Today my colleague at work asked me if I am going to eat my placenta, and if so, would I eat it raw or have it made into pills. As my jaw proceeded to drop and dribble extricated itself from my mouth, I managed to splutter an adamant “No!” So, here’s the deal: placentophagy is on the rise and is not only limited to weirdo actors and their scientologist friends.
Naturally, I was curious as to why a person would consider eating the bloody membranous afterbirth that is expelled from a woman’s body after her baby has been born. Recent research (based on experiments conducted on rats … nice) shows that the placenta and amniotic fluid of a woman contains a molecule (POEF, Placental Opioid-Enhancing Factor) that modifies the activity of endogenous opioids in a way that produces an enhancement of the natural reduction in pain that occurs shortly after 
and during delivery. Some doctors, therefore, prescribe placenta consumption as medicine to help stem bleeding after birth and to help the uterus clean itself out. The placenta is rich in nutrients (iron and protein) that will help the mother heal after childbirth, and is also known to be a great source of vitamins and minerals, which are thought to help fight postpartum depression – vitamin B6 is great for this. Other benefits of placentophagy include an increase in energy levels, increased production of breast milk and a decrease in the likelihood of iron deficiency and thus insomnia or sleep disorders. One has to wonder why boiled, canned or pilled placenta is not readily available in local pharmacies?
Although some placenta on the cob may be a great solution to a variety of ailments, there are some ethical complications. Placentophagy is practised in the animal world, driven by the instinct of an animal to hide its young from predators. Most human beings do not have this instinct, although with baby stealers lurking around every corner it might not be a bad idea to ingest one’s placenta and amniotic fluid as a protective mechanism. Read the rest of this entry »
Half way. And how do I feel? Um … the same as I felt a month ago, and the month before that and the month before that. In fact, the same as I felt six months ago. In five-ish months a little life will be sucking on the nipples of my soon-to-be sack-like breasts. It’s a mind-fuck. I mean, I always thought that I would feel pregnant when I was pregnant – whatever that may mean. But I feel the same as I have always felt – not that I am complaining. I am still walking 40 minutes to work and back (each way please note) and I am still going to raucous metal gigs. Tonight I am going to stand at The Globe for three and a half hours to watch Troilus and Cressida, after which I will revel in a cup of delicious coffee and some truffles. 
Recently I was accosted with a vision that went something like this: me, lying on a hospital bed with my legs sprawled marinating in my own placenta juices. Like a pickled onion in beetroot sauce. Disgusting. I am repeatedly told that “birth is beautiful”. In spite of the fact that I have the maternal instinct of a flea I am happy to acknowledge that babies are beautiful. But birth. What planet are people living on? Birth is pretty damn yuck. How can episiotomies, stitches, blood, umbilical chords, forceps, injections and pain be beautiful. Associating pain and grossness with beauty sounds pretty masochistic to me. Life is beautiful. Producing life is miraculous. Giving birth may be both miraculous and beautiful theoretically and romantically but certainly not practically and realistically. It’s painful, it’s gross and it’s humiliating. Nope, I have never given birth but I am not about to delude myself into thinking it pleasant and beautiful in any way. I like to call it keeping it real. It is this very philosophy that has dictated the abandonment of my usual ‘cut the bullshit keep it real’ attitude for a brief sojourn in Pleasantville that will end, rather unpleasantly I am sure, on December 17th 2009. 
When I think MOTHERHOOD, I think of the scene in Look Who’s Talking when Kirsty Alley tells John Travolta that giving birth is like “squeezing something the size of a watermelon out of an opening the size of a lemon”. I know that the delivery process is not really what motherhood is about but I just can’t seem to get past it. It scares the living shit out of me! It’s gooey and bloody and involves 
