Chicken Soup for the Expectant Mother's Soul

by Jack Canfield

  At six and one-half months pregnant, I can barely manage a quick walk, let alone a full-fledged run. Activities I used to take for granted, such as getting up from a chair without a grunt of effort, are things of the past. Even my family is shocked at the enormity of my belly. A friend likes to tease me about twins.

  He tugs my hand more urgently and repeats, “Run, Mommy!” I start to shake my head no, but then I hesitate. How many times have I told him “no” lately?

  “No, Nicholas. We can’t play that rough—it could hurt the baby.”

  “No, I can’t give you a horsey ride. You see, my back aches constantly now.

  “No, Nicholas. I don’t want to color—I just want to rest.”

  These months of pregnancy have been bittersweet. I deeply love this coming child and delight in every little nudge and kick. But it has occurred to me that this is the last time in Nicky’s childhood that it will be just the two of us. Soon enough he will have to learn to share . . . Mommy’s lap, Mommy’s hugs, Mommy’s attention.

  Then I look, really look, at him. I study his outstretched hand, so pudgy and dimpled. I suddenly realize that one day it will be larger than my own. I look into his clear brown eyes, so free from our adult world of worries. They are lit up, in love with life and so excited. “Please don’t ever grow up,” I want to tell him. “Please always stay my little boy.” He is so beautiful at this moment it actually makes my heart physically hurt.

  I kneel down to his level. (Difficult, I admit, but I manage.) Then I take a moment to think at his level. We adults spend so much time worrying—about money, our careers, our responsibilities. None of this means anything to him. He is two, and he wants to run. With me, his mommy. This means something to him. And now it means something to me.

  I grab his little hand tightly in my own. “Yes, Nicholas,” I say. “I’ll run with you.” He waits for me to stand, and then we’re off! His sturdy legs pound the pavement fiercely as I do my best to keep up.

  It flashes through my mind that to other people we might look pretty ridiculous. A running toddler pulling his pregnant mother (who is by now huffing and puffing) along behind him. Nicholas looks at me with a huge grin. “Run, Mommy, run!” and laughs. Faster and faster we go. I am laughing out loud now, too. I forget about my aching back and my huge stomach. I forget about everything except how much I love my son. Though I lag behind, not once does he let go of my hand.

  We finally do pass someone, a silver-haired lady. Instead of a strange look, she gives us a genuine smile. Maybe our joy is contagious, or maybe she remembers her own son at that age. Or maybe, just maybe, she sees what’s really happening. While Nick and my feet are busy running, our hearts are busy flying.

  Nicole Smith

  My Baby Brother

  My baby brother is not here yet,

  I’ve seen him in pictures, but we’ve never met.

  I’ve seen all his toes on both of his feet.

  I cannot wait until the day we meet.

  I’ve seen his eyes, his nose, and his mouth,

  and a little something toward the south.

  I’ve seen his arms, legs, and belly too,

  just three more months until he is due.

  I’ve seen the connections with the umbilical cord

  the way he lies there—he must be bored!

  I’ve heard the sound of his heart . . . beating fast,

  I cannot wait till we meet at last.

  I’ve even felt him move inside of my mother,

  I cannot wait to meet my baby brother.

  John Conklin, age thirteen

  The Eleventh Hour

  Dear God, I pray for patience and I want it right now!

  Oren Arnold

  I was nine months pregnant with my first child. My once-slim, attractive body had bloated like a blowfish. I could no longer reach my feet over my gargantuan belly. It seemed as if I had swallowed the whole Earth; my roundness was awe-inspiring. Tying my shoelaces made me look like a crazy dog chasing its tail. Around and around I’d go searching, searching, for the strings. They mocked me with their click-clack, click-clack, against the floor. My once-normal daily activities had become major undertakings. Getting out of my waterbed required skill, balance and precise timing. I would stick my legs straight up in the air and begin a rocking motion. With a-one and a-two and a-three, I’d build up enough centrifugal force to defy gravity, break the sound barrier and hurl myself off the side of the bed and onto the floor on my knees in a perfect dismount. And the stretch marks! Well, if you stood my naked body next to a globe we’d be twins. I was definitely not enjoying the last month in my third trimester.

