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If the folks at CPS want proof I’m an unfit parent, I’m handing it to them on quality card stock, stuffed inside a pretty envelope.
My everyday routine as a pregnant lady involves peeing on demand. When I imagined labor, I expected to pass the time by stretching on an exercise ball or pacing the hospital’s long white hallways.
But my doctor is concerned about the baby’s heartbeat – it drops dramatically every time I have a contraction – and so I am confined to a labor bed, an IV of fluids in my arm, an oxygen mask on my face, and belts stretched across my belly to monitor the baby. My doula rubs lavender essential oil on my temples, and my husband plays “Push It,” the Spotify playlist I created for labor and delivery.
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t’s the birth of my first child, and I’m seven, maybe eight hours into labor. The nurse crosses her arms in front of her chest while I squat over the toilet, one hand hoisting my hospital gown up toward my enormous belly, the other dangling the plastic cup in an area I can’t even see. If there’s one thing I’ve mastered during pregnancy, it’s peeing into cups.
Whatever time it is, I’m well past the point of caring about modesty, so I don’t even think it’s strange when a nurse follows me into the bathroom. My obstetrician’s office required a urine sample at most every visit to check hormone levels.
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“And of course, you cannot breastfeed the baby,” the nurse finishes. He shows his phone to every nurse who steps foot in the room.
“See,” he points at a page from Drugs.com, then flips to CBS News stories about false positives, archives of reports, message boards with anecdotal evidence. “I’ll prove it.” I realize how much we sound like the prisoners who argue their innocence or patients in a mental institution who say they’re not crazy.
When I ran into him at a film screening, I thought a photo with him would be the perfect way to announce my pregnancy declare my love for the show, which is about a teacher-turned-methamphetamine dealer.