It’s like grandma’s house but with more bodily fluids.

This is a guest post by Lauren of Mommy is Rock n Roll, after our experience at the birth center.  Look for my take on it in the coming days.

On Wednesday Bobbi and I bundled up our kids and went on an adventure to the Birth and Women’s Center in Dallas for Bobbi’s first prenatal appointment with the nurse/midwife/whatever.

I was stoked because after doing some research (okay, I consulted Dr. Google) and tweeting my fears about a repeat cesarean I have decided that when I get pregnant again I will do whatever I can to have my baby delivered in the most natural way with the least interventions which is what I should have done the first time around.

Hindsight. It’s a mother fucker.

Anyway, this was my first visit to a birthing center (Bobbi’s too) so I didn’t quite know what to expect but I knew that it would be perfect. Like a bed and breakfast for labor and delivery. The adjacent park was beautiful and I could see myself holding hands with my husband walking along the tree-lined path through contractions and feeling at peace with what I was doing.

Yeah. Notsomuch.

We walked into the converted home (I believe it’s about 100 years old) and were immediately confronted by an adorable waiting room. Seriously. Your grandma lives here. Our presence was detected and we were invited upstairs to to wait outside the office so Bobbi could fill out some paperwork.

The walls along the stairwell were lined with baby footprints from the babies that were delivered at the birthing center. My uterus cried out. They were so tiny.

We all go into the exam room and the midwife/nurse/whatever starts asking Bobbi the routine medical history questions (you had eye surgery twice? You will definitely need to fill me in on that!). She seemed cold. Mechanical. Not like the crunchy hippy embracing midwife that I was expecting to encounter. In fact, there was a lot about her that was off-putting. Not only that but I felt like she was annoyed that our children were in the room. I kept them occupied during the exam but it’s kind of hard to chase down one-year-old Ian while he’s running around the sofa while I’m nursing Avery so that she’ll quit fussing. Gimme a fucking break. I only have two hands, nursey!

I digress. Like, a lot.

Afterwards we were asked no less than ninety billion times how we got in without taking the tour first. OH THE MOTHER FUCKING TOUR! Apparently the tour of the birthing center is a sacred ritual that gains you access to the building and allows you to schedule appointments.

One of the midwives (I assume she was a midwife; she did not introduce herself) finally offered to give us a quick tour (Halle-fuckin’-lujah) of the place.

The birthing suite was really nice and the bathroom was sparklingly clean. No afterbirth chunks in sight!

OH! Speaking of bathrooms. The birthing center is a place where human beings come out of your vagina. GET SOFTER TOILET PAPER. It was like cheap gas station toilet paper in the bathroom. My ass did not appreciate their stinginess.

After the tour Bobbi and I asked the midwife some basic questions about the center and I asked her about VBAC (vaginal birth after ceserean). She pretty much said that they don’t do them at the center but that they have a relationship with OB’s that feed into Baylor Hospital who do them and they don’t want to rock the boat on that relationship. Really? I thought that birthing centers were a safe haven for women to get away from the CUT ‘EM UP GET ‘EM OUT TAKE THEIR MONEY mentality of the hospital.

Apparently not.

What this made me see is that birthing centers are businesses too just like hospitals. Yes, their philosophies may be different but they’re in it to make money.

Oh well. It’s like I always say: Mo’ money, mo’ problems.

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About BadWolfBobbi

Chronic Over-sharer with Schizoaffective bipolar type. Wife, Mother, Texas Aggie, Whovian.
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