My Husband Calls Me Cutie: May 2009

Warning: I would like to remind everyone that I am an English teacher--one who teaches Creative Writing. This is not going to be short and sweet.

May 2, 2009. I was three days overdue, and I was convinced I was going to be the first ever woman to be pregnant for 50 years. This kid was never coming out! I tried hot sauce, pineapple (still don't know why that was supposed to work), going on long walks (which got me nothing except for more stretch marks), going on bumpy rides, raspberry leaf tea, etc. You name it, we tried it (yes, even that). No go. The baby wasn't coming out. So I decided I was going to stop trying to get that baby to move, and stop waiting. If I was going to be pregnant for the rest of my natural life, I was going to at least enjoy it. So I planned my weekend. I was going to go to a baby shower (one of the many that occur at regular intervals in my neighborhood), go see the new X-Men movie (Hugh Jackman is super HOT), buy pizza for my mom's birthday party, and try really hard to sleep the whole night and not get any more stretch marks.

And I almost accomplished all of that. I did attend the baby shower. The topic of conversation was, of course, how huge my belly was and how no one could believe I was still up and around. I didn't have the heart to tell them all that I was never going to have the child. That when this kid would start walking, I would feel it on my bladder (even more so than usual). After the shower, I went home and Joe and I set out for the theater to catch the 2:10 showing of the movie. We knew if we waited till that night, the tickets would be gone. Matinee it was, and a good thing, too.

We were sitting in the movie theater, and I was sipping my Sprite, when all of a sudden, my stomach got really tight. I didn't really think it was a big deal, because I was used to the thought of Braxton-Hicks-ing it for the rest of my natural life, but this one was just a little tighter than usual. But, whatever. The kid was staying put, especially when I was just getting to enjoy the Hugh action. Then, another tightening around the old watermelon. And this one was closer than I had anticipated. I leaned over and asked Joe for his cell phone, so I could see what time it was. 2:40. Joe leaned over, his eyes never leaving the screen, and whispered, "Are you having contractions?"

"I don't know. Probably not, but I'm going to time them anyway."

"Do they hurt?"

"No." Apparently, Joe wasn't moving an inch unless I was in pain.

Then, I had another tightening (I wasn't calling them contractions at that point because, thanks to many years of movie watching, I was sure this wasn't it because they didn't hurt). I looked at the cell phone. 2:46. But Hugh didn't even have metal claws at this point (they were bones before they were metal). I wasn't moving an inch.

Another one. 2:52. Uh-oh. I was starting to detect a pattern. But, again, it didn't hurt, and I wasn't budging until I found out how Jimmy became Logan, who became Wolverine, who lost his memory of ever being Jimmy. I don't care if I had the kid in the aisle.

Finally, the movie was over (with a very satisfactory explanation of everything, by the way), and the "tightenings," or, as I was beginning to call them at this point, "contractions" had been steadily coming every six minutes.

"What do we do?" This sounds like a stupid question now, but when you've never had a baby, and you expect contractions to be painful, and then they're not, you are very afraid of being the stupid girl who goes in the hospital and gets sent home.

"I don't know." Joe didn't know what to do either.

"Well, the doctor said they should be 5-7 minutes a part for at least an hour, and it's been two. Maybe we should just go in. The worst they could do is send us home."

So it was decided. Joe and I would go to the hospital (after we cleaned the house, of course), and pray that they didn't send me home. Eventually, Joe snuck the bags and the car seat down to the car because we didn't want the neighbors to see us leave only to come home an hour later because of the crazy lady who thought she was in labor when she wasn't.

We got to the hospital and they sent me to a room to "wait it out." They checked me upon arrival and I was dilated to a 4, but the nurse didn't believe me when I said I was having contractions because when she asked what my pain level was on a scale of 1 - 10 (the stupidest question in the world, by the way), I was like, "well, there's no pain. So what's that?" She didn't appreciate my humor. Anyway, they made me sit it out to make sure I really was in labor.

After she left, Joe and I said a prayer. That the contractions would start hurting. It seemed like a totally sane thing to do at the time, but writing it now, it seems like it was the stupidest thing ever. Well, the (painless) hour passed, and finally the nurse came back in to check me. She was very surprised that I had "actually progressed." Yes, she said "actually." She decided to check with my doctor to see if they wanted to keep me. That wonderful, wonderful man ! He said, "40 weeks and 3 days? I don't care if she's at a 1. We're keeping her." I was so excited to know that I would be leaving the hospital 20 pounds smaller! It was 7:30 p.m. at this point.

When they finally admitted me, my doctor came in to break my water. I wasn't scared, because ignorance is bliss. Again, due to many years of TVs, movies, and books, I was convinced I was in this for the long haul--it would be at least 12 hours before this kid was coming, and I had time for my contractions to build, right? WRONG! Within 2o minutes of my doctor, whom I didn't view as so wonderful at this point, breaking my water, I was in hard, serious labor. And I wasn't quiet about it.

