How I Became a Mommy Again - Part 4

In my pain-beclouded state of mind all of the shouting seemed a bit panicky. Hello! People deliver babies in rice fields, in their bathrooms, and on the side of the highway! Of course, I’m sure, people die in rice fields all of the time giving birth. Sometimes a completely natural thing can be rife with complications and lots of blood as we found out during my first delivery. In hindsight it is likely that the poor nurses had taken a peek at my chart; plus they couldn’t track my contractions or the baby’s heart rate since the monitor was no longer attached to my bulging belly.

Even though I wasn’t bearing down I could feel my body forcing my tiny infant down the birth canal. The delivery room began to fill with people and doctors who had come to stand by in case my own doctor didn’t make it in time. As they walked through the door they were met with a not-so-flattering view of my behind stuck up in the air; my husband claims that every single one of them visibly started at the unexpected view. At that point I didn’t care what I looked like, or what I was exposing everyone to. These people are used to blood and guts, and I’m sure they’ve seen scarier things. At least I hope so.

I distinctly remember trying my darndest to be polite as I shouted at that I had to push at anyone who dared to tell me not to. I really had no intention or desire to be one of those raving women who are presented an Oscar upon discharge for “Outstanding Screamer of the Month.” But there is a limit to how much of that sort of hold-your-legs-together-and-don’t-push nonsense a woman in labor can take. (Please note that I did nothing that could be called screaming, and I even apologized to the nurse afterward.)

Everything seemed a blur. When my water broke I was coherent enough to double-check that it was clear. I was aware of pain, aware of the baby’s knees and elbows, and I remember a doctor with a strange sort of mustache briefly appearing in my field of vision and trying to introduce himself. And then the voice of my very own wonderful doctor was heard in the room. I’m pretty sure a collective joyous shout was raised heavenward by everyone except me: he had made the mistake of telling me not to push as he rushed in the door. Really, that was just too much, and for the last time I whined that I must be allowed to push- I was going to push, and that was just it, the final word, I’m sorry but I’m going to push!

He recanted and gave me the go-ahead and I went ahead and gave it all I had. The baby came out so fast that I’m positive she would have flown clear across the room had she not still been attached to my insides. The baby whom I had been so sure would come out a rugged little boy turned out to be a lovely little lady. It was 4:01pm, a mere fifty minutes since I had checked into the hospital, and only fifteen minutes after Daddy had arrived.

Now that she’s here it seems like she’s always been a part of our lives, and I couldn’t love her more if I tried.

How I Became a Mommy Again - Part 3

To get an epidural, or not get an epidural, that is the question. Most people consider that a stupid question; most people would say, “why the heck not?!” My mother delivered all four of us without the aid of spine tingling, leg numbing, is-my-butt-still-there drugs. I had always wanted to experience a natural delivery; however, I was rather unfortunate to have Pitocin coursing through my veins with my first two deliveries. I tried to be brave, but there comes a point when bravery just becomes stupidity- at least in my mind.

The first question that I remember being asked when I checked into the hospital was, “do you want an epidural?” My wishy-washy response (which was something like a whiny I-don’t-know) turned into a slightly more positive refusal when I realized how quickly my labor was progressing. I really wanted to try it sans drugs, and, in between contractions, it didn’t seem like such a bad idea.

Daddy arrived at the hospital about half an hour after I checked in. By then I was already nine centimeters dilated and the pain from my back labor was quickly approaching the unbearable zone. Great was Sean’s agitation and incredulity at the fact that there was no catheter pushing mind-soothing juices through my spine; greater still did it become when I needed to be unhooked from the monitors in order to go to the bathroom and the floor between the bed and the bathroom door seemed to stretch on in endless miles of pain and suffering for those destined to walk them.

