the modernity ward

Oh Frig.

Enter Round 47 of the Interminable Preschool Cold. There oughta be a law, I tells ya. I'm the last one to boohoo about life being fair and all that (because anyone who says differently is selling Mucinex), but it is NOT FAIR that one can have a cold immediately postpartum. Especially unfair that the baby can get super-snuffly too. (Although all is quiet in the Pack-n-Play right now after some serious bulb suctioning/breastmilk spraying-up-tiny-nostrils.) I'm considering going in to preschool with a germ-busting blowtorch, as per kashering*. So what if the chairs turn a fashionably dark espresso brown, and the plastic toys develop an inviting Dali-esque droop?

On the upside, a half-dose of Chlor-Trimeton and as many ibuprofen as one might eat Gummi Bears will do you right. And you can do that when you're not pregnant. As I am not. Huzzah!

Also on the upside: Daytime tv. Afternoons I can't do it, because I draw the line when Sophia's around; I have very clear memories of being exposed to Guiding Light and One Life to Live as an impressionable preschooler, and my mother had a lot of 'splaining to do about what the lady was doing trapped in that undersea cave with the man and the oxygen gauge on their scuba equipment dipping ever lower. To this day I have a horror of underwater caves. Anyhow.

Maury et al remain the same, but I have to say I am thrilled that Cheaters has been added to the lineup. Today I witnessed the following proclamation by a busted boyfriend (italics and bolding mine):

"She says she got an STD from me, but I know she didn't, 'cause I was using condoms. So, you know, if she got an STD? She gave it to herself."

The gold medal, sir, for missing the point entirely. He did offer that they might get married if she could just see past her issues and forgive him for his honest mistake (which was apparently walking dick-first into a crowd of pantsless adoring fans?), which, gals, I have heard before, and you do not want that prize. My advice would fall on deaf ears, I'm sure, as did the advice of the host; forget it, Jake. It's Cheaters.

*Don't you think Kasher Blowtorch would be a good name for a metal/klezmer fusion band?

Guest Pots, By SEAN

My attempt to, Rashomon-style, kick some clouds out of the dustbin of history, before the events slip from my mind.  Secondary goal, to provide a memorandum to be passed to those husbands blithely unaware of their role in an impending labor, a hazy sense that they'll just be ready with a motivational phrase (which they can certainly come up with on the spot), and maybe at some point they'll have to get someone a glass of water...

To the events as depicted in the last series of posts, I have not much to add by way of events and facts.  The recollection of my laboring wife is sharper and clearer than my own, so my contribution is to provide some of the behind the scenes action, sometimes disconcerting to think about, like when the muppets get a bit too frenetic and you catch a bit of arm and someone's shoulder in the frame...

The doula.  With the second birth approaching, I knew this was critical.  Last time, I figured that, you know, it would be tough but we had midwives, and they and my wife would more or less tell me what to do if things went a little coo coo ka ka.  No!  The job of the midwife is to make sure the birth goes smoothly, and while this often involves caring for the woman, there are many times where they are focusing elsewhere.  And your wife, well, will be crazy insane with pushing a small person through her inner works, so you should take what she says with a grain of salt.  The doula has been through this many times before, and if you get a good one she can boss you around productively because hey its 11 AM and you slept one hour between 10 and 11 PM the night before, so brain not work well sleep without.  So get the doula, so you can focus on things like:

The birth tub.  This is a good thing for husband man to work on, because it is utterly insane to think that someone would fill a pool with 100 gallons of water inside a room in your house.  Let us think for a moment about what could go wrong.  Imagine you are standing in your bedroom, with a gallon jug of milk.  It has a good heft, and that nice little plastic side handle!  Now open the jug and pour the contents on the floor, glug glug glug.  Oh god!  This is a disaster!  A whole gallon of milk, ON THE FLOOR, soaking into the hardwood!  Now wait, I'm sorry, because no, it wasn't one gallon that spilled, it was actually A HUNDRED of those, and this has gone past disaster to some absurd apocalypse, much like Hunter S. Thompson's hotel room depicted in Terry Gilliam's screen adaptation of Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas.  Except you don't have Benicio del Toro to help you take your mind off things.

