Fetal Position Quotes

Right. So no plans at all then?" Jenna frowned. "Other than rocking in the fetal position for a while?" "Yeah, I was thinking about taking one of those showers where you huddle in the corner fully clothed and cry," Archer offered.

Janice suddenly flopped her body down on the dusty, musty train seat and pulled herself into a fetal position. Libby stroked her shoulder, trying to comfort her. Maggie and I looked at each other. We knew Janice had more to tell us.

Life is always going to be a series of ouch-making moments, and the question was, was I going to go all fetal position, or was I going to woman up? I went into fetal position on the bed to think about this. Fetal position turned out to be very comfortable.

Iko was beginning to comprehend why humans curled into the fetal position when they were afraid.

I wanted to curl up into a fetal position and start sucking my thumb, let my tears and dripping saliva pool under me. Sorry. I tried living, tried being sentient. Can't do it. Can't live in the same universe with that.

Archer, Jenna, and I weren’t exactly clutching each other and sobbing, but we were pretty shaken as we formed a little huddle. “Okay,” I finally said. “Can we all agree that this is maybe the most screwed-up situation we’ve ever found ourselves in?” “Agreed,” they said in unison. “Awesome.” I gave a little nod. “And do either of you have any idea what we should do about it?” “Well, we can’t use magic,” Archer said. “And if we try to leave, we get eaten by Monster Fog,” Jenna added. “Right. So no plans at all, then?” Jenna frowned. “Other than rocking in the fetal position for a while?” “Yeah, I was thinking about taking one of those showers where you huddle in the corner fully clothed and cry,” Archer offered. I couldn’t help but snort with laughter. “Great. So we’ll all go have our mental breakdowns, and then we’ll somehow get ourselves out of this mess.

I went on a blind date last night. We watched a silent film. We stayed up all night talking in sign language. I fell asleep in the fetal position in her cat's litter box. Ah, 'twas a great night. I'll never forget dancing with an albino under the stars.

Sophie: "Right. So no plans at all, then?" Jenna: "Other than rocking in the fetal position for a while?

What makes you think I'm coping?" "Well, for one thing, you're not lying on the floor in the fetal position. That's a good start.

Falling apart is curling up into a fetal position and staying in bed for a week. What you were doing is having the emotional response an individual has to the loss of someone they love. We cry to give voice to our pain.

If you’re not interested in me, just tell me. You don’t have to ruin me for all women.” “I’m more about action than words.” I’m glad he’s making jokes, but I still wince. I drop to a crouch in front of Trent and ask in a low voice, “Are you okay? Seriously?” “Yeah, I’ll live. And by live, I mean curl up in the fetal position on my couch with a bag of ice on my nuts for the rest of the night.” “I’ll hold the ice,” I offer in a soft whisper.

The hours tick by as I lie in bed. Memories keep surfacing, tormenting me into unbelievable sadness. I can't bring myself to move. I can't fight the memories that keep filling my thoughts. I stay curled in the fetal position as each memory plays out. I can't stop them from coming. I can't make them go away. Nothing can distract me. I can't block the memories, so they continue to come.

A friend, an absolute friend, does one thing that despite all the dirt we carry under our fingernails, makes up for everything. They stay.

I'm only looking for one person. And I can't bloody see him.

Such a child sometimes.

With every new girl, you've got to start over again. We're not all pleased the same way. She might hate you after a week.

No, no, no, " she says in a sincere, yet malicious tone. "It's not me who should be mad. That would be your father for messing up our lives!" "Goodnight, Paige. Enjoy the dark." "Fuck you!" "Love you too.

Why does my body betray me? Why is there an imbalance in my brain?

Nonattachment to Results Nonattachment to results + self compassion = a supple relentlessness that is hard to match. Push hard, play to win, but don’t assume the fetal position if things don’t go your way.

I love you so much." "You wanna try telling me that sober?

When you sense that your dark night is one of pregnancy and oceanic return, you could react accordingly and be still. Watch and wonder. Take the human embryo as your model. Assume the fetal position, emotionally and intellectually. Be silent. Float in your darkness as if it were the waters of the womb, and give up trying to fight your way out or make sense of it.

McG: 11:39 PM: Tease. A: Bushy prehistoric looking veggies frighten me. Lilliana: 11:41 PM: WTH are we talking about here? McG: 11:42 PM: Fucking auto correct. VAGINAS! Bushy vaginas put the fear of God in me. Seriously, Lilly, if you’ve got one, groom that shit unless you want to see a grown alpha male curl into the fetal position and cry. It won’t be pretty. Just sayin

Dwaine, I've missed you." "Lucy, what have I done? I love you." No more skipping. We are eye to eye. "You can't love me," she states. "But I do." "She's the one you want." "What? She makes me miserable! I want to see the world and fuck girls. I'll be her babysitter forever." "She's the one you want.

No, I’m not sure,” she hisses. “But if I’m going out, I’m going out fighting.” Well, that makes one of us because if I’m going out, I’m going out screaming while crouched in the fetal position. Hey, it’s how I came into this world and it’s how I’m going out. Don’t judge.

We broke into laughter—the kind that’s your only recourse when you feel like curling up in a fetal position and whimpering like a little girl.

You had to appreciate the small things in life when the big things made you want to curl up in the corner in the fetal position and give up.

You’ve had many ordeals in the past. During these ordeals, life seemed unbearable. You may have collapsed from the exhaustion of hopelessness and curled into a fetal position. Regardless of how difficult this new ordeal may be, as with the others, this too will be overcome. It will make you stronger.