  Yet up until the ninth month, the thirty-third week, the two hundredth and twenty-second day, the eleventh hour, the . . . well you get the point. Until I got so fat I couldn’t move, I loved being pregnant. I loved getting sick in the mornings. It meant my body was really hard at work making my baby. I loved the way my swollen stomach moved from side to side looking like some strange peaked mountain. The most exciting times were when I could actually feel a little elbow, the heel of a tiny foot, the roundness of a little head or bottom. I was never sure which.

  However, in my ninth month, thirty-third week, two hundredth and, well, a week past my due date anyhow, I was more than tired of being pregnant. I had become convinced that this baby and I would coexist in this uncomfortable state for all eternity. My husband, Lee, and I were constantly on guard. Every hiccup, sneeze, cough, burp and gas pain had us checking our watches in the hopes that the miracle of labor had finally come. Then one night, lying on my waterbed, trying to sleep, something happened! PAIN, like I’d never experienced before.

  “Owwww! Lee!” I smacked him. “Lee! WAKE UP!!!”

  Out sprang Lee from the bed with a speed that rivaled a locomotive. He tripped over his pant-legs that he was trying to pull up, but undaunted he leapt forth like a runner from the gate. His eyes were unfocused and glazed as he groped around frantically for his glasses. With his hair going in every direction, his pants pulled halfway up and his eyes darting from left to right like a cornered animal, I didn’t know if I could trust him to tell him what was really happening.

  Sticking one leg up in the air and trying to rock back and forth, I did my best to call upon the dismounting skills I had obtained during my pregnancy. All I succeeded in doing was creating a tidal wave effect in the bed.

  “Lee! Help me up here, would ya?” He seemed to have forgotten me in his frantic search for his glasses.

  “Found my glasses! Keys, I need keys! And a shirt, where’s my shirt?”

  “Lee! Just HELP me UP would you! I’m not in labor! I just got a stupid charley horse in my leg!”

  He stopped as if he’d just slammed into a brick wall. Doing a 360-degree turn, he finally made it to my side. With a-one and a-two and a-three, I was on my feet and Lee was on his knees before me, rubbing my poor tortured leg . . . which only made it worse.

  “Oh, just go back to bed will you!” I said ungratefully. “I’m not having a baby tonight!”

  My sensitive husband fell into bed not bothering to take off his pants or his glasses and was snoring again in two minutes flat.

  I hobbled around the room walking away the pain, and I thought about how funny being nine months bloated was. Would my body ever go back to “normal”? Was I ever going to quit obsessively thinking about every second, minute, hour of each day, overly aware of each bodily function I had? What kind of mother was I going to be? Was I ever going to get to be a mother? One thing for sure, this child was already teaching me important life lessons, like being patient! Better to learn that lesson before the baby got here.

  The pain receded and I rolled back into bed. I fell asleep telling myself over and over . . . it has to come out sometime . . . it has to come out sometime. I cuddled as close to my husband as my girth would allow and drifted off with visions of little pink booties, soft downy baby blankets and the smell of Johnson and Johnson baby shampoo dancing through my m
ind. With a contented sigh, I imagined how wonderful, how beautiful, how satisfying it would be to finally sleep on my stomach again!

  Melanie L. Huber

  Garbage Day

  Garbage collectors were picking up our trash as my wife walked back into our house. A particular barrel was very heavy. “Lady, we can’t take this,” one man called out. “It’s way over the weight limit.”

  My wife turned her eight-month-pregnant figure toward him. “It didn’t seem that heavy when I carried it out,” she said.

  Without another word, the man emptied the barrel into the truck.

