Me & My Placenta

The Incredible Story of Me & My Best Friend

Steve Behram, MD, FACOG

Copyright Notice

COPYRIGHT © 2024 by Congressional OB GYN. All rights reserved.

Caution: This book is fortified with unique individuality and humor under high pressure. Any attempt to duplicate, replicate, or photocopy this fantastical journey is strictly verboten, unless you’ve got a knack for quoting bits in scholarly rants or are using it to make friends at non-profit book clubs—those are cool per the Universal Declaration of Humorous Liberties.

Unauthorized replication of this tome may trigger side effects: involuntary giggles, unexpected guffaws, and a bizarre, nagging affection for Cletus and his ephemeral sidekick, which—let’s be honest—might just lead you on a madcap adventure seeking more.

Need to get official with us? Fancy a jaunt through the paperwork jungle? Write to the publisher, marked “Attention: Permissions Wrangler,” and prep yourself; you’re not just asking for a favor, you’re signing up for an epic quest through the bureaucratic wilds.

Remember, folks, every page of this book is crafted with wit so potent it could tickle a statue. Handle with mirth, and enjoy the ride!

Contents

In the Beginning 03

"Mom thinks (she forgot to take her pill), therefor I am."

- René Descartes

The universe doesn't believe in mistakes.

First Trimester 10

"Give me liberty, or give me legs."

- Patrick Henry

Watch me as I begin to take shape. Will I be a tadpole or a hoot? Only time will tell.

Second Trimester 21

"May the fetus be with you."

- Obi-Wan Kenobi, Star Wars

Starting to look like a mini Jedi, I am!

Third Trimester

"I'm king of the Womb!"

- Jack Dawson, The Titatin

38

Space is tight and I'm in the water.

Grand Entrance 63

"Here's looking at you, doc."

- Rick Blaine, Casablanca

Lights, camera, action! This is going to be messy.

In the Beginning

Week 1: A Royal Pain in the Side

In the beginning, there was nothing. Well, not exactly nothing. There was the universe, stars, planets, and those little packets of silica gel that come with new shoes. But as far as I was concerned, it was pretty much nothing because, well, I was nowhere yet to be found.

You see, my story doesn’t actually begin at my beginning. That would be far too straightforward, and

straightforward is a concept that seems to have no place in this universe. No, my story starts two weeks before my beginning, at a time that could best be described as the cosmic equivalent of “I’ll be there in five minutes,” which, as we all know, means anything but.

Fact: My story begins with the first day of my mom’s last menstrual period. Yes, you heard that right. In the grand, perplexing ledger of human life, my “gestational age” is counted from a moment when I wasn’t even a twinkle in anyone’s eye. My gestational journey starts not with a bang but with a menstrual cramp.

Imagine, if you will, a race where the starting gun goes off not at the beginning, but two weeks before. “On your marks, get set… oh, wait, everything started two weeks ago.” And let’s not overlook the sheer audacity of the medical world calmly decreeing, “Yes, that makes perfect sense.”

For some inexplicable reason, gestational age begins two weeks prior to conception. It’s like arbitrarily starting the clock on existence with a biological event that has about as much to do with the person’s arrival as deciding what socks to wear for an event two weeks hence.

Now, before you think this a mere oversight, a hiccup in the grand scheme of things, let me assure you, it is not. This is precisely the type of nonsensical mathematical mumbo jumbo that people who deliver babies are famous for. It’s almost as if the Sorting Hat senses their mathematical deficiency and immediately assigns them to the House of Obstetrics. If they had any math skills, they would become English majors, preferring the company of Shakespeare and Austen over Pythagoras and Euler. But, instead, obstetricians famously and triumphantly display their mathematical dysfunction for the world to see and endure.

Thanks to this calculational artifact, I begin not as a physical creature within the confines of the universe, but as a general concept or an idea floating in the prenatal ether. I feel like a wave function just waiting to collapse. I’ll have more on this later.

Yet, here, in this world of pre-existence, I find a certain peace in the absurdity. The thought of floating in the amniotic fluid, which has yet to form, feels like my very first life lesson. It’s as if a cosmic voice is whispering in my ear: “Take your time, little one. Nothing in this Universe will make any sense to you. This beginning is no exception.”

