I know that all the good women of the world shriek that we should not judge each other’s mothering. I get it… really I do.
Let me start by saying I have made great strides in this area. I no longer say anything to parents with 5-year-olds using soothers, sitting in strollers at the mall. I have found some inner peace around women who breastfeed well after the kid can march up, lift her shirt and demand Babby Nookums. I have even managed to stifle myself when I see Mom cutting up meat for a 12-year-old because he is too busy on his iPhone in a restaurant. I tell myself “she is coping the best she can.”
See? I am getting there.
Where I draw the line is at people who EAT placenta. Their own, somebody else’s, who gives a shit?
Let that sink in. Placenta eaters. People who eat a bloody, disposable organ that was delivered to their plate via vagina.
…That is just weird.
On the Earth Muffin Hippy website that promotes this practice, I found this gem: “Eating your placenta is said to help you recover from the birth, as well as help ward off the baby blues. There’s no scientific evidence that it works, but we do it anyway.“
Seriously? What on earth would prompt you to do that? Just because the animal kingdom does it why should we? My dog eats cat shit, are you going to take that up too? I would want some pretty damned strong evidence that this was worth doing before I would sign up for “postpartum liver and onions night.” It is called afterbirth for a reason. If the baby is done with it… you should be too.
What I really wonder is what the poor husband thinks of this? My bet is that he figures if he doesn’t go along with flower child wife’s idea, he isn’t going to get any rumpy-bumpy until he chows down on the miracle gift from her body that made his baby. Guys do not do these things of their own volition. I am willing to bet $20 he doesn’t tell his friends about it either.
Can you picture the scene at poker night? “Hey guys, we spent all last weekend freeze-drying the gelatinous ooze creature that slithered out of my wife’s coochy after the baby was born. I sprinkle it on my eggs in the morning. Want to come over for brunch?”
No. They do not.
Now if some scientist (a legitimate one) said that eating my placenta would have taken away the 67 pounds I gained, made my baby sleep, caused my husband to be less irritating, or solved my child-care issues, I would have eaten it raw at the hospital.
Take vitamins, sure. Eat healthy, and find things to do with kale that make you not gag it up by all means. But please stop doing weird shit with your placenta. Bury it in the yard in a ceremony to honour the birth… and then invite us all in to crack a beer afterwards.
But know this: if you are a hippy and have recently had a child, I will look with suspicion at every shaker on your table.