If you are looking to motivate a stubborn uterus, there is nothing like a good old-fashioned threat. Here is how it works:
When Castor Oil proves ineffective, you next prescribe the use of a gel laced with hormones. Then, when this stimulates a little light-hearted contracting, you lay down the law.
"Uterus," you say, "either get on with it by early morning, or we will dose you with Really Strong Drugs that will make you wish you'd never been born and the baby had."
The uterus, being a sensible organ, will oblige and take up the task at around 4:00am of the day on which the Really Strong Drugs were scheduled.
This will please the Midwives, who will cancel plans for Really Strong Drugs. Around noon, they will come over for a look-see.
They will decide that breaking the water is a good idea.
Next, World War III will break out. It will hurt more than anything, let me tell you. This will make the Midwives happy, so they will suggest that maybe it is time to go to the hospital now.
The roads on the way will be extra bumpy.
When you get to the hospital, they will be having a fire drill and the elevators will be 100 per cent out of commission so you will sit in the admitting waiting room for 45 minutes while World War III (which hurts A LOT) rages in your belly.
After the fire drill is over and they let you go upstairs to Labour and Delivery Room 19, you will get into the conveniently located bathtub, which makes World War III feel a bit more like Vietnam. You will stay there for a long time, and the Midwives will keep coming in to say things like "you're making great progress."
You will be glad to hear that, but not so glad as you might have been if only these contractions didn't totally hurt like stink.
This will go on until around 6:30, when the bathtub trick completely loses all effectiveness and World War III hostilities resume. You will decide that now is an excellent time for the Midwives to give you some nitrous oxide.
Nitrous oxide is not as much fun during childbirth as it is during a cleaning and fluoride treatment. Still, it is a whole lot better than no nitrous oxide, so you will keep the gas-mask very close by.
At about 8:15 the Midwives will tell you that you are fully dilated and that it is time to push. This means that you will soon have a baby and also that what you had thought was a whole world of hurt was really just a little taste. A pain appetizer, if you will.
Every time your obliging uterus contracts from this point on, you will lower your chin and hold your breath and push down really hard with your diaphragm. This will be so uncomfortable there isn't even a word for it. (Later, you will discover that a baby who comes down the birth canal sucking her thumb requires a whole lot of extra stretching.)
You will keep doing this for an hour and a half, and the Midwives will begin to say things like "I can see your baby's head!" They will keep their cool even though you feel like you have completely lost yours, and they will tell you everything is going to be just fine and that your baby seems terribly strong and healthy. You will not be able to imagine doing this without them.
Then, at 9:45, with one final Herculean squeeze, out will come Junior. She will be huge and pink, and she will holler like any sensible person would under the circumstances.
For once in his life, your smartass husband will be completely without words.
At long last, your little Safety Carrot will be in your arms, breathing her first breath. And you will name her Clare.
