Strange Fruit: The Rosy Afterlife of Two Placentas Buried in My Front Yard - Part Two

Two glasses of merlot can change everything, especially intentions. I'm rushing like a mo fo to complete this post before the stroke of midnight in order to keep up with NaBloPoMo. I feel like a tipsy Cinderella, staring down the clock, fearing that my fancy coach/buggy will -- poof -- turn into a pumpkin and I'll end up either stranded in the sidebar or thumbin' a mystery ride to the end of this post.

I'm supposed to be blogging tonight about my strange fascination with my trio of placentas and placenta rituals the world over. So here I go.


A pretty bud from Pigtail Sprite's (we think) authentic placenta-fertilized thriving amethyst rose bush.

I left off in a tizzy last night moaning superfluously about my high-risk pregnancy with my first child, my son, The Maestro of Mouth, now 5. Let's speed up to the here and now. So, my two latest placentas from the home births of my youngest children are buried in the front yard, perpetually fertilizing the rose bushes sprouting upward, reaching toward the children's bedroom windows. Perhaps they are trying to reconnect with the babies they once nourished. Doubtful.

My husband, who you'll recall buried both placentas without my knowledge one full moon night, doesn't remember which child's placenta is buried beneath which child's bedroom window. This upset me even more than not being part of what I had hoped to be a memorable albeit freaky ritual.

I don't know if the placenta-fed rose bush stretching faster than our wildest dreams toward the window pane of 2-year-old Pigtail Sprite's room "belongs" to her. And I don't know whether the overly thorn spiked, dwarfed and not yet budding stubble of a rose branch creeping closer to the ground than to 3-year-old Moody Cheeks McGee's room "belongs" to him. It matters to me which belongs to whom, but I'll never know. "Pauvre bebe," as ma tante Claudette used to say to me in a thick French-Canadian accident whenever I was feeling bad for myself as a lanky little girl.


Moody Cheeks McGee's (we think) overly thorny placenta-fed rose bush. Thorny like his hot temper.

I often wonder while tossing a half-eaten by Pigtail Sprite Nerf football around the parched, sunburned front lawn with the boys if the state of each rose bush is indicative of the state of the placenta at full birth-maturation. Cheek's placenta was hulking, deformed and had grown dangerously old. My midwife thought it looked better suited for twins than for a single baby.

I remember walking into the bathroom just moments after delivering Cheek's placenta and nearly passing out at the gorey sight of the afterbirth sliced open on the counter near the sink. My midwife poked the bloodied, fleshy single-use organ and flipped it like an omelet with her gloved hands, the ones that had only moments before magically helped glide Cheek's out of me with a literally ass-saving perineal massage.

By my third child, maternal placenta inspection (and worship?) wasn't even a consideration for me. "Just bag it, please," I curtly told my midwife, who'd offered me a glance at the meaty mass, again heaped on my bathroom counter, halved for her close scrutiny.


Pigtail Sprite's mauve rose bush can't be stopped. It reaches her window again and again, even after persistent pruning.

The condition of the placenta upon delivery can be a window into the overall health of the pregnancy, baby and even the mother. Then there's the practical business of making sure no placenta particles are left inside your womb to rot and cause infection and painful cramps, as if you won't be gripped with afterpains anyway.

Can I just cheesily say at this point that we women rock? Think of it -- We co-create life, bring it/push it into being all on our own (without dying, in most cases) and even manage to (creatively/respectfully or not) dispose of the no longer necessary nourishing organ effortlessy conjured up in just nine months.

Hey, have you ever heard of a Lotus Birth? At least I didn't try that, not to knock those who have. I believe it's when the mother leaves the delivered placenta attached to the newborn via umbilical cord for as long as possible, maybe even until it ages/degenerates enough to fall away from the child on its own. I can imagine it's a pretty intricate and smelly endeavor but never wanted to find out for myself.