Lamaze and the Little Spoon
I knew the basics of childbirth and had even witnessed several births on my OB/GYN rotation in medical school, but I felt the need to attend the local hospital’s lamaze classes.
“Absolutely not!” my husband snarled, while mimicking the first beat of a choir conductor’s motion, tracing the outline of an upside down T. “I am a surgeon and I can’t attend a class like that!”
Maybe I wanted to attend because a part of me romanticized those classes? I had witnessed so many of them in eighties and nineties sitcoms, with women wearing terry cloth headbands and bright colored legwarmers. In spite of his reluctance, I dragged him to class. He was still wearing his dark blue scrubs from work, while I sported a stretchy black maternity dress with equally stretchy black tights.
As an icebreaker, the teacher instructed each couple to share what they did and didn’t enjoy about pregnancy. I remember saying I missed wine as my non-enjoyment answer and my husband’s face grimaced, as though someone had sliced his flesh wide open with a serrated rusty old steak knife. After class, he screamed all kinds of insults, while reminding me of my blunder that night-admitting I missed alcohol.
“What would people think” about me missing alcohol when we were “both physicians,” but more importantly that he was a surgeon!
I recounted the pre- and post-birthing class fits at couples therapy with A.M. After listening to the details of his calescent contempt, she simply stated that he was clearly triggered and that “his OCD,” (obsessive compulsive disorder) was flaring up. And that was pretty much that.
Shortly after his I-don’t-want-to-go-to-childbirth-classes-because-I’m-a-big-important orthopaedic-surgeon tantrum, I encountered what, in retrospect, was the first major fracture of our marriage. I was in about my eighth month of pregnancy, when one Saturday night, after a long day of rounding at several hospitals, I noticed my husband on his phone way more than usual. My intuition fired fiercely as I passed his office. He was at his desk typing on his phone when we made eye contact and he looked startled-like a child whose mother had caught him grabbing one too many cookies from the cookie jar.
That look jostled me. He passed out on the couch shortly thereafter and I grabbed his phone to investigate further. Now snooping was not something I’d hitherto done, but in this moment, I knew the breach of privacy was necessary. I saw some benign messages between him and an operating room nurse named…well I’ll call her Ryleigh.
Knowing something didn’t add up, the word “iPad” dropped into my brain and I grabbed his. After what felt like forever for the dead iPad to charge and start up, I found messages between my husband and Ryleigh which made me want to throw up, though throwing up wasn’t a big part of my pregnancy until that moment, and made a lot more sense. Avocado Bitmojis and mildly inappropriate banter flickered onto the screen.
All of this was particularly triggering because he tended to babyfy me. I allowed him to rob me of my sensuality and sexuality. He rarely made an attempt to flirt with me or even touch me other than getting in his nightly snuggle. Even though he was over six feet tall and I about 5’ 7”, he would assert himself as little spoon. (Now you’re probably feeling a little sick, too).
“Are you drunk?” Ryleigh asked, providing me with context that he had crossed a line with his naughty text for the first time that night, giving my vulnerable third trimester brain the sliver of a permission slip to stay.
I shook him to wake him from his slumber demanding an explanation of the iPad coquetry. He lied until eventually confessing to the sexts and that he knew what he’d done was wrong. He deleted the messages after the fact so as to not get caught after his come to Jesus moment; so he said. The following morning, I stood over his computer monitor as he showed me his credit card and bank statements to prove he’d not gone to a hotel with her or gifted her anything.
“Hmmm…Nothing there,” I thought, riddled with relief or frustration, I’m not sure.
In couples therapy, once again, our therapist made excuses for him and he promised never to repeat Bitmojigate. About a week after this horrid night, Valentines day arrived. He gave me a childlike, cutesy, (but definitely not sexy or sexual) custom-made book about our love story. It was sweet, but the timing was wretched. The pages, out of order, were a twisted metaphor for the state of our relationship. I remember the drive home from the restaurant after our Valentine’s Day dinner date and him slamming on the breaks at a stop sign as we fought, furious that I was still upset.
He was angry with me. I felt confused by the role reversal. I was supposed to be furious, not him. This, however, was a common theme in our relationship. I would shove down my feelings, my thoughts, and my pain to keep the peace at home. I always wonder if people would believe this about me. Loquatious, extroverted, and rarely quiet Prianca shutting the fuck up constantly in her own home-making herself a minute miniscule speck to make her marriage work. Well do you?