Labor Day

QUICKIE:  When Grammy brought Vincenzo to the hospital on our second day, he walked right up to Rocco and said, “Hi other turtle!”  If that’s not acceptance, I don’t know what is!
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I totally apologize for all the posts I’m going to publish the next week or two.  It’s going to be a ton of baby and not much else until my hormones have been safely rounded up and beaten into submission.  I don’t feel anything in moderation anymore.  I nurse my baby and think I am a unicorn flying over a rainbow; then my husband looks up from his crossword puzzle to ask who sings Xanadu and I start bawling.  In Vincenzo’s words, “It’s compusing.”  My blog is going to be very mushy and definitely very baby, but I assure you that regular blogcasting will resume as soon as possible.

So for those of you who love a good labor story, here’s ten percent of what’s in my journal from that glorious, perfect day.  Spoiler alert: It does not end with a Louis Vuitton bag.

I woke up on Wednesday and told Kevin the baby was coming soon.  Not today soon, but maybe tomorrow soon.  At 4:30AM the next morning, contractions woke me up—they were coming every 10 minutes and required focused breathing—so I gave myself a French manicure.  Pictures, people, pictures!  I sent Kevin off to work with a Fluffer Nutter sandwich, a bag of homemade cookies, and a kiss because “who knows how long these things can take, dear.”  I was basically smack-talking labor; taunting it.  Labor countered by slowing down after three hours so that the contractions just came and went whenever they wanted.

I spent the evening alone with Vincenzo at a park, feeling all gooey inside that this was our last night as a twosome and what if down the road I forget what it was like having just one turtle and what if he never remembers what it was like to be an only turtle?  We found a tennis ball that we named “Timmy” and threw it down an imaginary well over and over again while Vincenzo laughed hysterically.  It really was a beautiful “last” memory with Vincenzo. 

Hold on a sec, I have to go cry again.

Okay.  That’s over.  (For now.)

At 9PM the contractions came back full-force and started coming faster so I called up my sister, who would guard the ninja turtle should the ninja turtle’s parents have to leave in the middle of the night.  At 2AM we headed to the hospital where the nurse hooked me up to the monitor and checked my cervix. 

Remember how I was all braggy about being 3 centimeters on Monday?  Yeah, well I didn’t feel so braggy when the nurse told me I was still at 3 centimeters despite feeling like I was in labor for the past 22 hours.  I pled for my cause.  I begged.  I considered calling a lawyer. 

Fortunately, Rocco came to my rescue.  During my time on the machines the doctor noticed that his heart rate had decelerated a couple times, which TOTALLY didn’t stress me out AT ALL, so they decided to give me a room to keep an eye on the little guy’s heart until the morning.

By 5:30AM the not-productive-at-all contractions were requiring all my attention and were coming every 3 minutes so I called the nurse to check my cervix again.  She grudgingly put on her gloves saying, “There’s no point, since you’re really not in labor…”  “Humor me,” I commanded.  She did her thing then looked up in surprise.  “You’re a good 5 or 6 centimeters!”  She called in the doctor.  Repeat scene.

The next two hours were full of needle pokes and hee-hee-hoooooooooooo’s and Kevin adjusting the volume of my soothing music because, I discovered, when you’re in labor, each song has its own, unique, perfect loudness and any deviation one way or the other can really make it challenging to JUST FIGURE IT OUT ALREADY!!  I’M IN A LOT OF PAIN HERE!  IT’S NOT THAT FRIGGIN’ HARD TO CHANGE THE FRIGGIN’ VOLUME!

The IV only took three attempts, which is a record on my veins, and the epidural only took two tries.  It kicked in at 7:45. 

At 8:15 my OB broke my water and told me she’d see me in an hour or two for show time.  I cheerfully waved her away and ordered a serving of bon-bons sent up to Room 2124.

A few minutes later I told the labor nurse, “I’m so sorry, but I think I’m going to poop the bed.”  Everyone in the room yelled, “THAT’S NOT POOP!”  Chaos ensued as they hunted down the OB and got her into delivery scrubs while I tried my hardest to hold something in that did NOT want to be held in while also searching for that mythical button someone had told me I could press if I needed to pump up the level of the epidural.  I never did find it but it didn’t matter because three pushes later, at 8:35AM, the doctor said, “Look down!”

And there was a beautiful, wet, wriggly, purple creature, screaming with life, for one instant straddling the worlds of in utero and out, knowing nothing but the smell of his mama and needing nothing but to be held by her and loved by her.

They put him on my chest.  And then I died and went to heaven.

(We haven’t put anything in his hair—it just does that.)