Sometime between my first baby and my second, after being present at the accidentally unassisted birth of a beautiful baby named Gavin, I found Dr. Amy Tuteur.
And she makes me so irrationally angry. Posting around her and her followers turns me in a hateful, defiant brat, which ironically, is exactly what she thinks I am.
But I have learned some things from her and her blogs, so here's to Dr. Amy:
1) My OB doesn't really like me. He might listen to my questions with an air of patience, and answer them with kindness, but he feels highly inconvenienced and possibly offended that I even have questions.
2) Should I find myself in a labor that might be progressing too quickly to get the hospital (though how I would be able to recognize and determine this on my own is a mystery), my primary concern should be finding a cab driver who can safely deliver my baby. Another passerby might do, particularly if he's in law enforcement, but cabbies are really the best.
Under no circumstance am I to cease panicking and attempt to take some sort of control of the situation myself, for I am the least qualified person imaginable to interpret the sensations within my body.
Additionally, any urge to push should be dismissed as imaginary and any instinct to alter my position must be suppressed as radical and dangerous. I cannot block the cabbie's access or view. He's a professional.
3) I am not responsible for my own feelings and reactions. I am allowed to interpret the opinions and experiences of others as a direct indictment of myself, a dynamic which those expressing said opinions and experiences are entirely culpable.
So, in other words, I'm allowed to read into anything "you" say (or type), take it personally, and then blame you for it. Cool, huh?
Furthermore, any desires or fears for the management of my pregnancy that I develop, not expressly described by the Standard of Care at my local hospital, are the indisputable result of malevolent and misogynistic brainwashing. I'm not responsible for those either.
4) Lastly, Dr. Amy has taught me that sadly no, my mother really doesn't understand me, and she probably never will.