  Gil Goodwin

  Notes of an Expectant Father

  One hour before our first childbirth class, I promised Virginia that I would be supportive, pleasant and affectionate. Furthermore, I agreed not to crack jokes, laugh at inappropriate times, bring up strange subjects, or take notes and write a story about the exciting, yet intensely personal, experience of having a first child.

  “Just one minute,” I said. “You know all those little things you want to buy for the B-word? This story will pay for them.”

  Okay, I could write the story but not reveal overly personal information. I would be kind to the other people in the class. I would pay attention to the teacher.

  At our health maintenance organization, where the classes would be held for the next seven Wednesday evenings, we followed a pregnant woman into a room on the second floor. Then Virginia went to buy juice, leaving me alone in the room with three pregnant women. We sat around a big table.

  “Nice weather we’re having,” I said.

  “Yes,” one replied softly. Her face reddened and she looked down at the table.

  Aware that one wrong word might cause them to burst into tears, I continued in a friendlier tone, “I’m really looking forward to this.”

  They all smiled, blushed and looked down at the table. Another pregnant woman entered the room and took a seat.

  I figured that the ebb and flow of powerful hormones caused their shyness, but why were no other men here? Husbands no longer drop their wives off at the hospital and then pick them up a week later with the baby. Nowadays we stay by their sides, start to finish, a rewarding and loving experience, and the responsible thing to do.

  While I dared not ask where the husbands of these pregnant women were, a little pillow talk seemed safe. Nobody had pillows, including us. Pillows and childbirth classes go together like Dalmatians and firehouses. Sooner or later you need pillows in class. Only I hoped it was later.

  “We forgot to bring our pillows,” I said. “Think we’ll need them tonight?”

  “You don’t need pillows in breast-feeding class.”

  Childbirth class was held in the room next door. Pregnant women—more than I had ever seen gathered in one place, including the maternity section at the department store—waddled around the room or sat in chairs against the wall. Their husbands were by their sides, holding the pillows.

  In each class private and sensitive topics were discussed openly: emotional highs and lows, fears, aches, pains, things that dripped out of the body and other personal matters—all of it good stuff to write about. Unfortunately, at the first class, I forgot to bring pen and paper to take notes.

  Virginia and the rest of the class busily took notes when the teacher spoke. They wrote down the date we would watch a movie in class, the date we would learn how to deliver a baby if unable to make it to the hospital in time and other important dates. Why write that stuff down? Class was every Wednesday night. Just show up for class and something will happen. If it’s the movie week, then we’ll see a movie. If it’s not, we won’t.

  Meanwhile, dynamite quotes and other subtle nuances of body language and facial expressions to record—never to come this way again—flew over my head.

  Desperate not to miss any more information, I whispered to Virginia every time somebody made an unusual comment. “Write that down,” I’d say. “Be sure to get that,” or “Don’t miss that!” One term to record at all cost, used by the teacher, was “Lactation Consultant.”

  “Get it, get it, get it,” I demanded, whispering louder, leaning closer.

  She whipped around like a cobra and hissed, “Shhhhhhhhhh!”

  Everyone turned and stared at me. Publicly scolded by my wife, I looked down at the floor. I knew what they were thinking: “She wears the pants.”

  Due dates were a common topic of conversation among the women. The date served as an introduction.

  “When are you due?”

  “April 20. And you?”

  “March 30.”

  “My name is Ann.”

  “Nice to meet you, Ann.”

  The men also discussed due dates. “When is your wife due?” really meant, “Do you have to go through this whole thing before or after me?”

  Weight gain was another frequently discussed topic, although the way the women discussed it evolved over the course of the class. Intoxicated by the joys of expectant motherhood, they initially overcame the taboo of making public one’s weight and talked total poundage. That is, until one woman announced that she weighed 191 pounds. Eyebrows rose. One hundred and ninety-one pounds. Nine pounds shy of 200 pounds. The next week they spoke mostly of net gain, pounds gained during pregnancy, which ranged from twenty to forty-five pounds. Forty-five pounds! After that, they limited the discussion to pounds gained over the last week.