Sometimes, wanting to impress is what keeps us moving when all we really want to do is curl up in a fetal position and whimper.

I don’t always seem to be born again. Sometimes I seem to be curled up in the fetal position, hiding.

When I got inside, I just sort of stood there. There’s nothing stranger than the smell of someone else’s house. The scent goes right to your stomach. Mary’s house smelled like lemon furniture polish and oatmeal cookies and logs in a fireplace. For some reason it made me want to curl up in the fetal position. I could have slept right there on their kitchen table.

On the fifth day I knew Kaidan would have made it home. I held my breath and called him. I listened to every charming word of his voice mail, then hung up. That evening I sat on my bed and called again. This time I left a message. “Hi, Kai, um, Kaidan. It's me. Anna. I'm just trying to see if you made it home safely. I'm sure you probably did. Just checking. You can call me anytime. If you want. Anyway. Okay, bye.” I hung up and buried my shamed face into a pillow. Now I was leaving messages after he'd made it clear he wanted zero to do with me? Next thing I knew I'd be frequenting his shows to give him psycho stares from the back, and then doing late-night drive-bys to see what girl he was bringing home. The thought of him with another girl made me writhe in discomfort and curl up in the fetal position. Day six was our first day of back-to-school shopping. We still had a month before school began, but the state issued a tax-free day, so stores were having big sales. I eyed all the teensy skirts and fashionable shirts dangling on mannequins. I tried to imagine Kaidan's reaction if I came dressed like that to one of his shows, some guy other than Jay on my arm. Ugly stalker thoughts. I was full of them. Two weeks passed, and I was still tripping over chairs to grab the phone every time it rang, like now. This time it was Jay.

Terrific! Have you done Step Three?" He waggled his brows as he opened up the top left drawer of my dresser. "No. Hey! Do you mind, Nosy Newton?" "Are these panties?" he asked, holding up two of my thongs. "Because they look like dental floss to me." Oh my God. My almost father-in-law was digging around in my lingerie. Embarrassment bloomed in my face. "Ruadan, get out of my underwear!" "Fine," he said, closing the left drawer and opening the right one. "Oh! Lookie here!" "If you touch that box," I said menacingly, "I will cut off your head with your own swords. And I'm not talking about the one on your shoulders." He laughed, shutting the drawer. "You won't need a vibrator anymore. You've got Patrick." His gaze slid toward the dresser. "Unless you have different toys in there. Nipple clamps?" "I… what… oh God." I fell onto the bed, curled into the fetal position, and covered my face.

Craving a physical connection, I slide my finger along the back of Rachel’s hand. She’s asleep. Has been for a while. Curled in the fetal position in the middle of my bed, Rachel wears the mask of a ravaged person. Somehow, I missed the signs: dark circles under her eyes, the clothes that once fit perfectly now hang, her skin so pale it’s translucent.

I’m in no position to criticize, because I’m in the fetal position, and I’m bound and gagged and stuffed in the trunk of a Mercedes.

Jack, get up,” Kieran barked, lowering his hands from the doorframe. His eyes were on me, unreadable like usual. Jack moaned, now fully curled up in the fetal position.

Stuck in a fetal position I sought out my lovers.

He lay on the floor, crawled inside the lines, and curled up into the same fetal position, trying to stay within the white lines. And then, at last, he started to cry.

I’m an HSP to the core. I avoid violent imagery (I abandoned reading Elaine Aron’s The Highly Sensitive Person on my first try because—in typical HSP fashion—I couldn’t handle the frequent references to sexual abuse). I’m very empathetic, and I feel as though my head will explode when two people try to talk to me at the same time. I have difficulty making dinner while the counter is cluttered with the morning’s dishes. I lose my mind when someone is singing while the radio is playing a different song. Watching the news makes me want to assume the fetal position and never get up.

I was an easy birth, and I have never regretted it. Not even for a visit would I return to the womb. I never sleep in the fetal position, but on my back or stomach, legs flung wide. I stay out of hot dark closets. I choose rooms with windows, full of moving air. I like scattered light, a moon, stars, but will settle for anything, even that greenish glow found nowhere in nature of a Santa Monica Freeway sign.

It is a black-and-white photograph showing a naked young man in fetal position. He has entitled it "No Tail!" The fantastic fingerwork of his wings is outspread on the bed like a black lace map of South America.

throat and turned her into the undead thing that I feared. It was the worst day of my life. I found her on the floor in the kitchen, and my throat swelled. Her body lay in the fetal position, her right hand below her

Their curled-up graduation programs were on the kitchen counter. I located my name, then ripped them up and threw them in the garbage pail. Back in my room, a black-and-white “My Little Margie” rerun had begun. I watched it without sound, eating strands of congealed noodles, biting into cold, sticky shrimps curled tightly into their fetal positions. When I looked out, the sky had lightened to pearl gray. A wet breeze was stirring the catalpa tree.

As it happens, the first souvenir I bought was a dried llama fetus. Revolting as it may sound, my poor stillborn llama is actually rather cute. Frozen in the fetal position and dried stiff like beef jerky, it has the gentle, smiling face of a camel and plenty of soft, if slightly formaldehyde-scented, fur. I bought the llama fetus partly because it horrified me, but also for educational purposes, so that my eight-year-old daughter Sophia could show it to her class. (She refused.) Bolivians buy llama fetuses to ward off evil in its many guises. Bolivian miners—who, with a life expectancy of forty-five years, basically live their entire adult lives dying—look to llama fetuses for protection against dynamite explosions and the lung-destroying silicon particulates they inhale all day. Downing high-proof alcohol also helps. “The purer the alcohol, the purer the minerals I find,” one miner told me wryly.

