“But I don’t want to go back to just being fat.” — Is it wrong that this is my version of “postpartum depression”.
“Did you want anything from Victoria’s Secret?” — Only the M.C.S.S. would seriously find this question appropriate one whole week after giving birth. Yeah sure, can you let me know if they carry gauze underwear to hold my diaper pad in place or maybe some triple G’s that can manage engorgement. TOTALLY.
“Fairy tales are more than true: not because they tell us that dragons exist, but because they tell us that dragons can be beaten.” — G.K. Chesterton
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A few years ago, I had this same view into what was then, T-Bone’s first venture into living on her own. Sure, it was around midnight with some killer warrior scars from trying to carry a full size mattress up concrete stairs ALL BY YOURSELF - all while you watch T-Bone casually struggling with a canvas painting, but that’s what friends are for right? It’s kind of crazy of how life has changed from that night with The Mandated Reporter, where our biggest concern was how she and I were going to get a leather couch up to the second floor while T-Bone (AGAIN!!) couldn’t decide which vase she is going to bring up. Like a bad episode from Friends, it was all about T-Bone yelling “PIVOT … PIVOT” while The Mandated Reporter and I feared for our lives over who would go down on the concrete stairway.
This time around, T-Bone moved like a big girl with verifiable movers and an actual man to help her, but who can beat the memories of three girls screaming inside a U-Haul truck after realizing their best attempts at maneuvering the moving truck still took out the apartment building’s lighting.
(Source: thaithai)
Actually, it’s more like I wish ANYONE had been there. You know those stories where women are giving birth in the car or start crowning while they are on the toilet and then end up giving birth all on their own … that might have summed up this experience. Prior to this delivery, I had my whole vision of how I was going to do it. I had already admonished The Mister that he had to hold off on the inappro jokes and actually help me focus. I was supposed to have my breathing techniques in order and most importantly, I was to be the shining example to Lola and the M.C.S.S. who wanted to see “what real labor and delivery was like”.
My day began celebrating Dos XX’s birthday with our birthday donuts tradition. The day continued with cleaning, scheduling marble installation appointments and last minute cleaning.
Last minute good nights and belly rubs with The Teeny Little Super Guy (after all, it was a school night for the boys). At around 11:30 p.m., I found myself on the ground cleaning baseboards when I felt a slightly embarrassing wet sensation in my pants. My first impression was I sunk to a new low by straight wetting my pants. I went and took a shower and changed into new clothes and got back to the baseboards. A few minutes later, my pants were wet again and after a few more showers, it literally became me running around with a large towel in between my crotch. The possibility that my water broke ran passed my mind, but I wasn’t experiencing contractions nor was I gushing everywhere, so I didn’t really think it was my water. At around midnight, The Mister arrived to my crotch towel fashion and as I was sitting there as he ate a snack, I got my first contraction. Going off my last two pregnancies, I figured this was the beginning of a whole night of contractions, so I casually started timing them. Three minutes later, I had another one and three more minutes after that, a stronger one. Considering my rule of thumb is that when contractions are seven to ten minutes apart, it’s time to go to the hospital, I am not gonna lie - there was a bit of concern.
We arrived at the hospital at around one in the morning. I was admitted by a scattered brain nurse who was a bit more preoccupied with my possible allergies to medication than the fact that I was now running a minute apart on the contractions. I am gonna say that the worst thing you can deal with when you are experiencing full on intense labor pain is snail-paced nurses who are acting like you got another ten hours to go, asking you for urine samples and to stroll over to a wheelchair for transport.
By the time, I got up to another prep room, my contractions had moved from heavy cramping to straight out my body starting to push a child out on its own and yet again, the nurses were busy trying to take a measly blood sample. They still hadn’t had The Mister or my sisters come up to my room. No one had called my doctor yet. There was no on-call OB-GYN in the room. Push one … I’ve got a head sticking out of my vagina. Push two … we have a baby crying, which was the only thing that triggered the nurses to realize I had actually given birth.
This is the picture of an unhappy newborn who came into this world face-planting it on a hospital bed, with nurses who were completely oblivious to his arrival. Not happy to say the least.
Hey thanks for taking the time to get all the necessary tools - WISH WE COULD’VE ACTUALLY USED THEM!!!!!
This is me trying to convince The Mister that NO - I didn’t ask the nurses to keep him out of the delivery room - it just so happened that way.
The first meeting of The Mister and his new son …
followed by a really intense and awkward meeting with his aunties.
Later on getting to meet the brothers who will be teaching you the secrets to making mom and dad crazy …
and your grandparents, who have will surely be the root of future self-esteem issues and complexes.
A quiet moment with daddy …
and one more for the road with mommy.
The way we … WERE. While many things never change, this flashback is quite simply dedicated to how things can and will change. Back in 2006 at Dos XX’s fifth birthday, one would never think it would be a whole five years later that we’d be welcoming another addition. Here’s to growing the brood, one sleepless night at a time.
We got some eternally leaking water and the contractions have begun. Sorry, Middle Child Syndrome Sister - one baby or another, someone was going to trample on your birthday - like it or not.