You wouldn’t think it would take me a month to post about the most important event of my life to date.  Then again, the sort of event that qualifies as the most important one of my life to date isn’t exactly conducive to having the time to write the sort of blog post that does it justice, so maybe you would think it would take me a month.  Of course, it only took me a few days to post pics to Facebook, so maybe this is just yet another of those cases where Facebook has ruined my ability to blog.  Seeing as there are all of ten of you who actually follow my blog and you’re all on Facebook, there’s probably very little point to posting now.  But A) it seems wrong not to mention the birth of my first baby on my blog and B) even though there are captions on my Facebook pics, they don’t convey my point of view.  Not that I’m likely conveying much through these sleep-deprived words.   But anyway, here goes…

All through my pregnancy, I watched TLC’s A Baby Story religiously. All five times a day it airs. Then I called it preparation for childbirth. Now, twenty-nine days after giving birth, I’m still watching it, only I call it all I do is nurse my baby every 2-3 hours, what else am I supposed to do? comparing notes.  Herein follows my baby story: 

As you probably know, I was scheduled for an induction on Monday, March 1, at 6 AM, a week before my due date.  My OB and I had decided the previous week that it was a good idea to get Liam out of there because A) I was having major swelling issues that were causing a lot of discomfort, like carpal tunnel syndrome, and my blood pressure was slightly elevated, which put me at risk of developing preeclampsia the longer Liam stayed in and B) the longer Liam stayed in, the more weight he would gain; while my doctor wouldn’t let me go more than a week beyond my due date, the extra pound he would gain between that checkup and then might make all the difference between my being able to deliver vaginally or by Cesarean section.  (Which, actually, turned out to be an issue even a week early.)

So, on Monday morning, Jeff and I woke up at 3:45 to go to the hospital and have our baby.  We live five minutes from the hospital.  We were all packed for the hospital.  It doesn’t take either of us more than about 45 minutes to get ready.  3:45 was insanely early.  We were excited.

And then, at 5:15, we got a call from Labor and Delivery, asking if we could wait till 7:30 to come in, because they’d had a baby boom in the night and didn’t have a bed for me.  Which my doctor had told me never happens.  This seemed just my luck, and I started to get twitchy that all those women were having long labors and they’d have to bump my induction off the day’s schedule and I would have to stay pregnant.  But luckily I fell asleep again until about 7, whereupon the Labor and Delivery nurse called back and said they had a bed for me and to come on in and have my baby.

At about ten to nine, they began the induction, which, as it turned out, was barely an induction at all. I was given a minimal drip of pitocin, which got my contractions going, but after about three hours my doctor broke my water and my body took over labor on its own, so I probably could have skipped the pitocin all together; it was turned off at that point.

But after three hours of induced labor with no pain medications, I was spent.

I was only dilated to 4 cm at that point, and, knowing I most likely faced at least six more hours of labor before I even got to the pushing stage and was getting no personal gratification out of enduring the pain of labor, other than to be able to say I’d tried it out, I asked for an epidural.

All I will say about epidurals is that it’s a lot more fun to watch your contractions happen on the monitor instead of feeling them happen in your body.

My family couldn’t get over seeing the monitor spike up to the 100 mark every minute or so and going, “Wow, that was a huge one! You really didn’t feel it?” I did feel it — but only as a tightening in my belly, like false labor contractions, and then in later labor, like a lot of pressure in my lower back and butt.

Anyway, I was happy I went for the epidural.

Jeff was, too, as it allowed him to make it through the birth without me once saying, “I hate you! You did this to me! I’ll never let you touch me again!” Instead, we had a very sweet time together, working a crossword puzzle and watching TV.

And, of course, chowing down on ice chips, because I hadn’t been allowed to eat or drink anything since midnight the previous night. I was dying for a McDonald’s Big and Tasty with a vanilla shake (not helped by Jeff sending my brother out to get him McDonald’s) and helped get my mind off the increasing pressure of the contractions by dreaming of the meal I was going to have as soon as I gave birth.

Alas, I was not going to get to eat for much longer than anticipated.

After I’d been stuck at 9.5 cm for about two hours, my doctor said it was time to consider a c-section. Not because she wanted to get the show on the road, but because Liam’s head, though engaged at the 0 station, was turned so that it was actually causing my cervix to swell instead of complete dilation. She tried to turn him herself while I pushed, but he wasn’t budging. He couldn’t; his body was turned at a wonky angle from his head. He wasn’t going anywhere. So, after a few tears (of frustration and of pain — though not necessarily of regret, because those test pushes had hurt like the devil despite the epidural) it was off to the operating room for my c-section.