I kiss. Anywhere with skin. Her face, her throat, her hands, her wrists. She watches wordlessly, doesn't reciprocate, doesn't even accept them. Then I give up, I find her neck and hide in the crook of it. Wrap your arms around me, Paige. Please.

In fact, I don’t read as many YA novels as I used to because YA is just so good and, inevitably, I always end up in the fetal position on the floor, rocking back and forth, mumbling about how my book will never be as good as the book I just finished.

About half of patients with pure anxiety disorders develop major depression within five years. Insofar as depression and anxiety are genetically determined, they share a single set of genes (which are tied to the genes for alcoholism). Depression exacerbated by anxiety has a much higher suicide rate than depression alone, and it is much harder to recover from. “If you’re having several panic attacks every day,” says Ballenger, “it’s gonna bring Hannibal to his knees. People are beaten into a pulp, into a fetal position in bed.

I was at least four-hundred miles from life of any kind on this particular night when it began to rain. It was one of those summer rains that come down in buckets but pass quickly. I had a full load and no desire to slide off into a ditch so I gradually slowed, the air brakes whining like a lonely animal in the deep darkness. I pulled off onto the gravel shoulder and that's when I saw her. I came close to rolling over her because of the rain as she lay curled up in a fetal position. Her entire body was shaking so hard it frightened me. The rain was pouring but she made no effort to move.

Savich stood over the metal parcel cage he’d been told was called an OTR, looked at the boxes scattered around it on the floor, streaked and smudged with blood like abstract paintings. Only the packages beneath the body had kept the blood from dripping out of the OTR. He looked down to see the body of an older man with a circle of gray hair around his head. He was torqued into a tight fetal position—difficult because he was heavy—his arms pulled between his legs. No deputy’s uniform. He wore a long-sleeved flannel shirt, old jeans, and ancient brown boots. Impossible to tell what sort of man he’d been—if he’d enjoyed jokes, if he’d loved his family, if he’d been honorable—that was all wiped away, gone in an instant, when the Athame was stuck into his heart. There had to be people out there already worrying about Kane Lewis, wondering where he was. They’d find out soon enough. Savich imagined he’d been a pleasant-looking man, but not in death. No, not in death.

She didn't want to be that girl, the one curled up in a little ball. The one under the covers in the fetal position. She'd been there hundreds of times and every single time she'd told herself to stand up. This time, win or lose, if she just stood up, she had the very real opportunity, which would never come again, to be with a man she'd dreamt of.

He’d agreed to turn himself into a vessel for his own enchantments, even though he knew it would come with a cost. He groaned and rolled into a fetal position on the throne room’s cool marble floor. Everything was terrible, and he was tired. He saw now how empty all his delusions of grandeur had been. Gavin might’ve won the Castle, but he was king of nothing at all.

I look out at the sad, pre-conditioned faces and am returned to the lost feelings. I taste the screams building up in my throat, the hurling accusations. I immediately remove myself from the physical tantrums and refuse the same old, same old destructive patterns. I will not curl up in fetal position on the bathroom floor, my sobs drenching the carpet. I practice deep breathing and kind thinking.

I felt like I was faking all of this, like I was playing the part of a student. I had the costume and the props, but I didn't really belong here. I'd pinned notes on the stupid corkboard backing of my desk, and I'd highlighted things...But it was all so meaningless. For about an hour, I had an overwheling urge to grab my bag, stuff in a few things, and take the next train to Bristol. I could be back on my parents' couch that night if I got moving. I could admit that I wasn't ready for this, that the semester was a wash. My parents would be thrilled, I was sure. Not about the semester being a wash--but certainly about having me back where they could keep me safe and sound. It would be so easy to do it. The very idea made me warm inside. It was okay to give up. I'd been brave. Everyone would say so. And yet...even as I opened a dresser drawer and figured out which things I would take with me in this hypothetical scenario, i remembered the problem. There would still be ghosts i would still have a future. I would still go back to school eventually. You can't curl up on the sofa and deny life forever. Life is always going to be a series of ouch-making moments, and the question was, was i going to go all fetal position, or was I going to woman up?

ground in a fetal position. The frog man looked down at him with a frown. “Young man, I have no intention of eating you,” he said. “Is he always like this?” the frog man asked Alex. Alex responded with a squeal almost identical to the one her brother had made. “I know, I know. Don’t worry; I’m used to people screaming at me,” the frog man told them. “Get it out of your systems. The shock will only last a minute.” “We’re sorry!” Alex finally managed to say. “It’s just that, where we’re from there aren’t many … um … frog people? Sorry if that isn’t the politically correct term for what you are!” Conner let out another high-pitched noise. It wasn’t a scream this time, but it was embarrassing nonetheless. The frog man studied their faces and paid special attention to their clothes. “Where exactly are you from?” “Pretty far from here,” Alex said.

As soon as I stepped onto the train, I knew why Shifters and Weres shunned the contraptions like E.coli avoided antibacterial agents on a petri dish. It smelled. Badly. A putrid mix of old man, sweaty socks, and cigarettes. My nose hairs didn't shrivel; they curled into the fetal position before they withered and died, leaving my nasal passage a dry, barren wasteland no longer capable of being harmed by the olfactory assault.