Well, I made it to the bathroom. I made it back to the bed. I got my hands on the bed. Somehow I even managed to get my knees on the bed. And then I was hit with what I now know to be absolute, this-is-the-end, hello-I’m-having-this-baby-now contractions. It was right about here that I blurted something like “I want drugs” (who said that?). Yes, I am ashamed to say that those very words popped right out of my mouth. It was a good thing that deep down I didn’t really want them because it was too late anyway; it was probably already too late when I had walked in the door. Something else I found out about myself at this point- my instincts kick in and I have no sense of decorum or self-respect whilst in the throes of labor.

In other words, I got stuck on my hands and knees. No, I wasn’t going to lie down, and now that you mention it I think I may just start to push. Just as I had gotten into bed the chief resident had come to check on my progress. She couldn’t convince me to lie down either, so she just peeked around my back end and said, “Oh, she’s full! There’s the head!” Generally when the head crowns that means the time to push has come, but since the doctor was still a mile or two down the road the order not to push was being given on all sides and I felt the nurse place her hand against the baby’s head.

I think everyone in the room was on the phone at this point. “Get the house doctor!” “Find the chief resident!” Somewhere in there I heard, “Her doctor’s on the bridge!” That is to say, he was almost there.

How I Became a Mommy Again - Part 2

So there I was, bent over the sink, trying to wash the dishes. It seemed that puttering around the house doing light chores was all that it was going to take to bring on full-blown labor. My mom was already on her way to help me wrangle the restless kiddos, and it was a good thing too, because round about 1:50pm I was beginning to seriously consider that fact that I may be in labor. It would take my husband at least an hour and a half to get home, and he was closer to the hospital anyway.

Off and on during the last couple of weeks before I was due I had experienced some unreasonable fears about the sink being full of dishes when I left for the hospital. I know that sounds ridiculous, but hormones can do strange and crazy things to a person. Through the pain that was now coming every five minutes or so, I was genuinely glad that I wouldn’t have to worry about that anymore: the sink would not be full of dishes when I left for the hospital. I continued to shuffle about and tidy up here and there. I put my toothbrush into the overnight bag and got some snacks together to take for the kids. Then I told them to clean up their toys. Let me just say that when a woman is in labor the last thing she wants to do is argue with two toddlers about picking up their mess. I believe I almost cried.

When my mom arrived we grabbed the bags and herded the kids into the car. The drive to the hospital went smoothly (besides some occasional clutching and rapid breathing on my part). We were able to get a close parking spot, and the elevator door opened for us immediately (before having my first child I worked in that hospital for over three years and that just doesn’t happen). There was a bit of a speed bump when we got to the birthing unit though- it seemed that quite a few other women were already in labor and there wasn’t a delivery room immediately available.

It was just about 3:10pm, and I made a quick call to my husband to let him know that we were at the hospital. He wanted to know, was I really sure that I was in labor, because he was terribly dehydrated and needed to stop somewhere to get a beverage? I told him that if I wasn’t in labor this time I would eat my hat, and that he could get a cup of water at the hospital.

While I paced the hall and tried not to scare anyone coming into the unit for their pre-birth visit, the nice lady at the desk was on the phone telling whomever was on the other end of the line that they needed to find me a room because I looked “really uncomfortable.” I think that’s code for “if you don’t get this woman out of the hallway she’s going to cause a scene when her baby pops out onto the floor.” I’m also pretty sure that my pacing was making everyone nervous: my mother kept kindly suggesting that I sit down, and I tried, but pacing seemed to suite me better.

In an effort to preserve the peaceful atmosphere of the hallway the kind nurses decided to put me into a recovery bed while a room was being cleared at the inn. I changed into one of those indecent tushy-baring hospital gowns and was directly delivered into the hands of the chief resident. She promptly hooked me up to the monitors and checked my progress. I was already eight centimeters dilated. Apparently the doctor was right when he predicted that this whole thing would go rather quickly. Now all we needed was for he and Daddy to show up before it was over.

How I Became a Mommy Again - Part 1

As the end of August neared I was beginning to feel like I might be pregnant until apes ruled the planet or Jesus came back. My back ached, my feet were swelling, and my energy levels were pretty much caput. It didn’t help that everyone around me, including the doctor, was incredulous that I hadn’t gone into labor early.

