Have you ever had that friend who, when you first met him or her, you didn’t quite know what you thought about them? But after a little while you became very close and ultimately grew to have the utmost respect for them? Well, that, my friends, is how my relationship with midwives evolved.
I originally thought that midwives weren’t funny, and the reasoning was two-part.
1.) Midwives are legitimately awesome and not to be laughed at unless they’re being funny, which probably won’t happen because…
2.) Midwives aren’t very funny. Usually. But then again they’re generally working and therefore being professional when I’m around them. But they only occasionally find my jokes funny, which leads me to assume that they’re not funny. Because I am, people. I’m effing hilarious.
So here’s a recap of my first encounter with one. Let me give you some back story first, though. I have only slept with one man in my life and he has also only slept with one woman. Me, duh. Why would a guy sleep with anyone else when I’m available? We didn’t start having sex until much later in life than most, so the need to get a pap smear was never something I cared about early on. Plus, I went awhile without health insurance then when I got it I was busy working a million hours a week. Plus, I’m immortal so it’s pretty self explanatory that I didn’t need someone sticking cold metal things in my bajango to tell me that I’m awesome. But, evidently, awesomely immortal or not, if you’re going to have a baby you need to do it where someone knows what’s going on with bajangos and being able to help you with the birth process. That’s where the midwives, the birth center they work at, and their humor come into the picture.
I didn’t want to give birth in a hospital because that’s where people go to be sick and stuff. Plus, I hate hospitals; they’re entirely too white. I’m more of a red and charcoal-gray person myself. I’m an overall healthy individual and much more holistic in nature than a hospital usually likes or appreciates. I wanted to go to a birthing center where my desires would be more accommodated. A home birth for my first child seemed a little more frightening, even after seeing Ricki Lake give birth in her bathtub. Wait, maybe more so after seeing a naked Ricki lake give birth in her bathtub. Anyway, I digress…
So here’s a brief look into how my first visit went: I filled out paperwork asking two bazillion questions about family history, whether or not there are guns in the house, family heritage, number of sexual partners, how long with current sexual partner, any lesbian escapades, etc. Then, right after I filled it all out the midwife sits down and orally asks all the exact same questions again in case “anything had been forgotten” (from two seconds ago from the paperwork that was just filled out). I know, I’m still giggling at the word orally too. Anyway, let’s be professional here, because we’re talking about vaginas.
So when asked aloud (I can’t say orally anymore because of your immaturity) how many sexual partners I’ve had in my life, I sort of threw a sideways glance at my husband, leaned forward, whispered, and pointed to my husband and said, as if it was the biggest sexcret in the world, “just one—him.” Sexcret was actually just me mistyping secret, but now that I see it in print I’m totally trademarking it. Don’t even think about stealing it, beeyas. Unless someone wittier than I has already trademarked it, which has probably happened. So the midwife takes some notes, which I assume say something like, “This lady is a saint and is awesome, but is also crazy for only having sex with one man in her life. That man is super extremely hot, though, so I don’t blame her. I’d do him.” But see, this was before I realized that midwives don’t have the same sense of humor as I do, so I got a little carried away with thinking that they take that good of notes.
Next up, boobies. When asked if I do regular breast exams I replied, “Nah. My husband likes to be in charge of all things boobs, so I guess you could say he sort of does them for me.” No chuckles or even smiles. Boobs and vaginas clearly aren’t a laughing matter here, folks.
So then the question came, “Is this accurate information that you’ve never had a pap smear before? That would be sort of crazy because you’re almost 30 years old. In China, you would be 30 already. Do you realize that?” She didn’t actually say that last part but I’m pretty sure she was thinking it. But that’s only if she knows as much about Asian culture as I do. Anyway, I was all, “Yeah I know it’s crazy, but considering I’ve only had sex with one guy and we started way later in life I was all whatevs about it.” Okay, fine. I didn’t actually say the last sentence either. Would you please stop interrupting me, and just let me finish this story?
Next came the part where they stick the cold metal things into the vajayjay. Firstly, right before she was getting ready to go all wrist-deep inside of me she stopped to ask if I had intercourse the night before. I said, “No. Not that I’m aware of” in a very matter-of-fact tone. Boy, not only did that get no laughs, but also made her spring up from her seat and turn to my husband to ask him. My husband just sort of did a facepalm, shook his head with what appeared to be embarrassment, and sat quietly in the corner hoping our future child would be nothing like me.
To my dismay, during the pap, the midwife didn’t tell me I was awesome like I had envisioned; I guess just because it’s so obvious it goes without saying. I was all jumpy, though, because I don’t like foreign things in my vagina. Yes, I know my husband is Hispanic but we could argue about semantics all day long. Semantics=Meaning and Wording, not Jews. Jews are Semitic. Try to keep up, people.
The midwife on duty rotates, so you don’t see the same one each visit. So here comes another visit with a different wife-of-mid. This one tells me that I need to exercise more and a staring contest and slight argument ensues. I decided that I was no longer enjoying that visit. My husband decided that he loved that lady because “someone needs to put me in my place every now and again.” I called shenanigans and prepared for the subsequent visits. Not by exercising any more, though. (I’m kind of a rebellious beyotch sometimes.)
Yet another midwife is met at the next visit. This one was writing with a red pen that had a strawberry on top that lit up when she wrote her notes. So, immediately I fall in love with this scenario and think obvi someone writing with that instrument will clearly be one with my humor. Nope. No smiles here either. The next visit was also with her and she was using a regular old black pen that time. We had a fairly dry conversation about pregnancy, but she seemed even a little more distant that visit. It was suggested that after the second visit with her that maybe she was just irritated because someone had stolen her Strawberry Shortcake pen.
Finally, around month 7 or 8 I think the ladies there started to half-way understand me and the appointments started to be a little bit more fun and interactive. It was right before my husband and I went out of state for our annual summer trip to the beach. The midwife decided that she should give me a copy of my chart just in case I went into labor early, while out of state, and had to give birth in a different facility. It was a 4-5 hour drive to our hotel, so I got bored and figured I’d glance over my chart to see what kind of information they kept in there. Most of it was general notes on family history and the two bazillion questions they make you fill out the first visit. Seeing notes on my nipples, cervix, and vagina was interesting. I was still unsure why, if they had to look at them every day, they couldn’t find my jokes about them funny. I figured maybe by this point, though, it was time to stop holding a grudge that they didn’t find me as hilarious as I found myself.
Then I noticed that there was a column on sexual history. Beside the question, “number of lifetime partners,” the answer the midwife had written was a question mark. A mother-effing question mark. Seriously, after the multiple times I explained that I had only had sex with my husband, there’s a question mark beside it? I found it kind of funny, but at the same time I was kind of pissed thinking that I signed my name saying everything was accurate and verbally stated the same thing. Why would anyone think I was lying about it? I told the story to a friend who I figured would think the whole ordeal was funny. Her response was, “Of course they thought you were lying. Who in the hell is like 30 years old and has only had sex with one person in their life? Only you, because you’re a f***ing Quaker Morman or something.” I understood her logic, but let the record state that I am neither of those.
The last few appointments went smoothly and were more fun than the first ones were. I ended up giving birth to my son a few days before he was due in what was a relatively quick and easy labor and delivery. The staff was great and I brought a beautiful child into the world sans any kind of drugs and, surprisingly enough, sans exorbitant amounts of cursing. My mindset on the midwives had completely changed by the end of everything and currently they’re some of my favorite people on earth. Now you’ll have to excuse me because I need to go figure out who the father is of this blond-haired, blue-eyed baby I gave birth to. My best guess is that it’s Mark’s baby. Question Mark’s baby.