I lay down on one of [the rocks] in the fetal position. When I awoke it was after one a.m. and the tide was rising higher. My body was coated in salt and ocean foam. I felt like I was part of the rock and part of the ocean, and I wondered if this was how Sappho felt, even in her deepest desperation, part of the earth, like that desperation and longing or eternal cosmic want was something to be celebrated–something natural–holy even, or at least, not just something to be endured.

As a waiter served their medium-rare steaks and, on multicolored rice, cooked into fetal positions, eight medium-large shrimp, Paul realized with some confusion that he might have overreacted. Staring at the herbed butter, flecked and large as a soap sample, on his steak, he was unsure what, if he had overreacted, had been the cause. It occurred to him that, in the past, in college, he would have later analyzed this, in bed, with eyes closed, studying the chronology of images—memories, he’d realized at some point, were images, which one could crudely arrange into slideshows or, with effort, sort of GIFs, maybe—but now, unless he wrote about it, storing the information where his brain couldn’t erase it, place it behind a toll, or inadvertently scramble its organization, or change it gradually, by increments smaller than he could discern, without his knowledge, so it became both lost and unrecognizable, he probably wouldn’t remember most of this in a few days and, after weeks or months, he wouldn’t know it had been forgotten, like a barn seen from inside a moving train that is later torn down, its wood carried elsewhere on trucks.

parents, your brother. You.” He tried to turn to say something and perhaps get a glimpse of his attacker. But the man held his head down. “Okay, I understand,” Wes said. “I’m done.” “Good. Now, I’m sorry for this.” He released Wes, then gave him another jolt. It went on for what seemed like forever, though it probably only lasted a few seconds. When it was over, he lay in a fetal position, groaning. A figure strode away into the darkness. At last he leaned against the wheel of his car and took in deep breaths of the chill night air. He calmed himself. He brushed away the gravel and bits of ice from his cheek. His muscles ached. He looked around but saw nobody

Okay,” I finally said. “Can we all agree that this is maybe the most screwed-up situation we’ve ever found ourselves in?” “Agreed,” they said in unison. “Awesome.” I gave a little nod. “And do either of you have any idea what we should do about it?” “Well, we can’t use magic,” Archer said. “And if we try to leave, we get eaten by Monster Fog,” Jenna added. “Right. So no plans at all, then?” Jenna frowned. “Other than rocking in the fetal position for a while?” “Yeah, I was thinking about taking one of those showers where you huddle in the corner fully clothed and cry,” Archer offered. I couldn’t help but snort with laughter. “Great. So we’ll all go have our mental breakdowns, and then we’ll somehow get ourselves out of this mess.” “I think our best bet is to lie low for a while,” Archer said. “Let Mrs. Casnoff think we’re all too shocked and awed to do anything. Maybe this assembly tonight will give us some answers.” “Answers,” I practically sighed. “About freaking time.” Jenna gave me a funny look. “Soph, are you…grinning?” I could feel my cheeks aching, so I knew that I was. “Look, you two have to admit: if we want to figure out just what the Casnoffs are plotting, this is pretty much the perfect place.” “My girl has a point,” Archer said, smiling at me. Now my cheeks didn’t just ache, they burned. Clearing her throat, Jenna said, “Okay, so we all go up to our rooms, then after the assembly tonight we can regroup and decide what to do next.” “Deal,” I said as Archer nodded. “Are we all going to high-five now?” Jenna asked after a pause. “No, but I can make up some kind of secret handshake if you want,” Archer said, and for a second, they smiled at each other. But just as quickly, the smile disappeared from Jenna’s face, and she said to me, “Let’s go. I want to see if our room is as freakified as the rest of this place.” “Good idea,” I said. Archer reached out and brushed his fingers over mine. “See you later, then?” he asked. His voice was casual, but my skin was hot where he touched me. “Definitely,” I answered, figuring that even a girl who has to stop evil witches from taking over the world could make time for kissage in there somewhere. He turned and walked away. As I watched him go, I could feel Jenna starting at me. “Fine,” she acknowledged with a dramatic roll of her eyes. “He’s a little dreamy.” I elbowed her gently in the side. “Thanks.” Jenna started to walk to the stairs. “You coming?” “Yeah,” I said. “I’ll be right up. I just want to take a quick look around down here.” “Why, so you can be even more depressed?” Actually, I wanted to stay downstairs just a little longer to see if anyone else showed up. So far, I’d seen nearly everyone I remembered from last year at Hex Hall. Had Cal been dragged here, too? Technically he hadn’t been a student, but Mrs. Casnoff had used his powers a lot last year. Would she still want him here? To Jenna, I just said, “Yeah, you know me. I like poking bruises.” “Okay. Get your Nancy Drew on.

One ancient retired Air Force nurse does nothing but screams 'Help!' for hours at a time from a second-story window. Not six weeks ago, a huge stole HELP WANTED sign was found attached right below the retired shrieking nurse's window. Unit #5, kittycorner across the little street from Ennet House, is for catatonics and various vegetablish, fetal-positioned mental patients. It is, understandably, a pretty quiet place. But in nice weather, when its more portable inmates are carried out and placed in the front lawn to take the air, standing there propped-up and staring, they present a tableau it took Gately some time to get used to. A couple newer residents got discharged late in Gately's treatment for tossing firecrackers into the crowd of catatonics on the lawn to see if they could get them to jump around or display affect.