There was also that one false start: about a week and a half before the baby’s estimated arrival date, I was having regular contractions coupled with lots of pressure and was told to go to the hospital to be checked. I really didn’t think I was in labor, but the books (and my mom) all say it’s better to be safe than sorry. Even though my contractions continued at regular intervals during the three hours that I spent in the hospital, my cervix stubbornly stayed at 2cm dilated. I had the pleasure of being “that” person who goes into the hospital pregnant and leaves with the baby still snuggle swimming around in gobs of amniotic fluid.

At any rate, August 29th came and went, and I was still feeling some anxiety about recognizing real labor (which wasn’t helped by the events in the previous paragraph). Three days later, on September 1st, I arrived at the doctor’s office for what I desperately hoped to be my last OB appointment. As it turns out, he had scheduled me to have my water broken at the hospital on the 3rd: due to the size of my first baby and the ensuing difficult delivery, the doctor felt that it was unwise to persist in being pregnant for much longer. One way or the other, that baby was coming out in the next two days. I foolishly thought that being scheduled for induction would take the pressure off of me and that I could put away that annoying stopwatch.

That evening it was business as usual. I went to bed and had to get up around 2am to go to the bathroom. Nothing out of the ordinary. Then the contractions started. They were only coming every twenty minutes or so, but they were bad enough that I couldn’t get back to sleep. I propped myself up on the couch and dozed between them. After a few hours the sun came up and with it up came the kids. We had breakfast; they made a mess; I did a lot of sitting around trying to keep my eyes open.

Things were becoming pretty darn uncomfortable down there, but still the contractions persisted in being punctual every twenty minutes. Owing to the fact that I had been experiencing uncomfortable contractions for weeks at this point, I felt less than benevolent toward my current condition. I was sick of pointless pain that didn’t seem to be accomplishing anything. “Well,” I thought to myself, “the nurses make you walk to bring on labor in the hospital, so I may as well get off my butt and see if I can’t make this thing happen.”

I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: why, oh why, do women look forward to going into labor? Especially those of us who have done it before. It hurts! But somehow we forget the caliber of ouchiness that can be reached and we go on our merry way, walking, and doing housework, eating spicy food, and any number of other things to get to that blessed place of mind-numbing pain faster. Even now as I type this and cradle my new little treasure I think, “is it really all that bad?”

Haven't I Done This Before?

This is not the first time I have found myself about to give birth. Nor is it the second. Still, I find myself wondering if I’ll know when I’m truly in labor. You know, before the baby starts working its way down the birth canal and onto the kitchen floor.

I realize that this sounds stupid and irrational, but it happens. I’ve heard stories. With my first born, my water broke and that always equals going to the hospital. No brainer. My second was a scheduled induction due to the horrendousness that was my first delivery. So needless to say I’ve never had to time contractions or anything like that.

This pregnancy has been pretty uncomfortable all the way around. I’ve had problems with sciatica since about the three-month mark and the last couple of months have been punctuated by sudden and intense pain in the area of my groin muscle. And those wonderful Braxton Hicks contractions have been around since the beginning and are getting more intense all of the time.

With just two weeks left until the date plotted for baby’s arrival I find myself wondering “will today be the day?” every time the baby even has a hiccup. It’s all very intense and exciting.

Yes, I’ve done this twice and I found that I still needed to prepare a list of things that had to be washed. I couldn’t remember what few items ought to be packed for the stay in the hospital. At least I remember how to burp a baby. And how to kiss and nuzzle that sweet little face. I suppose those are the things that really matter anyway.

I HEART Tums

I’ve been spending a lot of quality time with my computer in the middle of the night over these last few weeks. Being startled awake by a river of acid rushing up one’s throat and threatening to spill out of the mouth onto the bed sheets is on par with being forced out of sleep by dreams of falling off of tall buildings. How is it that carrying a tiny human inside of one’s body can wreak such havoc?

