R and I had our hospital tour last night.

Pre-rant caveats (does it invalidate the rant to do this? oh well): It’s a fine hospital. All the rooms are private, which isn't the case everywhere. The tour was informative, and it’s exciting to take this step, which makes the birth seem even more real, and imminent! And the tour closed with the two reasons why we’re birthing in a hospital, I suppose—a description of the C-section area, and a peek into the NICU. If those should be needed, I want them close by.

Also, generally speaking hospitals are staffed by competent and caring individuals who are themselves hassled and constrained by a number of factors out of their control. And there are people reading this who have healthy children walking around thanks to the fact that top-notch medical care was instantly available. Others want a child so badly that they would gladly give birth under an overpass if that’s all it would take. A rant against hospitals is self-indulgent, to be sure. But hey, this is a blog. And I’m feeling really surly and sick of being pregnant. Don’t expect rationality here, for surely you will find none.

Now. [rolling up sleeves] I don’t want to get off on a rant here, but I think the problem is that I am fundamentally not a hospital birth person—unless one has a medically indicated need to birth in the hospital or one knows that one will want the drugs. In fact, the further along I get, the more I’d just as soon give birth at home with competent midwives and doulas. (It’s too late for that, but if we were thinking about a third baby…) Being in the hospital last night reminded me of everything that bugged me about the hospital the first time around—and I should say that C was born in one of the top hospitals in the country for labor and delivery. Still! Ugh, the uncomfortable bed, the incredibly uncomfortable chairbed for R, and the fact that each is too small to fit two people, so after this huge emotional event I can’t even cuddle up with the person who helped make it all possible. Not that one doesn’t also need some space… the kind of space one might have in—eureka!—one’s own home! and one’s own bed!

Hospitals are noisy. It’s well-nigh impossible to get good sleep there. The tour guide said that we will all (ah, the patronizing, prescriptive future tense—that’s a subject for a whole rant in itself) want to have the baby in the nursery at night just so we can get some uninterrupted sleep. Hey, here’s a thought if you’re so concerned about my sleep, how about not coming in every 10 minutes all night long to take my temperature and blood pressure?

And isn’t it ironic that even as they are ultra-attentive at times I don’t want them around, it takes an act of Congress to get them in when I press the nurse call button? Yes, ironic, with a side of irritating.

We learned last night that depending on when we come in to the hospital, that we may be coming in through the emergency room. Now, I know that in years past and in small hospitals still, this is the norm. But the thought of coming into the ER for something as routine as giving birth is giving me the willies. Seriously, I’m having CPE flashbacks. Emergency rooms are for heart attacks and sucking chest wounds, not a woman in active labor.

And while we’re on the “I’m not sick, I’m not injured, I’m having a baby” topic, I will not wear your wretched hospital gown with its clownish polka-dot crap and there is no reason why I have to. As for not being able to eat, what century are we in? I’m not going to tuck myself into a chicken-fried steak platter, but dammit, I’m going to eat a granola bar if I want to and it’s back-asswards madness to tell me not to. I’m climbing K2 here and you’re wanting me to fast? If I hurl, I hurl, but last time I almost passed out from lack of food so you can take your policies and get bent. And that also goes for the “routine” whisking of the baby to the nursery to put her under warming lights, unless there is a reason to do so. There are warming lights in the delivery room, and guess what? Blankets are warm. Hats are warm. I’m plenty warm. Her dad’s downright toasty. Thanks but no thanks.

Of course, that’s just my opinion. I could be wrong. Or under the influence of hormones.