The Buried Bishop’s a gridlocked scrum, an all-you-can-eat of youth: ‘Stephen Hawking and the Dalai Lama, right; they posit a unified truth’; short denim skirts, Gap and Next shirts, Kurt Cobain cardigans, black Levi’s; ‘Did you see that oversexed pig by the loos, undressing me with his eyes?’; that song by the Pogues and Kirsty MacColl booms in my diaphragm and knees; ‘Like, my only charity shop bargains were headlice, scabies, and fleas’; a fug of hairspray, sweat and Lynx, Chanel No. 5, and smoke; well-tended teeth with zero fillings, revealed by the so-so joke — ‘Have you heard the news about Schrodinger’s Cat? It died today; wait — it didn’t, did, didn’t, did…’; high-volume discourse on who’s the best Bond … Sartre, Bart Simpson, Barthes’s myths; ‘Make mine a double’; George Michael’s stubble; ‘Like, music expired with the Smiths’; and futures all starry; fetal think-tankers, judges, and bankers…power and money, like Pooh Bear and honey, stick fast — I don’t knock it, it’s me; and speaking of loins, ‘Has anyone told you you look like Demi Moore from Ghost?’; roses are red and violets are blue, I’ve a surplus of butter and Ness is warm toast.

Abruptly, then, and very quickly, she went in the farthest and most anonymous-looking of the seven or eight enclosures-which, by luck, didn’t require a coin for entrance-closed the door behind her, and, with some little difficulty, manipulated the bolt to a locked position. Without any apparent regard to the suchness of her environment, she sat down. She brought her knees together very firmly, as if to make herself a smaller, more compact unit. Then she placed her hands, vertically, over her eyes and pressed the heels hard, as though to paralyze the optic nerve and drown all images into a voidlike black. Her extended fingers, though trembling or because they were trembling, looked oddly graceful and pretty. She held that tense, almost fetal position for a suspensory moment-then broke down. She cried for fully five minutes. She cried without trying to suppress any of the noisier manifestations of grief and confusion with all the convulsive throat sounds that a hysterical child makes when the breath is trying to get up through a partly closed epiglottis. And yet, when finally she stopped, she merely stopped without the painful, knifelike intakes of breath that usually follow a violent outburst-inburst. When she stopped, it was as though some momentous change of polarity had taken place inside her mind, one that had an immediate, pacifying effect on her body.

To the surprise of many sceptics, the results revealed the following associations: Full-fetal: People adopting this position tend to be anxious, emotional, indecisive, and overly sensitive to criticism. Dunkell interpreted the ‘closed’ nature of this position as indicative of a person who does not want to open themselves up to life. Semi-fetal: This position is associated with people who are well adjusted, conciliatory in nature, amenable to compromises, and unlikely to take extreme stances. Royal: This sleeping position is associated with being self-confident, open, expansive, and sensation-seeking. Prone: Those sleeping face down tend to show a tendency for rigidity and perfectionism. Dunkell thought that these sleepers disliked the unexpected, demand strong evidence for any assertion, and always arrive on time for meetings. The research also showed that those who have no preferred sleeping position have a strong need for being active, enjoy challenging work, and find it difficult to relax. However, please don’t be too upset or worried if your sleeping position suggests that you have a less-than-perfect personality. The associations between people’s sleeping positions and their personalities are fairly weak and many scientists would take them with a pinch of salt. I suspect that this is especially true of those researchers who tend to sleep in a prone position.

Nevertheless I’d like to end this chapter on a positive note about how research into how humans acquire language is leading to better informed, conscious parents. Though there has been a cultural misunderstanding that a baby’s brain is not developed enough to learn and comprehend language, nothing could be further from the truth. The acquisition of language plays a fundamental role in exercising an infant’s brain and shaping its organization, neural connectivity, and intelligence. Research on the fetal brain’s ability to acquire and download environmental experiences in the womb reveal that the nervous system’s sensory input mechanisms, such as hearing, develop long before the system’s motor outputs—in this case, coordinated muscular control needed for speech. Consequently, the brain’s potential to learn and understand language is not dependent on the infant’s ability to speak.

I blurt out my story, how I had hired Nicola to be the maîtress d'hôtel at our restaurant, Grappa, when I was seven months pregnant. How I suspected Jake and Nicola had begun having an affair when Chloe was just hours old; and how one night, when Chloe woke up and Jake still wasn't home at two-thirty in the morning, I bundled her up and strapped her into the portable infant carrier, walked the three blocks to the restaurant, and snuck in the side door. The door was locked, but the alarm wasn't on, the first odd thing, because Jake always locks up and sets the alarm before leaving the restaurant. Chloe had fallen back to sleep in her infant seat on the way over, so I carefully nestled the carrier into one of the leather banquettes. I crept through the dining room and into the darkened kitchen, where I could see the office at the far end was aglow with candlelight. As I moved closer I could hear music. "Nessun dorma," from Turandot, Jake's favorite. How fitting. On the marble pastry station I found an open bottle of wine and two empty glasses. It was, to add insult to what was about to be serious injury, a 1999 Tenuta dell'Ornellaia Masseto Toscano- the most expensive wine in our cellar. Three hundred and eighty dollar foreplay. I picked up the bottle and followed the trail of clothes to the office. Jake's checkered chef's pants and tunic, Nicola's slinky black dress, which I hated her for being able to wear, and a Victoria's Secret lacy, black bra. They were on the leather couch, Nicola on top, her wild, black hair spilling over Jake's chest, humping away like wild dogs. Carried away by their passion, they were oblivious to my approach. I drained the last of the wine from the bottle and hurled it over their backsides where it smashed against the wall, announcing my arrival. Before Jake could completely extricate himself, I jumped on Nicola's back and grabbed hold of her hair and pulled with all the strength of my hot-blooded Mediterranean ancestors. Nicola screamed, and clawed the air, her flailing hands accidentally swiping Jake squarely on the chin. He squirmed out from under her and tried to tackle me, but I'm not a small woman. Armed with my humiliation and anger, I was a force in motion. In desperation, Jake butted his head into the middle of my back, wrapped his hands around my waist, and pulled with all his might. He succeeded, pulling so hard that Nicola's hair, which I had resolutely refused to yield, came away in great clumps in my hands. Nicola's screams turned to pathetic whimpers as she reached to cover her burning scalp. She then curled herself into a fetal position, naked and bleeding, and began to keen.