My fear of the dreaded acid reflux monster has begun to affect my desire to feed myself. Even food that looks delicious and smells even better holds very little attraction for me. I can’t imagine what those poor women who puke for months at a time during pregnancy go through: vomit is infinitely worse than piping hot acid. Unfortunately for me, the little munchkin needs to be fed via my digestive system, so I eat a bit here and there.

Those two little meatballs and their tiny bit of marinara sauce that I ate nine hours ago are probably to blame. I’m sure it had nothing to do with the big ol’ ice cream cone I had shortly after that. Nothing that delicious, eaten outside on a bench with a warm breeze blowing around me, could turn into the evil monster of acidic doom that is currently ravaging my body. Nope. I shall not believe it was the ice cream cone.

Early Morning/Middle of the Night Thoughts on Pregnancy and Womanhood

It’s four o’clock in the morning and I’m awake. I am not a farmer; I do not need to get up to make the doughnuts; nor is there any kind of rowdy sleepover going on in my house. Even though the little munchkin in my belly is sleeping soundly for the moment, the Tiny Ticking Time Bomb is causing my body to be plagued by acid reflux, intense sudden hunger pains, and the constant sense that a bathroom must be found- or else.

Some people say that the third trimester is prime time for a mother’s body to start adjusting to the many sleepless nights ahead of her; considering that this is my third sweet-cheeked baby I personally think that my body should be smart enough to know what’s coming at this point and just bloody sleep already! But alas, I seem to have the multi-tasking mind of a woman/mother, and once the eyelids roll up into my head and I become conscious of my brain activity sleep becomes a thing for sissies and I’m up. At four o’clock in the morning.

So here I am, eating an oatmeal chocolate chip cookie and a banana, praying that the swallow of orange juice I had doesn’t anger the acid that lingers in my throat. At some point I’ll manage to fall back into a semi-sound slumber- probably about five minutes before my daughter wakes up. When it comes to getting out of bed in the morning she has that woman thing going for her too. My husband and the little man will still be fast asleep and that little girl’s eyes will pop open and she’ll be declaring “good morning, Mommy!” from her crib and letting me know that she wants to get out and go downstairs.

A Baby by Any Other Name Would Look/Taste/Smell as Sweet

So, here we are with a mere two months to go before this sweet little ninja in my belly makes its arrival. If this hard punching, swift kicking child is female in nature she may not have a name until she is twelve years old. Dear old Dad and dear old Mum just can’t seem to find a one.

In all fairness that may be because my tolerance level for endless name-book perusal is pretty minimal. After about the first two hundred names my eyes start to water and a sensation not unlike vomit-inducing nausea begins to well up in my gut. My husband, on the other hand, can find lots of names he wouldn’t mind slapping on some poor innocent, unsuspecting child. (In other words, I think that some of them are a bit queer).

This is one argument some people would use to encourage certain unwilling parents to find out the gender of their unborn munchkin. I don’t think that would help us much: if it’s a boy then we don’t have to worry about picking a name; if it’s a girl then it doesn’t much change the fact that we still can’t seem to agree on a name. How do people with eight children pick out names? That’s what I’d like to know.

We didn’t have this trouble when it came to naming our cats. It generally takes about one day to name a pet. And ours even have middle names, although those didn’t get tacked on until a bit later, when they started to misbehave. I find it much easier to shout at something with two names.

In my sweet pregnant stupor I really believe this baby will be a boy. There are some things a person just doesn’t mind being wrong about, so if it is a girl I’m just trusting that the right name will come along in time. Besides, I’m already starting to mix up the kids’ names when trying to untangle their little intertwined arms during a brutal tug-of-war with a favorite toy and they’re not even the same gender. In all likelihood the new baby will end up as “hey you!” anyway.

Deliver me unto Christmas!

It feels good to know that one’s child is bought and paid for. Until today there was one bill from my delivery that I was waiting for… and waiting for… and waiting for. I don’t like the feeling of being indebted to anyone especially when it means that the anesthesiologist owns stock in my little girl. So, yay!, she’s all mine!

