“Sweetheart, there’s something off with my perineum!” I shout to my partner, Rick.
“Your what?” he replies, confusion written all over his face.
“My perineum! You’re 39 years old and you don’t know what that is? Ugh, never mind. It’s the area that ain’t the vagina and ain’t the butt! Anyway, there’s a bump down there, and it stings like crazy, but I can’t see it!”
“Could it be a hemorrhoid?” he suggests, raising an eyebrow. “Have you been straining much?”
“Possibly. This little one has definitely put a hitch in my giddy-up down there. Would you recognize a hemorrhoid if you saw one?”
“I might, but I’m not sure I want to have that experience with you.”
I can’t blame him for wanting to keep his distance from my potentially roid-ridden perineum, but this is the same guy who rushes to hold my hair back during my bouts of morning sickness—an act that seems a lot more intimate to me. I’m often trying to yell “get away!” in the midst of all the retching, but he just hops on the vomit train without a second thought. Sweet, yet a bit much.
Anyway, after politely declining to play doctor, Rick hands me a tube of Preparation H and leaves me to sort it out. The bump feels way better almost immediately, so I think he might be right, which saves me the awkwardness of discussing it at my next OB appointment.
Five years ago, when I first met Rick in a dimly lit lounge, I never thought I’d be asking him to check out my pregnancy-related hemorrhoids. This is pregnancy for you—the mystery fades away fast. It vanished the moment I started peeing with the bathroom door wide open. I know, I know, but if I didn’t, we’d never finish a conversation. That’s how often I’m making bathroom trips now.
And don’t even get me started on the sneezing. I could’ve sworn I was a well-trained adult, but now, every little sneeze unleashes a bit of a mess. Dust allergies combined with my aversion to cleaning means I’m sneezing and peeing like a puppy my partner never asked for.
As for the gas? Let’s just say I could fuel a small boat right now. I could burp the alphabet backward if I tried. If someone were to stick a pin in my belly (please, don’t), I’d soar across the room like a cartoon balloon.
The miracle of life can be downright ridiculous at times. But, of course, nothing compares to that inevitable moment of panic when the delivery room staff is yelling, “Stay up by my head or you’ll be traumatized for life!” There’s no unseeing things like pooping on the delivery table or seeing crowning. An emotional epidural should definitely be available for partners to encourage a blissful post-pregnancy amnesia. I suspect this exists already, or else there wouldn’t be that many families out there with more than one child! Thank goodness for science.
If you’re looking for more insights about pregnancy and how to navigate it, check out this excellent resource on artificial insemination. And for those considering the DIY route, Make a Mom has a great at-home insemination kit that can help.
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