She was quiet beside him, lost inside another world. One of those things that people called books. She sipped her tea with one hand and held her book in the other that was propped on top of her lap. Every now and again, he’d watch her, like he was doing now. He didn’t mean to intrude on her universe but he liked seeing her in her element. He wondered what sort of effect this book in particular would have on her when she finished it. Because every book rendered a different response. Would she cry? Smile? Let out a gasp for fresh air? Assume the fetal position? Throw the book? Have a look of indifference? Before he had met Eleana, he’d always thought that books had been harmless. Because what could words on a piece of paper really do to someone? But he knew better now, especially on those rare occasions where he himself would pick up a book and read it. Books were dangerous little things and while they seemed harmless, they were anything but. They were so much more than ink and paper. Reading a book was like meeting someone new for the first time. Sometimes you hit it off and became the best of friends. Sometimes they wrecked you in all the wrong ways. Sometimes in all the right ways. Sometimes they left you hollow. Sometimes they left you floating on a cloud. It was difficult to find that one book that completed you just as finding that one person was.

Mens formalwear is not conducive to such un-refined things as cowering in an office corner, or curling up in the fetal position on a desk.

This means that most of the births they have seen were to women on epidurals lying still during labor, waiting for it all to be over. Seeing this kind of birth over and over again causes a subconscious imprint on the mind, and many women develop enough fear of the pains of childbirth that they block the messages their bodies give them about other positions they might take in labor. Others may simply fear diverging from the norm. A woman in the first stage of labor may find it beneficial to try several upright positions: standing, perhaps leaning on a counter or tray table; slow dancing with her partner; sitting while leaning forward or propped up with pillows; squatting; or sitting in a rocking chair. Sometimes one position suffices, but laboring women usually like to change from one position to another as labor progresses. One of the most effective labors I ever witnessed was that of a first-time mother giving birth to a very large baby. She moved through the first part of labor very efficiently by belly-dancing while putting as much of her weight as possible on a long staff she was holding to steady herself. She then pushed her baby out while leaning on the bed in a kneeling position. A woman’s position during labor and birth may affect her ability to breastfeed in a couple of ways. Dr. Roberto Caldeyro-Barcia, an Uruguayan obstetrician, was one of the first to scientifically investigate the effects of maternal position on labor. In 1979 he published a study now regarded as a classic, which demonstrated that mothers in a “vertical” position had thirty-six percent shorter opening stages of labor than “horizontal” women; the “vertical” women also reported less pain than the “horizontals.” Walking helped labor progress as well, because it brought the pressure of the baby’s head against the cervix, helping it to thin and open. And the “vertical” mothers’ babies’ heads were less apt to be extremely molded just after birth, indicating a somewhat smoother passage through the mother’s birth canal. Equally important, the babies of women who gave birth in upright positions had less fetal distress at birth.5 These factors all increase the chances that a woman will have a good early breastfeeding experience. Dr.

I become familiar with cold hard grounds. On a Friday night, I drink three too many glasses of wine and I call Finn. She makes no black humor jokes. It is not an erotic mess anymore, like Sabine once told me it was. The conflict and torture is not a sign of intelligence anymore, as Finn once told me it was. It is ugly. We are exhausted. Gutted. You're too hard! she yells at me. Be soft, she orders. I'm confused, I tell her. I don't know what to grieve. I can't be in a relationship with anyone, she says, so if you have to grieve something, grieve that. She says this strongly. She means it. When we get off the phone I am in fetal position on the bathroom floor, holding my heart, while it literally aches.

Jake, who was supposed to be awake and on guard, slept in a fetal position on the floor, a hunting knife gripped in one hand.

That night, was not an unusual night at all. Although it was quiet and still, Daniela sat, keeping vigil. A single star swam, brighter than the rest, in the cosmos. And then, it plummeted softly, like a bird settling on Earth. Daniela drew the curtain again, and crouched in the fetal position, slept as best she could. Even the air smelled foreign.

Nobody’s warnings could have prepared me for what meets my eyes. The room is a dirty white box with thick padded walls that remind me of an upholstered headboard. Even the ceiling is covered, as if someone could jump high enough to hit their head. There’s nothing in the room except Nichole. She huddles in the corner in the fetal position, rocking in rapid, repetitive motions, back and forth, and back and forth.

It began raining harder and my thoughts drifted towards the waterfall from the night before. I wondered if the water might work itself into a frenzy around me and drag me down the cliff with it. Flash floods were common in this type of landscape; they came every time it rained. It kept coming down, harder and harder. I cozied up closer to the frigid rock and buried myself deeper in my tank top. By this point, the rain was building into streams and flowing off the rocks around me. I sat there in the fetal position, wondering if the rain was going to sweep me from my feeble perch and down into the dark abyss.

..my father explained to me in a hushed tone that in times of extreme stress or trauma, humans of all ages will resort back to the fetal position, because it is an instinctual way to protect all our vital organs and because it reminds us of the safest place we all began, the womb.

