Recently, during a conversation with another mom and writer, what began as a candid talk about the messiness of motherhood turned into an amusing contest of shocking confessions. By the end, I was convinced I had taken the prize. Amidst the laughter, I came to a rather unsettling realization: I seemed to be curating a collection of placentas.
It all started innocently enough. My partner and I enrolled in prenatal classes led by a wonderfully free-spirited doula. Her hippie aura was palpable, and it turned out that many of the expectant parents in the class shared her unorthodox views. We were all on board with midwife-assisted deliveries, and a couple of us even discussed home births. So, when our instructor introduced the idea of placenta encapsulation, we were all ears.
“Placentas are packed with nutrients designed to nourish your baby during pregnancy!”
“Your body is accustomed to these nutrients, so it makes sense to gradually wean off them instead of discarding them!”
“We’re the only species that doesn’t consume our placenta after giving birth!”
It all sounded reasonable.
For some inexplicable reason, I found myself emotionally attached to the idea of these encapsulated pieces of my own body. That placenta was an organ I had nurtured to support my child! Disposing of it felt wrong.
To my surprise, our doula offered placenta encapsulation services, and she was convincingly passionate. By the end of the class, nearly every mother opted for the service, which involved preparing the placenta with traditional herbs, then dehydrating it (a process I still prefer not to imagine). The promise? Relief from postpartum anxiety and the baby blues.
However, what I didn’t foresee were the unexpected bonuses that came with my order of placenta pills. The tincture to soothe teething discomfort for my baby? Great. Placenta water? Why not? The artistic keepsake, featuring bloody imprints of my placenta on paper? Intriguing. And then there was my dehydrated umbilical cord, shaped into a heart in a little bag. That was just plain bizarre.
Yet, I pressed on. For weeks, I took those placenta pills with determination. I faced challenges breastfeeding and prayed to my “placenta fairy” for help. Then mastitis struck, forcing me to halt my regimen. By the time I was cleared to resume, my motivation had vanished.
Thus, the pills sat untouched on our counter for three long years.
My partner was less than thrilled about my $100 investment in pills made from my own body parts, and he frequently expressed his disappointment with pointed glances. If I had discarded them, we would have likely forgotten they existed. Instead, they remained a constant reminder of my “wasteful” decision, their presence mocking me from the jar.
Yet, for reasons I couldn’t quite articulate, I felt a sentimental attachment to those capsules. After all, that placenta was a vital organ that sustained my daughter! I couldn’t just throw it away.
Fast forward nearly three years, and I welcomed my second child, a son, at home. It may sound more adventurous than it was, but if you’re accustomed to epidurals, birthing on a pullout couch without any pain relief felt like a real leap into the unknown.
After delivering my hefty baby, the midwife asked if I wanted to see the placenta, which turned out to be just as impressive as my son. When she inquired about my wishes for it, I hesitated. I wasn’t about to spend another $100 on pills but felt I couldn’t simply discard it. Exhausted and foggy from labor, I gratefully accepted her suggestion to place it in a Tupperware container and freeze it until I could decide what to do.
Now, a year and a half later, that container still occupies a corner of our freezer. Each time I rummage through, I inevitably spot the unmarked tub and briefly wonder what’s inside—oh right, my placenta. But I never take action. Disposing of it feels impossible.
I do worry, however, about the day my mother decides to cook something using the unidentified meat she found in our freezer. I imagine my dad and husband chewing on it, and my mother exclaiming that it should be tender after hours of slow cooking. I would be left wondering if I should be disgusted that they were eating my placenta along with their meal or relieved that it finally served a purpose.
For anyone navigating the complexities of motherhood and fertility, you might find useful insights in articles like this one about the IVF process or explore this resource that provides a joyful perspective on the journey. Additionally, if you’re looking for ways to enhance fertility, consider checking out this post.
In summary, motherhood is filled with unexpected twists and turns, from the sentimental attachment to something as peculiar as a placenta to the humorous potential of family gatherings that might take an unexpected culinary turn.