Bottoms up

WARNING: Contents of this post contain graphic imagery that may be disturbing to some readers / people who may some day hire me.

I have three friends who are pregnant and due around the same time in late August / early September. Two are first-timers, one is a veteran. I'm not going to pretend that I have any sound advice to give these women, other than to just cherish every second because it flies by (and every rube tells you that), so I won't bother. Except for this: feel free to ignore all advice. It's often well meaning, but equally often useless.

A sampling of the most oft-given words:

"Get sleep now while you can!"
"Take lots of pictures!"
"Don't fret if you take a dump on the delivery bed!"

Now the former two are sort of hot air: you can't store up sleep in reserves to be used at a later date, and anyone who is 35 weeks pregnant and up is operating on vapors, so why insult the poor woman? And you're either a photo-taking person or you're not. The old man trolling the canned foods aisle at Price Chopper spinning some yarn about not getting those days back isn't going to inspire the Annie Leibovitz out of someone. And I happen to be the sort of person who takes 25 consecutive shots of my daughter sleeping with the camera set to "sports mode" (you've probably ignored them on Facebook) so that advice was a little bit overkill.

Now the last bit is one I heard in more personal settings, using hushed tones befitting an exchange of the most intimate secrets. The teller may place a warm hand atop your own, look you square in the eye and reveal this detail as though they were the only person on earth ballsy enough to do so. Meanwhile, this is practically the first thing out of the doctor's mouth during the initial office visit: "Congratulations! You and baby are healthy! I look forward to you crapping in my face in 32 weeks!" Friends revealed this, siblings revealed this, the old man in the canned foods aisle at Price Chopper revealed this. I've heard it called the "best kept secret about childbirth." Spoiler alert. Not since "The Crying Game" has a secret been more manhandled.

The thing is, I have no idea if I did the deed during delivery or not. I made Greg promise never to tell me. On the one hand, he never said, "No, you didn't" which you think someone would say if you really didn't, but on the other hand he still looks me in the eye, which I'm not sure someone who can't even say the term "bowel movement" is capable of doing after potentially witnessing such a disaster. Then again, the man went to Haiti mere days after the earthquake last year. God only knows what he's capable of compartmentalizing.

Our conversation went something like this:
Me: "Don't ever tell me whether or not I took a dump during labor, kapeesh?"
Greg: "Ok."
Me: "You can tell me if I didn't, though."
Greg: "You just said not to tell you."
Me: "But only if it's bad! Wait, never mind. Let's stop talking about this."
Greg: "Praise Jesus."

I'm pretty sure I didn't because, well, you think you'd be able to tell, right? But there was a lot going on during those 75 minutes so who really knows (besides Greg)? My right leg was completely dead from the epidural, and I was vomiting between pushes, and I still fancied myself a childbearing Shecky Greene with the jokes I was cracking, so honestly there was a lot I may have missed.

There's part of me that won't let my mind go there, but then there's the greater part that doesn't give a crap (pun intended). I got a beautiful, healthy baby out of the deal. So what's a little poop between total strangers? And my husband?

Greg, God bless him, spent a good amount of time holding the barf bucket for me, so he wasn't entirely dialed in to what was happening every second of the delivery process in that, ahem, region. But when I spoke to him on the phone earlier and told him what I was writing about he said, "I really don't think you did." Then there was a long pause and he added, "That's disgusting."

So, to-be moms, I'm not telling you anything you don't already know, but I would strongly recommend not caring.

But like so much advice before this, it ain't shite.