...my father explained to me in a hushed tone that in times of extreme stress or trauma, humans of all ages will resort back to the fetal position, because it is an instinctual way to protect all our vital organs and because it reminds us of the safest place we all began, thee womb.

Being onstage is comfortable for me because it’s my work, but put me in the middle of a cocktail party and you’ll find me with a frozen smile, wishing I could curl up under a table in the fetal position.

In that moment, lying in a fetal position, Sebastián witnessed the first omen of the end of his life.

The moment her cheek touches my pillow, she lets out a purr-like sigh and curls into a fetal position. I tilt my head to the side, observing my little hacker. Asleep. In my bed. Tangled strands of jet-black hair partially cover her sweet face, so I reach and push them aside, and then just stare. Like some hypnotized fool.

The Bible didn’t offer specific advice on the topic (abortion). Many evangelicals disapproved of “abortion-on-demand,” but not in the case of rape or incest, where fetal abnormalities were present, or when a woman’s life was at risk. In 1968, Christianity Today considered the question of therapeutic abortion—was it a blessing, or murder? They gave no definitive answer. As late as 1971, the Southern Baptist Convention passed a resolution urging states to expand access to abortion. But with the liberalization of abortion laws, and as abortion proponents began to frame the issue in terms of women controlling their reproduction, evangelicals started to reconsider their position. In 1973, Roe v. Wade—and the rising popularity of abortion in its wake—helped force the issue, but even then, evangelical mobilization was not immediate. Only in time, as abortion became more closely linked to feminism and the sexual revolution, did evangelicals begin to frame it not as a difficult moral choice, but rather as an assault on women’s God-given role, on the family, and on Christian America itself.

If I believed a quarter of what’s written about me, about my husband, or about us, I’d spend my days in a fetal position, bawling my eyes out. I’d like to think most people understand that. You just have to stand strong through the storm and show them who you are unapologetically and so loudly that they can’t help but hear you, see you, know you.

In 1996, the U.S. Preventive Services Task Force, the independent panel of experts that reviews screening tests, recommended against routine fetal monitoring.5 But according to their current Web site, fetal monitoring has become such an ingrained fixture of medical care that, frankly, the task force seems to have simply given up on trying to dissuade doctors from using it: Despite the lack of evidence on its positive impact on health outcomes and the 1996 USPSTF recommendation against its routine use, intrapartum electronic fetal monitoring in pregnancy has become common practice in the U.S. Based on currently available evidence, the USPSTF believes there would be limited potential impact on clinical practice in updating the 1996 recommendation. The

During the early stages of grief, the toddler typically protests and displays overt signs of despair. A number of parents reported that their newly adopted toddlers cried inconsolably. Sad crying is very different from crying associated with rage or terror. When grieving, the child’s body is typically limp or curled into a fetal position, and there are a lot of tears. Anger and/or fear, on the other hand, are indicated by a stiff, tense body, protruding blood vessels, perhaps few tears, and a high-pitched cry. Not surprisingly, the children who had no preparation or transition help displayed especially intense grieving behaviors. Sabrina, adopted at 16 months from long-term foster care, often awoke sobbing and calling out to her former caregiver for months following her placement. Fortunately, even though she had not been prepared for a change in placement, her parents used post-placement transition strategies and supported her grieving process, so instead of emotionally detaching, Sabrina began transferring attachment

If I ever got stranded on a desert island I'd be pretty much screwed. I'd probably curl up in the fetal position and just cry.

farther into a fetal position. Lynn wrapped

It’s not a major crisis that will typically cause a woman to melt down. Forces somehow rally to meet these big challenges when they come. It’s the little things, the drip-drip-drip of Chinese torture, the dozens of daily irritations that, over time, can send us straight into the fetal position crying for our mommy. Or God. Or chocolate. Or medication. Or all four, depending on the day

The stars, are they not confetti? There is a direct relation between the number of them and the triviality of you. Squint your eyes. The constellation of a long slender hound appears, marking the heavens more objectively than dippers or crabs or bowmen. Trace it with your finger. The dog glares as if perturbed by your discovery. Heaven is not a Rorschach after all. Perhaps the ancients didn’t name him for a reason, or only spoke the name during ceremonies where his guidance was sought, his wrath placated. They looked to the stars and the stars looked back. What became of them? Survival was not among the blessings from this deity. His ferocity makes him more humanlike than one of love. Close your eyes and seize the earth. So solid. So flat and stationary. Your senses are liars and fools. “What about those other universes he was talking about?” you whisper, assuming the fetal position. It worked once. “Screw it. All politics is local. As long as they aren’t connected they don’t dilute the significance of this one.” The hound in the sky continues to scowl, as he did before you were born, before all men were born.

She pulled into a fetal position, covered her head with the road atlas, and cried with a violence that shook the car.   Their

I motion yes with my head. “I’m gay, Kendall.” And then there is silence—a very deep, impenetrable stillness. I want to curl into the fetal position and die right here in the middle of this world class museum

I lay curled in a fetal position one night, listening to my wife’s voice. In the evenings, she just talked, speaking light into my darkness by reading verses to me. I needed a touchstone and she knew it, so she kept gently pointing toward Christ. She set aside her fears to speak into my own.

You can't curl up on the sofa and deny life forever. Life is always going to be a series of ouch-making moments, and the question was, was I going to go all fetal-position or was I going to woman up?

