Why a Certain Word is Banned in our Home

A few years back, when my eldest was just about to head into High School, certain vocabulary components had to be formally verboten.  (We had a toddler in the house who loved to repeat things.) These days, I've softened a bit.  I've come to realize that by making something "forbidden fruit" it holds that much more appeal to my offspring. For the most part this has worked well. Swearing within parental earshot rarely occurs, and so far, no one has been sent home labeled a "potty mouth" from friends'.

But there is one word, however, that elicits a reflex reaction to feed someone a bar of Lever 2000 without fail.

 WATERWORLD

It has nothing to do with Kevin Kostner, sinking movie sets, weak plot lines and people with gills. That stinkin' movie came between me and my last chance to experience childbirth with all the comforts modern medicine had to offer.

A bit of background (but not too much, for the squeamish set.) It's the mid 1980's. I'm two weeks overdue with possibly the largest fetus in the world. I am also 4 feet 11 inches tall. Labor has lasted for more than 12 hours, my epidural refuses to kick in, and my doctor, old enough to have delivered my own parents, (possibly my grandparents), is reluctant to opt for a c-section. I'm wheeled to x-ray, where films are taken and the radiologist declares, "Heck, you could drive a truck through there." After my eldest was born, tipping the scales at an ounce under ten pounds – I felt as if someone had done just that.

Five years later, her brother was nearly born in the cab of a Ford Ranger desperate for new shock absorbers. There was no time for medication.

Six years, further down the line, my current husband, Fred, spent a week talking me into having another baby. We had survived our first year as a "melded family," and he wanted a little one bad.

His arguments were persuasive.

1. Having a child together would bring us all closer.
2. We weren't getting any younger.
3. I'd be able to buy all the cute little outfits our budget could wrangle.
4. And this – the ultimate," I'll be there with you the whole time, and make sure that you get everything you need. I want to SHARE this with you."

I... am... such... a... putz…..

Eleven months later we're in a "birthing room" at a brand new hospital in Southern California. My doctor has opted to induce labor three weeks before my due date because I've got a galloping case of gestational diabetes (I resembled a beach ball with feet), and this child is already estimated at around the 8 pound mark. I've been assured no more ten-pounders in my future.

What could go wrong? This was a planned event. We even had cable television and designer furniture to make the waiting less tedious.

An intravenous feed of pitocin, the most evil medication ever wrought by man, was introduced to my system. After about 3 hours, with little progress (my youngest to this day is the most intractable of the bunch) a decision to "break my waters" is made. With a pat of my hand, the doctor confidently states that things should really get rolling soon. Then she leaves.

Rolling? Like a rockslide down an 90 degree angle, let me tell you!

Now, my husband's first wife was, shall we say, a bit more dramatic than I am by nature. She apparently wept, prayed and called for her mother when the going got rough. So, is it any wonder that Fred didn't think we were at a critical transition when I leaned over to where he was comfortably watching television and asked," Could you go get a nurse for me?" (The hospital while new, was still waiting for the non-emergency call system to function properly.)

I should explain at this point, Fred has a predilection for the obscure when it comes to his television viewing habits. I can't explain it. Other than this quirk, he's a normal, intelligent, well-read and logical man.

With great reluctance, he tore his gaze from – you guessed it – WATERWORLD (hand me that bar of Irish Spring would you…) – and ambled off to find a nurse.

A moment or two later he returned and calmly stated that no one was out there, and took a single step toward the television.

"Honey, I don't think you understand. I really would like to get my shot now. Please go find someone – AND DON'T COME BACK UNTIL YOU DO!!!" It was my best imitation of a fire breathing Ernest Bourgnine.

He slowly backed from the room. 20 minutes later, he  returned explaining that a woman was having twins in the next room, and the entire staff was in there.  They couldn't just up and leave.

Whatever he'd seen had spooked him. His method of dealing with it?  Why settling back into the cushions of the thoughtfully provided easy chair. Within seconds he was enrapt of life on the open water with Mr. Kostner.

Oh, there was the token counting and reminder to "breathe, two, three, four," but his focus was clearly out in the Pacific in search of a place with dirt.

My husband didn't move again until the doctor arrived an hour later. At least he had the good sense to shut the tube off at that point. (She was a female doctor, who had also recently given birth.)

"Can I please have my shot now? I'm really not comfortable any more. Please!" I begged.

One quick check on my progress, and the doctor scooted her little three-wheeled stool toward the top of the bed.

Gently taking my hand she said, "I'm sorry, it's too late. It's time to push."

Angry adrenaline is a force to be reckoned with. Our daughter Danielle was born within the next fifteen minutes, in utter silence simply because I didn't want the first word she heard to be the f-bomb directed at her father.

A few hours later, visitors started to arrive. Both the newborn and I had been made somewhat presentable – I'd even been granted a token happy pill (Tylenol with codeine) for such an efficient performance. Fred, the proud papa, announces over and over again, "We had a drug free baby. That's right, this kid is organic."

After the third repeat of his new catch phrase, I beckoned him near.

"If you tell one more person 'We had a drug free baby' I will see to it you have a drug free vasectomy."

We are still happily married. It was never necessary to interfere with my husband's anesthesia for that, or any other procedure.

But to this day THAT WORD is not spoken in our home, upon pain of soap.