Not too long ago, I was having a light-hearted conversation with a fellow mom and writer. What began as an awkward confession about my home’s disarray quickly morphed into a competition of who could share the grossest stories. By the end, I felt confident I had emerged victorious—though I also realized I might have a quirky dilemma on my hands.
It seems I’m unintentionally curating a collection of placentas.
It all started quite innocently. My partner and I enrolled in prenatal classes led by a wonderfully earthy doula, who was as hippie as they come. I suspect anyone drawn to the world of doula work carries at least a hint of that spirit, and our instructor certainly radiated it.
This was perfectly fine, as my fellow expectant parents were just as unconventional. We all chose midwives for our deliveries; some even planned home births. So, when our doula began explaining the practice of encapsulating placentas post-birth, we were all ears.
- “Placentas are packed with nutrients that nourish your baby in the womb!”
- “Your body is accustomed to these nutrients, so it’s better to gradually wean off them instead of discarding them!”
- “We’re the only species that doesn’t consume our placenta after giving birth!”
It all seemed quite reasonable.
For some reason, I felt a deep sentimental connection to these encapsulated remnants of myself. That placenta was an organ I nurtured to support my daughter! Tossing it seemed unthinkable.
To my surprise, our instructor offered a placenta encapsulation service, and she was truly passionate about it. Every expectant mother in our class opted for the service, which involved steaming the placenta with traditional herbs and dehydrating it—how, I still wonder, is a mystery to me. The goal? To help alleviate postpartum stress and the baby blues.
What I hadn’t anticipated were the additional items that came with my order of placenta pills. A tincture for my baby’s teething? Great! Placenta water? Sure! A piece of art made from my placenta’s imprint on paper? Intriguing—definitely a conversation starter. And then there was my dehydrated umbilical cord shaped into a heart, resting in an organza bag. That one was just plain weird.
But hey, all for the greater good, right?
For several weeks, I confidently took the placenta pills. I struggled with breastfeeding and prayed to my “placenta fairy” daily. Then, mastitis struck me down, and I had to pause my regimen (for reasons I still don’t fully understand—ask about Chinese medicine). By the time I was cleared to resume, my motivation had vanished. I admit, I have issues with follow-through.
So, the pills sat on my counter for three years.
My husband was not thrilled about the $100 I spent on capsules made from my own body, especially since I never took them. Every few months, he’d glance at the jar, shake his head, and express his disappointment. If I had just tossed them, we would have both moved on. Instead, they remained a constant reminder of my “investment,” their little eyes glaring at me from the jar.
Yet, I couldn’t bring myself to discard them. That placenta was a life-giving organ!
Fast forward nearly three years, and I welcomed my second child, a boy, at home. The experience was less granola than it sounds; if you’re accustomed to epidurals, giving birth on a pullout couch with no pain relief qualifies as quite the adventure.
After delivering my hefty 9-pound baby, the midwife asked if I wanted to see the placenta. Apparently, my baby wasn’t the only big thing! I marveled at it, a creation of my own body.
When she asked what I wanted to do with my impressive placenta, I hesitated. I certainly wasn’t paying another $100 for pills this time, but tossing it seemed wrong. Exhausted and dazed from labor, I settled on her suggestion: put it in a Tupperware and freeze it until I could decide.
And there it remains, a year and a half later.
Every few weeks, I rummage through the freezer for dinner options. Inevitably, my gaze lands on the mysterious container in the corner, and I think, “What’s in that Tupperware…oh right, placenta.” But I never act on it; getting rid of it feels off-limits.
I do worry about the day my mom pops over and decides to whip up a stew with the random meat she finds in our freezer. I can imagine my family chewing on something a bit rubbery, with my mom exclaiming that it should be falling apart by now. I’ll be left wondering if I should be grossed out that they’re all eating my placenta or relieved that someone finally did something with it.
For more insights on pregnancy and home insemination, check out this excellent resource on MedlinePlus, and if you’re interested in trying out at-home methods, Make a Mom has great products to help you on your journey. You can also dive deeper into this topic at Intracervical Insemination.
In summary, what started as a light-hearted conversation turned into a humorous reflection on the unexpected journey of motherhood—complete with the quirky, and sometimes unsettling, traditions we embrace along the way.