You and I are not getting out of this alive. An exception will not be made in our case so that we’ll live forever. So what are you going to do with that? Are you going to curl up into a fetal position? Sure. It’s a reasonable existential response to that reality. Or what do you do? You make art, you make music, you have ideas, you come to people, you talk, you make films, you write, whatever it is. You know what it’s like to be at a party and to be talking to someone and looking beyond them. You’re not present. We’re human beings, not human doings. And I think that is the great challenge. That we’re not getting out of this alive.

This is one of the many odd and unexpected little situations where you kinda find out who you are as a mother. Will you collapse onto the parking lot in the fetal position and cry for the days when you had perky boobs, bladder control, and alone time? Or will you laugh because you see the funny in being a spaced out, overwhelmed, mess?

Quite a few soldiers . . . had ended up spending some time wrapped around each other, alone in the night. Most often, it was just for the touch of another person and not in the pursuit of an entangling relationship. In fact, when it happened there was usually an unspoken covenant which existed between soldiers to just forget whatever had happened and move on, as many preferred not to talk about how you secretly needed to curl up in basically the fetal position, tucked away with another psychologically damaged human, deep in the bowels of your tin-can refuge from the deep black, just to get through another week of it all.

Rage and despair shook her for minutes or hours. She was unaware of the passage of time. Finally spent, she retreated inward and collapsed onto the floor in a fetal position, the letter in shreds around her. The room had grown dark. Like a gentle snowfall, the cold mantle of an unbearable silence descended.

Walter frowned. —I could’ve had that guy. I was getting ready to make my move. Hector’s eyes shot open. He wasn’t sure if he should laugh or shove Walter. —Are you kidding me? You were on the ground in a fetal position. —I had a plan!¬— This time Hector did laugh. —And what was that? To play dead?

No fingers on his right hand. They cut them off. He was lying on the bed in a fetal position. He was charred."…When it comes to the brutality of Hamas terrorists, miracles are not part of the package, certainly not mercy.

I noticed that the more severe TMS sufferers had early disconnects with their mothers— some, so overwhelmed by the next fear of separation that they found themselves curled up in the fetal position, unable to move or speak. They had reverted back to an earlier, preverbal state of brain development. Most everyone I communicated with who was suffering from chronic pain had admitted that they had experienced early abandonment fear, or rejection. So there is some form of residual panic in TMSers from infancy —childhood separation anxiety, causing a chronicity of anxiety— most likely mother’s absence due to her attention being directed toward younger siblings, or an infinite number of other reasons.

You are driving me crazy,” I wail. “Why don’t you care?” The last word—CARE—loses elasticity and flattens into another long wail. I am knees on the floor, shoulders on the floor, forehead on the floor. It is the fetal position. I get caught in a loop of feelings. I get louder and louder. I am groping about for the concept of NEGLECT. She is neglecting me. But I can’t find the words. I can’t catch my breath.

Part of me wished he would just post it already; then this excruciating limbo would be over. Then, I could deal with it: hire a lawyer, contact the host site, rally people around me—or simply curl up in the fetal position and refuse to leave the house.

When I drank I always tried to find the balance between oblivion and lucidity. I rarely hit the mark. Instead, I’d be on my knees or curled up in the fetal position on the bathroom floor at 3:00 a.m. with the room spinning, worshipping the porcelain God.

Trained Obstetrician and Gynaecologist in Dubai Dr Elsa de Menezes Fernandes is a UK trained Obstetrician and Gynaecologist. She completed her basic training in Goa, India, graduating from Goa University in 1993. After Residency, she moved to the UK, where she worked as a Senior House Officer in London at the Homerton, Southend General, Royal London and St. Bartholomew’s Hospitals in Obstetrics and Gynaecology. She completed five years of Registrar and Senior Registrar training in Obstetrics and Gynaecology in London at The Whittington, University College, Hammersmith, Ealing and Lister Hospitals and Gynaecological Oncology at the Hammersmith and The Royal Marsden Hospitals. During her post-graduate training in London she completed Membership from the Royal College of Obstetricians and Gynaecologists. In 2008 Dr Elsa moved to Dubai where she worked as a Consultant Obstetrician and Gynaecologist at Mediclinic City Hospital until establishing her own clinic in Dubai Healthcare City in March 2015. She has over 20 years specialist experience. Dr Elsa has focused her clinical work on maternal medicine and successfully achieved the RCOG Maternal Medicine Special Skills Module. She has acquired a vast amount of experience working with high risk obstetric patients and has worked jointly with other specialists to treat patients who have complex medical problems during pregnancy. During her training she gained experience in Gynaecological Oncology from her time working at St Bartholomew’s, Hammersmith and The Royal Marsden Hospitals in London. Dr Elsa is experienced in both open and laparoscopic surgery and has considerable clinical and operative experience in performing abdominal and vaginal hysterectomies and myomectomies. She is also proficient in the technique of hysteroscopy, both diagnostic and operative for resection of fibroids and the endometrium. The birth of your baby, whether it is your first or a happy addition to your family, is always a very personal experience and Dr Elsa has built a reputation on providing an experience that is positive and warmly remembered. She supports women’s choices surrounding birth and defines her role in the management of labour and delivery as the clinician who endeavours to achieve safe motherhood. She is a great supporter of vaginal delivery. Dr Elsa’s work has been published in medical journals and she is a member of the British Maternal and Fetal Medicine Society. She was awarded CCT (on the Specialist Register) in the UK. Dr Elsa strives to continue her professional development and has participated in a wide variety of courses in specialist areas, including renal diseases in pregnancy and medical complications in pregnancy.