Surprisingly, I was feeling really calm about the c-section, though I’d spent most of my pregnancy terrified of having to have one. I made up my mind that I wasn’t going to let myself give in to fear or disappointment and not entertain the idea that I’d have trouble bonding with Liam this way or feel cheated out of the natural birth experience I’d envisioned. This was what it was, and I was going to make the best of it.

And when they lifted my little goop-covered 8 pound, 4 ounce, 20.5-inch boy over the curtain at 7:21 PM, all I could do was cry for joy and say, “Oh my God, look at all that hair! And those chubby cheeks!”

(Oh, and the little dickens — the instant they pulled him out, he let loose a stream of pee. Which, I later realized, must have been all over me. Only I couldn’t feel it, being all anesthetized…)

I didn’t care that my arms were spread-eagled out on the table and I couldn’t hold him when they put him up to me, because all I wanted to do was kiss and kiss those cheeks.

I couldn’t resent that Jeff got to hold our baby before I did, because it was amazing to see him become a daddy, to fall in love with his “little dude.”

Or to see, for the first time, my husband’s eyes fill with tears.

Really, I wouldn’t change anything about my birth experience. My birth plan absolutely went to pot, but my doctor and the nurses were all very supportive and went out of their way to make sure I was comfortable with every decision we had to make, and took excellent care of me and Liam.

That is not to say that I wasn’t dying to nurse him. Alas, it would be about three more hours before I’d get to do that, while they closed me up and sent me to recovery to stabilize after the surgery while they checked Liam out in the nursery. Though the time went rather quickly for me, as some of the medication to stop my bleeding made me sick and I promptly fell asleep on the operating table.

Meanwhile, Jeff followed Liam to the nursery and captured some of those precious first moments for me:

And then, finally, I got to hold my little boy:

As did Liam’s Grandmommy:

…Grandaddy:

…and Uncle Greg:

And then, alone with our son, Jeff and I just stared at him (and took pictures) for hours, taking in all his tiny changes of expression and trying to decide who he looked like:

There’s a line in Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows, when Lupin and Tonks have their baby, that I always thought was cute, but suddenly made so much sense to me in that moment of having my own child:   “Dora says he is like me, but I think he looks like Dora.” Everyone on my side of the family thinks he looks like me, and everyone on the other side thinks he looks like Jeff. We think he mostly looks like Jeff, though the head full of hair is me, and a couple of my baby pictures look quite like him. Though only time will tell, as every day brings little changes to his sweet little chubby-cheeked face:

Since I had a c-section, I was in the hospital for three nights. Which I didn’t mind, since I was in quite a bit of pain. It was nice to have a hand with Liam, though we kept him with us most of the time.

By Thursday, we were ready to go home.

I could walk by then, but hospital policy…It was actually quite like Jim and Pam’s baby episode of The Office, with Jim not pulling the car up to the front door of the hospital.

Liam loved his ride in his carseat, though we later discovered we’d dressed him much, much too warm for March in Texas! Babies do not get as cold as you’d expect.

Home!

Dorrie was not thrilled about what we brought home after four days. She ignored Liam and me, but was downright hostile to Jeff, hissing at him and swatting at him as if this was all his fault. Well, she had a bit of a point… But she got over it. Realized we like her better if she’s not being a rude gus. She’s getting curious about Liam, and now will creep up to him and sniff his head or hand without hissing at him.

The cat isn’t the only member of our family who’s adjusting to life with a baby.  It’s taken some trial and error, but Jeff and I are getting the hang of things.  I’ve got a new mantra (“Babies are messy; don’t take it personally.”) and the guilt of having laughed at my child peeing in his own eye during a diaper change, but we must be doing something right because four weeks later, we’ve had friends over and taken him out shopping and to restaurants, I’ve nursed in public, Mr. Liam is up to ten pounds and has outgrown all his newborn clothes, and is actually letting us get 6-7 hours straight each night.  (Not that he’s sleeping 6-7 hours straight; we’ve worked out a shift system that he hopefully won’t catch on to and decide to undermine.)  And he’s giving us the occasional smile.

Which makes it all worth it.

And that’s my baby story.