As I contemplate the essence of time and existence, I also consider the other beings involved in this grand setup. How is this exactly going to work in a couple of weeks? I guess I will have to have a mommy and a daddy. Do I just infect one of them and parasitically grow inside them, sucking out my sustenance directly from their system? If so, how do I decide which of the two to infect? And, more importantly, how long can I suck the life out of them? Does it have to stop after I am born, or can I continue to suck the bejesus out of them for years to come? Am I going to be all alone until I am born, or will they provide me with a companion like an emotional pet? I assume it will take a full week or two after conception for me to fully mature and be born. What comes next? Can I get my own car or do I have to get the crappy hand-me-down car? I have so many questions and no one to answer them. The suspense is killing me.

As I float in this limbo, I realize this is probably where I form my demeanor about my future exis-

tence. I could be filled with the excitement of discovery, delighted with the potential of all good things to come, and excited about all that life has in store for me. Or, alternatively, I could be filled with dread, nervousness, and doom and gloom. The choice is mine to make, and just as those thoughts begin to register in my non-existent brain, a wave of unimaginable pain overwhelms my non-existent body. Oh, God almighty, is this the referred pain of mommy’s menstrual cramp? I can already tell this story is not going to end well. And this is just day #1 of my uncertain journey. Can someone please give my future mom a Motrin, for crying out loud?

Week 2: The Daddy Auditions

If the last chapter left you dizzied by the cosmic ballet of conception, buckle up. We are now going to explore the equally befuddling “Daddy Auditions” and the inescapable reality that only Mommy can lug me around like an up-and-coming internal backpack. As you can tell, I was previously under the false assumption last week that I got to choose which parent I would parasitically “infect.” Much to my own dismay, I’m currently a number of steps below a parasite on the evolutionary ladder. A parasite can choose who it will infect; I cannot.

Now, still as an entity more theoretical than actual, it has further come to my attention that my residential options are shockingly limited. And by limited, I mean there’s exactly one option. It’s like being told you can vacation anywhere in the world, but your only choice is Aunt Edna’s backyard.

The exclusive real estate inside Mommy is where I’ll be setting up camp, and it’s a bit unnerving that the decision’s been made without so much as a consultative straw poll. As for selecting Daddy? Well, that’s a whole other game show altogether. Imagine trying to pick a parent based on their resume alone, but in this twisted version, you don’t even get to read the resumes yourself. Nope, that’s Mommy’s prerogative as I don’t get a say in who Daddy is, which feels a tad arbitrary. It’s like being promised a surprise party that could either be thrown by the cast of a Broadway hit or a bewildered possum—how is this for natural selection?

Here I am, an aspiring zygote-to-be, peeking over Mom’s metaphysical shoulder, mumbling, “Are you sure about him? What about that other guy who delivers the mail in what appears to be some type of military attire with shorts? Also, the Amazon delivery guy seems to have kind eyes—and a stable 401k! How about that pizza delivery guy - I’m sure he’s not declaring those tips on his taxes!” But alas, my murmurs float away, as ethereal as my current state of non-existence.

This system, undeniably bizarre, ensures I start my journey not with an intelligent, willful selection but as a silent third-wheel to some type of crazy social interaction that hasn’t even happened yet. I feel like a customer in a random restaurant. Sure, I could be served a Michelin Star meal of a lifetime, but, there is an equal probability, that I’ll leave the restaurant with food poisoning.

Furthermore, while I’m penciled in to be the star of this uterine residency, I must admit a certain curiosity about the logistics of this pregnancy thing. What’s the tenancy agreement like with the landlord? Is there a non-refundable deposit? Early termination fees? And importantly, is Wi-Fi included?

So, as I drift in this pre-embryonic ether, I accumulate questions faster than an influencer gathers followers. The answers are elusive, the setup suspect, and the whole affair smacks of a reality TV show crafted by a universe with a very odd and dark sense of humor.

As I muse on these existential eccentricities, I sense the impending complexities of life’s rich tapestry weaving together in the womb’s warp and weft. And somewhere, in the back of my unformed mind, I can’t help but wonder: Will it all make sense one day, or is confusion the main theme of the human condition?

