December 19th came and instead of spending it in labor and delivery, my husband and I went to see the final Lord of the Rings movie.
I paid as much attention to the movie as I could, in-between wishing that these darn contractions would start doing something other than hurting.
That afternoon, contractions had started coming on, 3-5 minutes apart. Quite uncomfortable. We went to the hospital where I was checked only to discover that, yes indeed I was in early labor but no, no progress had been made. So, they sent us to walk the halls of the hospital for 2 hours. Which, we did. Me stopping every few minutes because walking around THAT pregnant, having little contractions, for 2 hours? EXHAUSTING.
When I returned to triage to be checked again, still no progress had been made so they sent us home.
We went out to dinner…Thai food. And the movie.
The thought of being pregnant any longer was horrifying. This baby had dropped fairly low when I was in my 8th month where, if I really wanted to, I could stick my fingers up my vagina and feel his little head. I may have done that but I won’t admit to it because ew.
And sex, with the baby being so low, was an impossibility. Unless, of course, we wanted to traumatize him before he was even born.
So, I was still pregnant.
At my final appointment which was AFTER my due date, the doctor decided to try stripping my membranes. AGAIN. Apparently it didn’t work the first time. So we try, try again.
Taking walks with my neighbor twice a day, in the cold and snow, just to try to get labor moving along. This effort doesn’t seem to be doing anything except freezing the snot in my nose.
My husband decided to bring home Taco Bell for dinner. Yum. I love Burrito Supremes minus tomato and onion, extra sour cream. You know, just in case anyone wanted to bring me Taco Bell someday.
I walked with my friend. AGAIN.
And I went home to lay down on our couch while my husband watched wrestling.
It was 10pm. I heard a pop. It was loud. Coming from my nether regions.
I jumped up as quickly as someone who is in their 41st week of pregnancy possibly could.
I reached our bathroom just in time for amniotic fluid to explode all over the floor.
Things happened quickly from there. I remember taking a shower, waking the kids to tell them their Grandmother would be there soon because their baby brother was about to make his appearence and then wrapping myself in a huge towel because GOOD GOD there is a TON of fluid still dripping from me.
They had me laying there for awhile until someone could confirm that it was INDEED amniotic fluid and I wasn’t pulling a fast one on them.
Fluid confirmed to not be just plain old pee.
No drugs because I’m a martyr and also afraid of anyone sticking anything into my spine, thankyouverymuch.
Back contractions kill like a motherfucker. Seriously, that’s the only word I can use. MOTHERFUCKING PAIN LIKE YOU’VE NEVER FELT IN YOUR LIFE TIME.
Still no drugs. My picture next to martyr in the dictionary, with a halo on it.
This goes on for hours. And hours.
10:30am on December 23, after all night of being like…OK, aside from back labor, this isn’t a big deal…
I was SCREAMING and SWEARING like a truck driver.
I went from 3 to 10 in about, oh…less than a half hour.
There were a few complications like baby’s heartbeat dropped and the idiot resident decided to prep me for an emergency C-section. Which, thankfully, my Ob-Gyn brother in law put a stop to.
Then…all of a sudden…
I was ready to push. Like desperately in need of either pooping or birthing. Either way, I had to push.
11:26 am. 2 pushes later. The doctor told me to reach between my legs. And I felt his body, his head. And I pulled him out, drenched in the fluids he lived in for 41 weeks.
I was finally holding my baby. Our baby. The one I never thought I’d have. The ours to the yours and mine.
His face smushed, he looked like a swollen troll with a head full of orange hair. He was one of the most perfect ugly babies I had ever seen.
I was holding the last piece of my heart. My youngest child. I was in love.
December 23, 2003. The day my life, my family, was complete. My son Ross. 8lbs. 2oz. 23 inches long. Born and ready to eat.
Today, he turned 8. All joy (and headaches). Such a strong child, both emotionally and physically. Stubborn, sweet, empathetic, hilarious, obnoxious, hard-working yet lazy, and absolutely amazing.
Perfect. Because, I’m a mom…my children are perfect. But only on their birthday 🙂
Ross. Happy, happy birthday to you, my sweet little boy. I love you so much and I’m so proud of the little man you are becoming. You’ll always be my sweet little baby boy.