Around 8:00-ish, the nurse came in and said, "It sounds like you're in a lot of pain." Um, YEAH. "Let's see if you've made any progress." No. I'm just moaning and swearing like a sailor on leave for the sheer fun of it. She checked me and I was at 5 1/2 cm. It was as if this announcement motivated my darling baby, because fifteen minutes and a copious amounts of swears later, I was 6 1/2. And in serious pain. I had asked for an epidural around 5 cm, and the drug doctor (referred to as DD from this point on) was yet to appear. The contractions began getting closer together and lasting longer. At one point, I remember one ending and thinking "Maybe I can breathe now," only to be surprised that another was beginning. I looked at Joe and said, "How long was that?

"About 1 minute."

"Holy shit! Are you kidding me? Damnit to hell!" I wasn't very lady like, to say the least.

Over the course of the next twenty or so minutes that I was waiting for the DD to show up, I am told I said a series of funny things. I believe a threw out something about no wonder all the pioneers died on the plains, and how Francine (a friend who delivers all her children naturally) is "freaking crazy." (I really did say freaking.) Finally the DD showed up, and the nurses, curious as to if I was in serious pain or if I was just a drama freak, checked me and revealed that I was dilated to 8 cm. Again, my reaction: "Holy shit! Are you kidding me? I can still have it, can't I?" After which, I was reassured that I could have the epidural. Probably just to keep my swear mouth contained.

While the doctor was giving me the epidural, I had two mind-blowing contractions, which I was instructed to breathe through. Who cares about breathing at a time like this? I was aware, however, that if I didn't hold still, then the pain would never go away. So I held still and clawed the crap out of Joe's arms. He had welts. Afterward, I asked how long it would take for the epidural to be effective. The DD informed me that it would take 10 minutes to work, which I responded to by saying: "Holy shit! Are you kidding me? I'm going to die!" But eventually, the contractions went away, and I began to think that having a baby wasn't that bad. At this point, my mother entered the room and said, "Sarah, why did you wait so long for the epidural?" I was in tears at this point, because my Mommy was there to help me, and I informed her in a teary little-girl voice, "he drove so slow!" referring to the DD. Apparently everyone thought that was really funny. I was totally serious.

Anyway, I believe I had the epidural around 9:00, and by 11:00 I was 10 cm dilated and could have started pushing. But I couldn't feel anything, and so the nurses suggestion that we wait an hour for the head to work it's way down on its own, and wait for the doctor to come back to the hospital (he thought I would be a lot longer) was brilliant. I didn't really care. All I knew is that I was having a baby. And it didn't hurt anymore.

So at 12:07, the doctor still not at the hospital, we began pushing (I say "we" because apparently everybody in the hospital believes that they should be included in the pronoun because they either held your legs or told you to breathe. Whatever. As far as I remember, I was the only one flat on my back feeling like I was popping the veins in my head to get the kid out. But appently, it was a group effort). I didn't really know what I was doing, so I just acted like I was doing an ab crunch (my reasoning being, it hurts my stomach when I'm not pregnant, so it's gotta do something to help out down there), put my chin to my chest (because that's the first thing all the nurses on Baby Story tell you to do), and made my "my-hemrroids-are-killing-me" face and tried to push. I am told I was a good pusher, which makes me sound like a wonderful street salesman, but I am assured that it means that the baby was coming fast. I didn't feel like I was making any progress until the baby's head was right about to crown. Then I could feel the pressure and knew what muscles to work.

Finally, the doctor showed up, got all ready (again, he didn't think I would go that fast. He was surprised), and turned around in time to give me an episiotomy and deliver our baby girl at 12:59 A.M. I am told that how fast I dilated and how quickly I pushed was a record for a first-time mom.

The lovely nurses (they were all lovely at this point. Before they had been stupid. Now they were lovely) gave Joe and me about 2 hours with our little Alice, during which I checked several times to make sure that there wasn't a little thing there, because I had been convinced I was having a boy. I was stunned that there was a little beautiful little girl in my arms. In fact, it took me a couple of days before I got used to the idea of a girl, and that her name would be Alice. Now, I can't imagine any other name for her, but it was a weird adjustment for me at the time.

We are home and happy with little Alice, and Joe and I both just sit and stare at our little miracle--our little girl that we were told two years ago that we would never have, that she would be impossible to have. Joe and I proved them wrong, and we did it together, with a stronger marriage and friendship than ever before. We had a lot of time together, going everywhere and doing everything--just the two of us. But now, we're a family. All three of us.

I can't believe it's already been two weeks! At the same time, I can't believe it's only been two weeks since Alice made her appearance. It's crazy how fast it goes. The other day, I tried to put Alice in the sleeper she came home from the hospital in, and it was way too small. I started crying! I blame it on hormones. Still, she's getting big already! We went to her appointment yesterday, and she's already grown an inch and gained over a pound! Her eyes are clearing up--the doctor couldn't believe that she could see herself in the mirror--her belly button fell off (the cord, not the actual button), and she is starting to lift her head up! She is so smart and talented already! I am seriously turning into one of those moms that I hate--all I can talk about is how cute my Alice is. Oh well. She's only two weeks old. I'm allowed to gush a little!