Edgy Mama

I was 41 weeks pregnant with my second child. We had no air conditioning, and my young daughter wanted to sit on my nonexistent lap. The three of us sat on our sun porch watching a video that Enviro-spouse had gotten at the library called, “1,2,3 Timeout: Disciplining your Child” or something like that. I remember thinking, “What am I doing, having another one?” The video, while potentially helpful, was cheesy, poorly produced, and NOT a good distraction from my contractions.

I had been to the hospital at midday, as I thought my water had broken the previous night, but it had not. In fact, my midwife seemed to think that little was happening, although I was sure I’d lost my mucous plug. A mucous plug is a pretty memorable thing to have come sliding out of your body.

When not dealing with the needs of our firstborn, E-spouse spent the afternoon and evening following me around the house with a piece of paper and a pen, recording the timing and duration of my contractions. I could have done it myself, but he seemed to need a relevant job.

Around 10:30 p.m., we called E-spouse’s Dad to come sleep at the house with our girl while we went to the hospital for the second time. Despite the fact that I think of myself as a pain tolerant person, I did not do well with labor. Of course, both my children were born with E-spouse’s cranial girth. Our firstborn was so stuck in my pelvic girdle, that, after 30-odd hours of labor, we opted for a C-section, which turned out to be a good decision. The child is now six and wears the same hat size as I do. Luckily, she seems to have inherited the brain power that one would hope accompanies said cranial girth. However, she has most likely also inherited my pelvic girdle, which means, that without surgical intervention, she may be a genetic deadend.

At the hospital, we discovered that, despite the fact that I thought I was in hard labor, I was only at 2 centimeters and 50% effaced, so we were SENT HOME. My midwife took pity on me, however, and gave me a pill, which she said would enable me to sleep through a good part of my labor. She said that, on the street, this drug was a high-priced, powerful narcotic, but it wouldn’t harm the baby. I gulped down the pill. She gave E-spouse another one, as she said, “Just in case…”

To this day, I’m convinced that she gave me a placebo, because, said high-priced narcotic gave me absolutely NO pain relief nor did it enable me to sleep. An hour after we got home, I woke E-spouse up and demanded the second pill, which again, had absolutely no effect.

By 1:00 a.m., I had become a screaming, raving lunatic. I told E-spouse to get the midwife on the phone, tell her to meet us at the hospital immediately, and to have a f***ing epidural ready and waiting. I think, at one point, I actually screamed, “F**k natural childbirth!”

As we raced to the hospital, I commanded E-spouse to speed, not to stop, and not to hit ANY bumps in the road in the process, which proved difficult, but he did try. I realized, when we got to the hospital, that we would have to walk through the Emergency Room, which, at this time of night, was packed with people. I made E-spouse stop just outside the door while I leaned against him and had a contraction, then we literally ran through the Emergency Room, just making it into the hospital proper, where I fell onto E-spouse and had another immobilizing contraction.

It turned out that I had dilated to 5 cm and was 100% effaced, in about an hour, so the midwife was not surprised that the drugs had not had MUCH effect. Try NO effect. I spent the next hour screaming for an epidural, but no one could seem to find an anethesiologist. He arrived just after I vomited all over my sweet husband.

Of course, the epidural only took on ONE side of my body, so I felt like the several large knifes that were being thrust into my pelvis every time I had a contraction had merely shifted to the side. By the time we got the epidural working, it was 5:00 a.m.. I was at 7 centimeters and exhausted.

After a few hours of much-needed rest, I started pushing. Pushing was the fun part. The drugs had worn off enough so I could use my muscles effectively, but not so much that the knifes returned. So, E-spouse held one of my legs up in the air, the nurse held the other, two midwifes hung out between my legs, and everyone got to be a cheerleader. An hour and a half later, the poor baby’s head was in the birth canal, but going no further (we’d already forgotten about the first child’s birth, seemingly). So in comes the doctor with the Hoover-matic–which kept sliding off the baby’s head with this loud sucking noise. Finally, the Hoover and I managed to get the baby out.

The midwife practically threw this wet, bloody, screaming baby onto my chest, while thrusting a pair of scissors into E-spouse’s hand. He stared at them for several seconds before he realized what he was supposed to do.

After severing the umbilical cord, E-spouse yelled, “It’s a boy.” Our boy. E-spouse cried. I cried. The baby cried. The nurse pulled a hat over the huge purplish Hoover-matic bruise on the boy’s head. He was absolutely beautiful.

Tomorrow, the boy turns four. He still is absolutely beautiful and sweet and loving and funny. Today I told him a little bit about his birth. He said, “So I was in your tummy, and then you just spit me out of your mouth.” I explained in a little more detail how it all happened, wondering briefly if vomiting up a baby would be any easier than delivery via Hoover-matic. The boy smiled and said, “Mommy, I liked being in your tummy.” “I liked it too,” I said. “But I really like getting to hold you and kiss you and snuggle with you outside my tummy.” “Me too, Mommy,” he said. “Can I have a hug and a kiss?”

(Although I wrote this about a month ago, it seems like a good submission for September’s Blogging for Books. Not that EM is really a Superhero).