money, we would go to Chateau Elan for their babymoon package (which start, in case you’re curious, around $1500 for four days) and try and forget that we’re not going to sleep for the next 6 months. I’m not sure if rose petal baths and seaweed wraps would help, so we’re “babymooning” in Hilton Head for a few days over Spring Break. Would we survive without it? Undeniably.
So as I navigate these last two months of gestation, skillfully floating about with whale-like grace, I choose to be selectively deaf regarding certain stress-inducing minutiae which fail to contribue to my sense of “ohm”. Will I be shortly welcoming a six-toed lemur sprouting green hair and a bad case of hyperactivity? Will I look back on these days of willful ignorance with stabbing shards of regret? Will I never measure up to the fabulously meticulous Hollywood mommies, who take their prenatals and do Kegels till they glow with pelvic potency? Probably not.
Pass the Flintstones.