  The men discussed weight gain as well. Many of the husbands had kept pace with their wives.

  “I gained three pounds last week,” said one woman.

  “That’s nothing,” added her husband. “I gained four.”

  During one class the women shifted uneasily in their seats and wore horrified expressions as the teacher vividly described the long drawn-out spasms of pain they would experience in labor. Of all the concerns I had about childbirth—a list too long to enumerate—the physical pain of labor, I can say bravely, was not one of them. That pain may be intense, but it’s temporary, forty hours max. What will really take it out of the hide is paying for the B-word’s college tuition in eighteen years.

  “Embrace the pain,” I advised Virginia, rolling my r’s and waving my arms. “Rrrrevel in it. Never rrrrun from it. That’s how swamis walk over hot coals.”

  Her responses to these sermons ranged from “Give me a break” to a more terse and less polite remark. Her grandmother suggested that a man could only understand the pain of labor if he passed a kidney stone. Her husband had done so. When she saw him lying on the floor, doubled over, screaming, her first thought was, Now he’ll know what labor was like for me.

  The other couples in classes eventually grew accusto med to my note taking. Generally, when they took notes, my pen was still. And when their pens were still, I took notes.

  Frequent discussions about private matters made those topics seem more ordinary and less sensitive. As commonly as the carpenter calls for a hammer or saw, we in childbirth class used the V-word, the S-word and the G-spot. I had even become desensitized to the B-word. Baby baby baby. . . I could say it ten times in a row.

  The teacher predicted this would happen. The more we learned about giving birth, she said, the more relaxed and comfortable we would become with the subject. She even predicted that during labor women would not mind having strangers in the room; they would lose their shyness.

  “When you’re in the delivery room, you won’t care if the horse cavalry rides through,” she said. “Some of you will say things you never knew you were capable of saying. You’ll slap your husbands and swear at them.”

  Good story idea, I noted. Talk to obstetricians about what they have seen and heard in the delivery room.

  Three doctors addressed us for twenty minutes prior to one class. One of them, or one of the eight obstetricians who did not work at this facility, would deliver our baby. They answered questions while the class scrutinized them. Not that scrutinizing them made any difference. Whichever doctor was on duty would deliver our baby. Nevert
heless, we ranked them.

  The people’s choice was the woman doctor who had given birth herself not too long ago. She established an instant rapport with the class, answering questions in a direct manner, explaining all the options. Choosing second place was difficult. Both Doctor X and Doctor Y earned points for humor. Soft-spoken, X had a subtle sense of humor. We smiled at his witticisms. Y, on the other hand, told jokes that elicited loud, raucous laughter—as raucous as a roomful of pregnant women and their husbands can get. When he answered questions, he shot up from his chair and bounced on his toes. Both lost points for wearing eyeglasses, which might fog up if things got too hot or steamy.

  One noticeable trait of Doctor Y, which ultimately swayed our decision, was that his hands moved constantly. He rubbed them together, drummed his fingers on the table, adjusted his eyeglasses, scratched his nose, patted his lap, folded them together and unfolded them, nonstop. It reminded me of a third baseman anxiously pounding his glove, keeping his head in the game, ready for a hot line drive. Doctor Y was ready to catch babies.

  We gave second place to Doctor X.

  At the last class, all the couples shared their feelings and asked their final questions. Over those past seven weeks, much camaraderie had developed. We planned to have a reunion in several months. Then everybody thanked the teacher and spoke of all they had learned.

  What had I learned? Well, I had learned a lot, but I couldn’t recall any of it—information overload. There were so many details to remember. If substance A drips out of the body and smells like B, don’t worry. But if A smells like C, call the doctor. To get all the Latin, the female anatomy and the odors straight, a useful learning tool for husbands would be a scratch-n-sniff coloring book with a pop-up baby on the last page.

  But no such learning tool exists. I can only hope that when the moment arrives, it will all come back to me. Until then, I’ll review my notes.

  Scott Cramer