welcome home baby

Baby M is almost a month old now, and it is finally time to write his birth story. I have decided against taking a shower in this brief moment of quiet and have resolved to write instead. Just imagine that I have clean hair and make-up on. And pants. Imagine I’m wearing pants.

Baby M was eight days late. I know that doesn’t seem like a lot when you’re not pregnant. But trust me, as someone who’s had THREE late babies—it’s the pits. I had naïve optimism with every child that I would go into labor early. Not crazy early but before the point where your feet are swollen like bowling balls, your pubes have grown into a raging forest, and your walk involves sound-effects like panting and gasping. For me, about 38 weeks.

But alas, children teach you from the start that they operate at their own pace, and no amount of determination will make them come. (Just for the record no amount of cumin tea, squatting, lunging, walking, dancing, spicy foods, jumping jacks, yoga, praying to any deity that will listen, cursing, talking to the baby, or yelling at my spouse helped in making my kids come out either.)

It wasn’t particularly helpful that I looked uncomfortably big this entire pregnancy. And I know that every pregnant woman says this but I legitimately looked like I was carrying multiples. This pregnancy also brought on symptoms I had never had before or exacerbated ones I had in previous pregnancies; lower back pain, swollen everything, terrible reflux, extreme fatigue, insomnia, headaches, a pulled groin muscle, and Braxton Hicks contractions–all of the time.

I had just recently made fun of a friend of mine when she asked me, “But how will I know I’m in labor?” I laughed hysterically, like a fool, and assured her, “You’ll know!”

Fast-forward to four days post-due date, and I had started getting contractions. They were strong enough to wake me up. I tried to sleep and looked at the clock with each spasm to see if they were getting closer. Four hours in, I woke up my husband for a chat.

“Should we call someone?” I asked. Our nearest relative was 25 minutes away and we were about the same from the hospital. I would probably have been less concerned but that day at my OBGYN appointment the nurse told me about a lady who had just had her third child in her living room. I was a big enough woman (pun intended) to admit that I wanted an epidural, and I was not going to risk missing out on the drugs to have my baby on my dirty shag carpet. I’ve seen how often that thing gets cleaned and I can assure you, I do not want my naked body anywhere near that thing.

We called our cousin at 12 am, who left his own family at home to come to watch our kids. We drove to the hospital, during which my contractions stopped completely. I thought they would probably admit us anyway since I was so overdue. After two hours of walking the halls and another three spent bouncing on a yoga ball like an idiot, we were sent home. In shame.

Who has a false alarm on baby number three?

Someone who has made fun of someone else for worrying about false labor, that’s who.

The following Monday, 8 days post-due date, I had a doctor’s appointment to check my stats and schedule an induction. After two labors without induction, I was stuck between wanting to have no intervention and also wanting my baby out of my body—pronto. We scheduled the induction for the following day and my doctor assured me we would start slow by breaking my waters and go from there.

Walking out of the doctor’s office I felt strange. Heavier. I thought it could be something but my recent false alarm had me questioning myself. Two hours later, making dinner, I doubled over in pain. My own words came back to haunt me: You will know when you’re in labor. And I did. We waited until the contractions were about four minutes apart before calling someone to come over. My brother-in-law rushed over with his own children in tow, and they set up camp in our living room and rushed us out the door.

Standing in the hospital, waiting to get admitted, the nurse had to pause her questioning while I had a contraction. I remembered just days before, leaning against the same counter thinking I was in labor…laughing and chatting with the staff.

What a dumbass.

I knew I just had to make it to the epidural. The pain was bad but my fear of needles was crippling. The nurses were amazing, and The Hubs was by my side assuring me that everything was OK. But still I sat in the bed panicked, shaking at the thought of giant needles and things poking into my skin. As daunting as my anxiety about an epidural was, my memory of having gone through labor sans drugs was stronger. Women have natural labors every day—I was not built for it. That shit hurts. Really bad.

The anesthesiologist was a gem. He talked to me the entire time about his kids. He looked like Harold from Harold and Kumar Go to White Castle. I kept picturing him super stoned, eating hamburgers with his buddy in a parking lot. It brought me immeasurable happiness. The dose he started me on was low so I could feel my legs. I could feel my contractions, slightly. I was actually the most comfortable I had been in months, with my back pain numbed and my pulled groin muscle forgotten.

Ah, I heart you drugs.

Knowing that this was my last birth, that this was the final time I would be a part of the gruesome, bloody, horror show that is life, I agreed to have a mirror set up so that I could watch. Because what woman doesn’t want to see her vagina being torn apart? (I know it is a magical moment. But it is also filled with blood, poop, and a lot of white stuff.) The mirror was a double-edged sword; on one hand, it motivated me to push because I could see that I was making progress. On the other, I could see the phantom head size of my baby pushing against my most private, treasured bodily area—my cave of wonders. I distinctly remember looking down at the mirror and thinking, “There ain’t no way that’s gonna fit outta there.”

But it did. In the miracle that is life, a 20 ½ inch, 8lb 6oz baby slowly (very, very slowly) came into the world. We didn’t know if it was a boy or a girl and The Hubs wanted to be the one to tell me. The baby had dropped out of my sight upon emergence and all I heard was, “He’s got giant balls!”

I held my newborn son on my chest (still surprised that he was not a girl) and marveled at the phenomenon of birth. And also at the size of his head. I admired my baby cannon in the mirror—it looked like an ax wound.

Betty White was right when she said, “Vaginas…those things can really take a beating.”

Baby M was welcomed into the world in one of the biggest storms in Southern California’s memory. Tornado warnings were issued for the county and wind and rain pounded the hospital. It seemed fitting that this little being was born in an epic squall because he had two siblings waiting at home, swirling in a typhoon of boogers and squealing, waiting just for him.

It is with pure joy that we embrace the newest member of our family, Baby M. And that joy is matched in relief that I will never, ever, be pregnant again.