Whatever the answer, I hope the next chapter brings at least a semblance of clarity—or at the very least, a sensible choice in Dad’s footwear. After all, we wouldn’t want to start off on the wrong foot.

Even with all this pre-birth contemplation, I can’t help but feel a bit envious of those other entities with more straightforward existences. Take plants, for example. They just sprout wherever their seeds land, blissfully unaware of the concept of parental selection. They don’t have to ponder which daddy fern has the best fronds or if the neighboring tree’s bark is indicative of a stable upbringing. Their biggest concern is sunlight and water—talk about simple living!

How could I explain the feeling and the anticipation that I would feel if I would come into existence? It’s a bit like being a contestant on a game show where you don’t know the rules, can’t see the prizes, and aren’t even sure you want to play. Yet, despite all this uncertainty, there’s an undeniable excitement in the air. The anticipation of life, with all its quirks and absurdities, is a thrilling adventure waiting to unfold.

So, I’ll sit tight, trust in Mommy’s very questionable judgment, and hope that when the curtain finally rises on my grand entrance, I’ll be greeted by a Daddy who’s more Broadway star than bewildered possum. After all, a little faith in the cosmic lottery never hurt anyone, right? And who knows? Maybe that bewildered possum will surprise us all with a Tony-worthy performance.

Week 3: Winning the Genetic Jackpot

Imagine, if you will, the ovum, my better half, resplendent in its single-cell majesty, lounging in the cozy confines after emerging from the ovary. This half of me is enjoying a tranquil day, perhaps sipping on a metaphorical cup of tea, blissfully unaware of the impending chaos about to burst into her serene abode.

Suddenly, without warning, the tranquility shatters. The calm is replaced by the distant roar of an approaching stampede. My better half looks up, eyes widening as the sheer magnitude of the approaching mob comes into view.

Picture a scene straight out of an action-packed blockbuster. Millions, yes, 200 to 300 million, of eager sperm cells—tiny, wriggling, energetic, each one of them a little overenthusiastic—

charging forward like an over-caffeinated marathon. Each one convinced they’re the hero of this story, destined to win the ultimate prize and merge with my better half. Each of these swimmers has the potential to be my other half.

I barely have time to react before the first wave hits. It’s like the running of the bulls, but on a microscopic level. The sperm cells, all shapes and sizes, with their little flagella flailing like they’re in the world’s smallest, fastest swimming race. They jostle, they wriggle, they elbow (or would, if they had elbows) each other out of the way, each shouting (silently, of course), “Let me through!”

Amidst this frenzy, my better half maintains its poise. If it had eyebrows, one would be raised in a perfect arch of dignified exasperation. “Oh, for the love of mitosis,” I would exclaim if I had lips. “Is this really necessary?”

But the sperm cells are undeterred. They keep coming in waves, each one more determined than the last. It’s a scene of microscopic mayhem. Some get lost, taking wrong turns and ending up in entirely the wrong places. Others crash into each other in their eagerness, creating tiny pile-ups that would make rush hour traffic look like a leisurely Sunday drive.

In the midst of the chaos, one particularly audacious sperm pulls ahead. This one is a born leader—or swimmer, rather—cutting through the crowd with the grace of a tiny torpedo. With a final, triumphant wiggle, half of me joins my other half. It is as if in this improbable universe, a piece of white bread with peanut butter just joined another piece of white bread with grape jelly and a sandwich was created.

With no prizes for second place, third place or runner up, the race is over. The crowd disperses, the chaos subsides, and the ovum, ever the gracious host, lets out a sigh of relief. “Well, that was certainly something,” it thinks, settling back into its now not-so-quiet solitude. But there’s a hint of a smile—after all, it’s not every day you’re the star of the greatest race never seen. As the scene fades, we leave the ovum and the triumphant sperm to their important work, setting the stage for the next chapter in the epic saga of life. Because in the end, every journey, no matter how chaotic, leads to a new beginning. And what a beginning it is!