It strikes me as funny- the word “delivery”. To be delivered. Who decided to call it that? I have been delivered. It reminds me of Matthew 6:13: deliver us from evil. Or it reminds me of pizza: deliver us some evil (carbohydrates and lots o’ cheese). Is it a big sigh of relief to be delivered from the burden of huffing and puffing for forty-five minutes to climb the stairs; or to be delivered from feeling one’s stomach growling inside of the throat were it ended up after the growing baby shoved up it there; to be delivered from an overactive sense of smell? I like being pregnant. Perhaps someone who feels deathly ill for the whole nine months would be better able to understand the implications of the word. :::shrug::: I just think it’s funny because, really, one hasn’t been delivered from something at all, but delivered unto something: motherhood.

My son asked to listen to Christmas music this morning. It must be genetic. I must have passed along the genes for my holiday passion. People who have been jaded really just have a hard time grasping why I am so keen on this time of year. I get so excited I could just throw up. Honestly, I do. The decorating, the twinkling lights, the “baby it’s cold outside” snuggling! OH YAY! Just thinking about it makes me feel some nausea coming on! I think the part of the holidays that really takes top prize is that for two whole days (Thanksgiving and Christmas) everyone stops the rush, rush, rush and just spends time together. (Of course, ironically, there is a lot of rush, rush, rushing that leads up to it).

So be warned: there will be a lot of mushy, sweet, and drippy holiday talk coming from me over the next couple of months. After that don’t be surprised if I get a little cranky. Once Christmas is over the wintertime just becomes cold and yucky; no more twinkling lights and gingerbread men- just dead trees.

Glamour queen- that's me!

I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: being a mommy is soooo glamorous! To start with one has nine whole months in which to get fat, stretched out, and be-pimpled. In an attempt to keep the growing baby nice and toasty warm the body starts to sprout an attractive extra supply of dark hair over the belly to mingle with the bazillion stretch marks that herald that the end is approaching and if one’s middle were to stretch anymore the baby would proceed to exit the womb where one’s belly button used to be.

Indeed, there will probably never be a time in which one has so much indigestion, nausea, and sciatica. One either wants to eat everything or nothing at all. This is the time when the husband realizes that the woman he married is a human being after all as she begins to burp and, yes, even break wind. Of course the man usually wears a shocked and disgusted expression at this exhibition of bodily functions. :::Gasp::: How he can have the nerve be grossed out is beyond my level of reasoning since a wife can remind her husband to excuse himself upward of two dozen times a day.

Not to be forgotten, all of this fun eventually culminates in the real pleasure of pregnancy: delivery. What more can a woman ask for than to have her restricted area stared at by not only the doctor, but the nurse, medical student, nursing student, resident, various members of her family, the guy paving the sidewalk, the flower delivery person, the whole housekeeping department, a handful of volunteers, and the coffee guy… Well, one gets the idea. Oh, joy! During the time it takes the offended bodily regions to recover from the beating, there is always the thrill of tinkling when one sneezes to look forward to.

And then, ahhh, home at last! Home is where one finds that the name, mommy, is synonymous with poop checker/butt sniffer. Home is where (at least one hopes it’s home) a mommy finds herself cleaning up number two off of the baby’s chair, the carpet, and rinsing it out of the baby’s clothes; giving impromptu baths, and doing unscheduled laundry. Of course these events can be blamed on diaper malfunctions at times, but the result is still similar: clean up, wash out, bathe, launder. Home is where one can find burp diapers stashed in key places- tucked into the couch cushions, placed on the table, next to the bed, under the bed, in the refrigerator, in the toy box, on a hook in the hallway- in preparation for the moment when the baby decides to show his or her affection toward mommy for the thirty minute feeding by throwing up all over her.

At any rate, it’s the only job I know of where one gets paid in hugs, kisses and “I love you”s; where the little people look for mommy to make their boo-boo’s better, and need mommy around to hold hands when sick. A piece of advice: if someone other than a little person offers to pay for services in hugs or kisses it would be wise to decline. Giving free advice is something else that mommies do.