The Dilation Station (a poem)

Ode to the dilation station,

we’ve crossed paths many times before,

but during labor, dear old toilet,

you’re not my favorite anymore.

You spice things up, you mean business,

you’re rude but oddly motivation,

because every contraction here

brings me closer to baby,

thank you, dilation station.

I’m ready to sit down, take the ride,

rock, breathe, and feel the vibration.

You ask a lot, but you deliver results,

a true MVP of dilation.

You keep my bladder nice and empty,

catch leaks once my water has broken,

you don’t judge, you don’t flinch,

you just sit there, silent and devoted.

I wrap myself in cozy blankets,

sit backwards, pillow for my head,

who knew the throne of all places

would become my labor bed?

So here’s my vow, dear porcelain friend,

I’ll stay through every sensation,

but if I’m sitting here riding waves,

someone better be squeezing my hips

at the dilation station.

And one last note, just in case,

if I suddenly feel like I need to poop,

please call the midwife or the doctor fast,

because this bathroom break

might actually be a baby on the move.