Labor Day

It was Monday, October 29th, and as you know I was sick to death of being pregnant and anxious as hell to have this baby. Chris and I had planned a trip to Costco. I used this as an opportunity to induce labor. Costco is huge and I anticipated a lot of walking, which is supposed to help get things going. I thought Costco might be the answer to my prayers. Chris will make fun of me for saying this, but I actually said the prophetic words "best day ever" while we were shopping that day. At the time, it was because I discovered that Costco sells the best coffee I've ever had in my life, Jamaica Blue Mountain Coffee. But, it ended up being the best day ever for a much better reason.

We got home to a message on the answering machine from my doctor's office. When I called back, they said they wanted me to come in to have my membranes stripped to try to induce labor. And yes, it's just as painful as it sounds. Basically, it's an "aggressive" pelvic exam where she goes in with her fingers and tries to separate the bag of waters from the cervix. The nurse and the nurse's assistant seemed kinda giddy seeing me there. I felt an eerie sense of confidence in the air, but I wouldn't be fooled. I had suffered a blow of disappointment the previous Friday, so I wasn't about to put myself in that situation again. I simply endured the procedure, then drove by Schlotzsky's on the way home like it was just another day.

My doctor had said it may work within a few hours, that it could take 24 hours or that we'd still be inducing me on November 7th. I prepared for the latter, but took the walk around the block she'd encouraged me to take anyway. Even though I had already exercised that day. Yes, Costco counts as exercise. Halfway through my walk, I had to stop and pause for my first real contraction.

At first they were 15 minutes apart, but consistently so. I called the nurse and said remind me how this works. She said, you call when your contractions have been five minutes apart consistently for two hours. They were fifteen minutes apart for an hour, then I had an hour of nothing, then they went swiftly to five minutes apart, growing more intense with each one. After half an hour of those, I called my Mom and said you might want to come on down. I called Z's ex-Nanny Jeannette, my most trusted caretaker, and asked if she could come watch Z until my parents made it in from Dallas. Luckily, she was available and more than willing. (I love you Jeannette!) Within this hour of growing contractions, Chris had gotten Z from daycare, and with each contraction, she stood with her little hands resting on my knees, watched me doing my breathing, and laughed her ass off. After an hour and change of intense contractions where even the classical music Chris had put on to soothe me was grating on my nerves, I called the nurse and said, and I paraphrase, "Two hours my ass!"

Now, I always tease Chris for his bad driving. Multiply my disdain for his driving skills by 1,000 and you'll know what that 20 minute drive to the hospital was like. Contractions x jerky breaking style = very much pain and annoyance with husband. But we made it, and 40 minutes after lying down in my hospital bed, a handsome young anesthesiologist came in to save my life. Are all anesthesiologist's handsome, or is it like beer goggles in reverse, where the buzz happens after the false perspective?

I don't remember the epidural making me feel as weird last time as it did this time. Maybe it was because I never ate dinner, unless you call sharing a bowl of ice cream with Z during contraction hour dinner. I was grateful to have my pain taken away, but in it's place a dark feeling of unease crept in. I felt drugged, but not in a good way. I had the shakes. My jaw was tense. I was exhausted but couldn't sleep. I was starving but couldn't eat. And the nurses forgot to tell me I couldn't drink water, so after sipping a bottle of water all night, I eventually threw it all up into a bed pan. Sexy.

Yet, at 2:55 am, I was declared 10 centimeters dilated and prepared to push. When I had Z, this pushing process went on for two hours. But, I have been told by nearly everyone with two children that those second ones practically fly out on their own. Man, were they right. Once I got into pushing mode, I was overcome with this feeling of tranquility. My sense of humor returned. And I mustered some strength from an invisible place inside that I didn't know existed. It helped that after my first push, the room became a cheering section. Randi, the nurse, said she'd never seen better pushing. I said, "Randi, now is not the time to flatter me." She swore she wasn't.

Twelve minutes later, after only 4 mighty rounds of pushing, my son emerged from my body with an immediate cry. I loved him immediately, but I have to admit, he looked like a 95-year-old man.

About 10 minutes later, I had him to my breast, feeding him his first of many meals.

The nurses ask you throughout labor, and even more so after delivery, to rate your pain on a scale of 1-10. And pain is an easy thing to gauge in simple numbers like that.

But, how do you gauge the happiness you feel after delivering the baby you've just grown in your body for nine months?

There is no scale in the world big enough.