Week 4: The Fallopian Freeway

Ah, the moment of triumph! The ovum and the valiant sperm have finally joined forces to create a new life—me, Cletus the Fetus. But before we can settle into our cozy new home in the uterus, we have to embark on a grand journey down the Fallopian Freeway.

Buckle up, dear reader, because this is no ordinary road trip.

As soon as the merger is complete, I, Cletus, find myself in a state of bewilderment. One moment, I’m a microscopic star in the biggest race never seen, and the next, I’m in the middle of what feels like a high-speed chase down a winding, cellular highway. The Fallopian tube, while cozy, is like a bustling metropolis at rush hour—full of twists, turns, and the occasional traffic jam.

My first observation: The Fallopian Freeway is not exactly a smooth ride. It’s more like an intergalactic roller coaster, with peristaltic waves pushing me along like a tiny, biological surf boarder. Every few seconds, I’m jolted forward, my embryonic self bobbing and weaving through a sea of cilia that line the tube walls like eager spectators at a parade.

Now, these cilia are a curious bunch. They remind me of overzealous cheerleaders, waving me onward with their tiny, hair-like structures. “Go, Cletus, go!” they seem to chant, each wave propelling me closer to my destination. If only they could hand out snacks, this journey might be somewhat bearable.

But what’s a road trip without a few obstacles, right? The Fallopian Freeway has its fair share of potholes and detours. Occasionally, I encounter a stubborn protein or a rogue hormone, blocking my path like an errant tumbleweed. It’s a good thing I’ve got my trusty zygote instincts to navigate these tricky situations. A quick dodge here, a little wiggle there, and I’m back on track.

As I continue my journey, I can’t help but notice the scenery. The walls of the tube are adorned with all sorts of fascinating cellular art. It’s like traveling through a microscopic art gallery, with vibrant, abstract patterns that would make even the most avant-garde artist jealous. I make a mental note to send a postcard: “Wish you were here, enjoying the tubal tapestry!”

About halfway through my journey, I start to feel a bit peckish. Embryonic travel, it turns out, is hungry work. But fear not, for the Fallopian Freeway has the best roadside diners—placental snacks, anyone? These delightful little nutrient-packed goodies give me the energy boost I need to keep moving. It’s like having a trail mix bar every few millimeters.

Finally, after what feels like an eternity (or roughly five to seven days in human time), I see it: the grand entrance to the uterine cavity. The gates to my new home, where I’ll finally settle down and start the next exciting chapter of my life. I take a deep breath (metaphorically speaking, of course) and prepare for the final stretch.

With one last triumphant push, I tumble into the welcoming embrace of the uterus. It’s warm, it’s spacious, and it’s ready for me to unpack and stay awhile. I can already feel the endometrial lining rolling out the red car-

pet, ready to provide the ultimate in embryonic luxury accommodations.

As I nestle into my new abode, I can’t help but reflect on the journey. The Fallopian Freeway Follies have been a wild ride, full of unexpected twists, turns, and laughs. But I made it, and I’m ready for whatever comes next.

So, dear reader, stay tuned for the next chapter in the epic saga of Cletus the Fetus. If you thought the Fallopian Freeway was a trip, just wait until you see what’s in store next!

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Follow the epic adventures of Cletus the Fetus and his beloved companion.

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hilarious, heartfelt journey from conception to birth with your wittiest womb-mate.

Me & My Placenta: The Incredible Story of Me & My Best Friend

Prepare to embark on an extraordinary journey filled with humor, whimsy, and a touch of absurdity as you follow Cletus the Fetus and his steadfast companion, Placey the Placenta, through the wondrous and often baffling stages of prenatal development.

"An uproarious and enlightening journey!"

— The Daily Womb

"A delightful blend of science and humor that will leave you both informed and in stitches."

— Literary Laughs Magazine

"Guaranteed to make you giggle and marvel at the miracle of life."

— Baby Talk Magazine

Steve Behram, MD, FACOG, is not just a distinguished obstetrician-gynecologist but also a former fetus and a masterful storyteller with a flair for finding the humor in life's most profound moments. His unique perspective and engaging writing style bring the incredible journey of prenatal development to life in a way that is both educational and entertaining.