The story of she

A year ago today, I was camped out on our living room couch awaiting the arrival of our younger child. I did not actually give birth on the couch (just wanted to reassure those who have sat on our couch recently), but I hoped that she would make her appearance shortly. I had been in early labor for a few days, and I was as done as a Thanksgiving turkey on Black Friday.

I had been to see my midwife the day before. She listened to the baby’s heartbeat and asked about kick counts. For those not familiar with the term, kick counts are done by counting the number of movements a fetus makes within a given time frame, and were invented by doctors to scare the living bejeezus out of pregnant women. The midwife wasn’t satisfied with my answer, so she hooked me up to a fetal monitor to see exactly how often the baby was moving. Forty-five minutes later, she still wasn’t satisfied, so she ordered an ultrasound. By this time, I was freaking out, (I know this will shock those of you who are accustomed to my usually calm demeanor) and called my mom and husband.

My mom arrived in time to accompany me into the ultrasound room. The only way to describe an ultrasound of a 40-week fetus is to picture one of those suction-cupped stuffed animals people attach to their back windshields. It was obvious that this kid wasn’t moving because there was no place for her to move to. Her squishy little face was pinned against the side of my uterus, and she seemed to be mouthing, “Let me out!” She did, however, decide to cooperate by lackadaisically kicking her feet and waving her arms a few times. The tech also noted that I was having contractions, but nothing to get excited about, so they sent me home.

The next morning, my parents, who had been on baby watch for weeks, took R for the day in anticipation of us making a trip to labor and delivery. At six o’clock that evening, with no baby in sight, I called them and asked them to bring him home.

I woke up around 2 AM with strong, but not excruciating contractions (It’s important to note here that they had to give me Pitocin to get labor started with R, so my perception of excruciating is skewed, as Pitocin is the Devil’s drug). I rolled (think beached whale) toward my husband and whispered that I thought I was in labor. He mumbled something incoherent, and I figured we were still a few hours away from those TV scenes where the father delivers his child on the bathroom floor using a shower curtain, bath towel, and twine, so I decided to let him sleep.

At 5 AM, I woke him up and asked him to call my parents. Half asleep, he asked, “Why?” Oh, because I routinely enjoy waking family members at all hours of the night. My mom arrived exactly 2.5 seconds later, looking disheveled, and we were off.

When we arrived at the hospital, it was still too early to use the main entrance, so we had to go through the emergency room and past security. I could tell labor was progressing because thinking, walking and talking simultaneously were becoming increasingly difficult. The security guard on duty asked J where we were going. He told him we needed to get to labor and delivery while I panted and rocked behind him. The security guard said, “Who’s the patient?” Really, buddy?

Once in the labor room, I began the process of having a baby without epidural or other pain-relieving drugs, an extremely liberating choice I would make again, but one that always seems like a better idea when not actually in labor. (When I was going through transition with R, I begged for drugs in a moment of weakness, and J reminded me that I had told him that I would say that, but to not let me give in. He can’t remember we need milk, but THIS he hears and remembers me saying?!)

I have to say, my husband is a real trooper when it comes to the whole birthing routine. He’s hung in there through two deliveries, and this time around, cautiously stroked the top of my hand as I breathed through contractions. (Side story- J’s caution is probably due to the fact that, during my last labor, while he was trying to supportively rub my back as he was taught in birthing class, I hissed through gritted teeth that I’d thank him to not touch me ever. Again, I blame the Pitocin.)

We walked, rocked, breathed, and cussed until I just knew it was time for K to arrive. Except it wasn’t because she decided to turn her shoulder at the last minute and got stuck, so back up and walking I got again, vowing that this would be the story I would tell her every time she shouts that she hates me when she’s a teenager.

I will skip the details of her actual delivery, because what kid really wants to relive that? But there you have it. That’s how K came into our lives. A year ago, it was hard to imagine being a family of four, and now I can barely remember a time when she wasn’t here.

She’s walking now and says dada, mama, and uh-oh. She also makes an adorable scrunch-nosed face when something displeases her, and raises her eyebrows, forming her lips into an “o” when something surprises her. The other day, she saw her opportunity when R left some action figures out on the couch. With one in each grimy hand, she gazed lovingly on the forbidden objects until she saw her brother coming toward her. Panicked, she turned to make her get-away on still uncertain legs, but alas he was too fast for her, and she crawled away in defeat.

K is starting to develop preferences of her own. For example, bananas=good; green beans=bad, Papa’s mustache=good; strange, creepy Wal-Mart checker’s mustache=bad. She doesn’t want to cuddle as much anymore, which makes me immensely sad, but also makes the moments when she’s tired, sick, or sad and climbs into my lap that much sweeter. I love to breathe in her baby smells and rub my cheek against the duck-fluff on her head. Holding a sleepy baby is one of the most euphoric feelings in the world.

Happy Birthday Eve, little girl. In the words of Peter Pan, “You are my happy thought.”