Ashley Needles

 Growing up in Utah, I had classes broaching subjects like episiotomies, lamaze, and more. Needless to say while I didn't want kids, I had my birth plan ready to the letter all the i's dotted and t's crossed. I planned a relaxed at home delivery with my birth partner in a tub of purified water, dim lights and the sounds of the ocean playing over a pre recorded sound track of my heart beat. I wanted erotic stimulation if labor stalled. I wanted delayed cord clamping and UV lights on the ready with an infant eye mask.  With Res out of the picture, some of that obviously went out the window. As my due date came and went, my pre labor continued. Two weeks of contractions starting and stopping. Alone in a hotel room (chosen for its location relative to a hospital with a level five NICU and not for the black mold growing inside the bathroom or drug addicts in the hallways or gun shots down the street) I kept asking myself how I was going to do this. How was I ...

Being pregnant, I've noticed something, everyone and I mean everyone tells my partner what to do for me. "Rub her feet," "Rub her back," "Make her take it easy," etc. and while I have to say I'm a huge fan of massages and putting my feet up, and all this advice is well intentioned, people don't know my partner.  Res tries to give me massages but ninety nine percent of the time his hands are cut up from being a mechanic, electrician, plumber and more. He works himself to the bone in bitter cold and blistering heat and when people tell him all the things they think he should be doing for me, that he just can't, he feels like crap.  He is doing more than one person should ever have to do. To me, he is a super hero without the tacky cape. Today he worked on his sister's car, his grandfather's van, and a truck to sell for some extra cash to feed and cloth our baby, then he did a mountain of dishes by hand.  While I've cooked a few th...