Anyway, as I was saying, put those thoughts aside, because you are actually going to do this.  Inflate your Ocean View Fishy Pool with an electric pump, attach your drinking-water safe hose to your kitchen sink, and start things filling early, because it may take a good hour to get it full.  Your doula can look after your wife while you troubleshoot the plastic widget that was supposed to stay attached to the faucet but was blown off by the water pressure when the hose kinked up somewhere in the living room.  <INSERT BIRTH STORY HERE> And now you've transferred to the hospital and have laid hands on the lovely miraculous creature, and have made sure that your ladies are content, and happy, and somewhere in the back of your mind a nagging itch of a thought persists... just how secure is the seal around that little drainage valve at the bottom of the hundred gallons of cloudy water sitting on a tarp on the hardwood floor of your bedroom?  And so, you are glad that there are things that your ladies need from home, so you can go, and deal with the tub.  (There is nothing quite like re-entering the scene of an abandoned home birth with full tub, having done it twice now, the wet slap of the humidity hits you at the front door.)

I'm not sure how long I can keep up the second person, outside of the genre of Choose Your Own Adventure.  So, with 1-2 hours of sleep, I left the hospital for home, to reunite with Sophia, check in with Grandma, and see whether that trick where they suck on the hose to siphon the gas out of cars actually works with a 30 foot hose and birth waters.  Thankfully it does, and while I understand several of the mysteries of the human mind, the basic physics of siphoning eludes me, so I have no way of jumpstarting the process when the flow trickles to nothing with 50 gallons left to go.  Leave it be, finish bedtime with Sophia (after explaining the mechanics of what just happened to Mama); then Grandma and Dada start bailing.  Grandma is a SPORT, and I am not sure she understands the depth of my appreciation for her!  Regarding that little underneath valve, I have no idea whether it was the culprit, or whether the slop from the entrances and egresses and multiple bails throughout the morning and evening did it, but I don't recall the hardwood floor being quite so... uneven on that side of the bedroom.  (Pack pack pack, move vroom to Nashville!)

Dispatch from Blissville

Babies? They are pretty great. I think I need, like, five or six more. Yeah.

And big sisters, equally great. There are some rough patches, but faithful adherence to our routine and basic rules of conduct (no, you may not hit mama, and yes, you still have to brush your teeth) is providing needed stability, and the cuteness factor is WAY up. Sophia adores Daph-a-nee, happily inoculating her with rhinovirus via loving strokes and nose-rubbing. She had a dream, she told me, that Daph-a-nee was bigger, and they were having a tea party together. I know. I almost keeled over from The Cute.

Also, Sophia has grown an inch in the past month. Crazy. Anyway, I am looking forward to taking her places again. I hadn't realized just how much late pregnancy took out of me on the mothering front until suddenly I had a new baby and was suddenly better able to pay attention to Sophia -- we do bedtime stories and bathtime together again. And it's really nice.

The endogenous happy-chemical cocktail is potent enough that when Daphne's birth certificate arrived with the requisite typo, I just laughed. State of Pennsylvania, you are 0 for 2 in the birth certificate division. Sophia's came back with my name all screwed up (the equivalent of Joanna Lee Lervy Lervy, as opposed to Joanna Lee Leery Polyp), and Daphne's actually has her name misspelled as "Daphine." One might expect that basic literacy and typing skills, or at least the ability to reproduce a given series of letters, might be prerequisites for a job behind the Big Typewriter, but apparently not. Happily I had neglected to get Sophia's paperwork fixed until now, so this means just one trip to the notary public.  Thanks, Pennsylvania!

The only snag in my life right now is MY HAIR. Which needs a trim at the very least, and a pair of clippers set to #2 in a more drastic scenario. I like the way it looks long with bangs, but my god! The Sad Ponytail is not making me feel my super crescent best.*

*very old Sifl and Olly reference.

After the Birth, It's the After Party

As soon as Daphne is out, I morph back into my chatty, chipper self. (Really -- we have the video to prove it! But I can't show you, because I'm about 75% naked and splay-legged.) J looks up from where she's examining my perineum and says, "Hey, there's the Jo I remember!" I feel so great, in fact, that I keep trying to hand Daphne to Sean so I can move a little, until someone reminds me that we're still attached. "Oh yeah," I say. "The placenta!"

A couple of easy little pushes and it's out. I have a small tear, right at the bottom where I tore with Sophia -- except it's not as bad, not quite a second degree tear. "Maybe a one-and-a-half," says J. The lidocaine syringe looks unappealing, but I don't feel it at all, and J gets in a couple of quick sutures. It was the shoulders that did it, she says. Sean feels the cord to see when it's done pulsing; the midwives clamp it, and he cuts it. Gets it on the first try, which is harder than you'd think.

The hospital hat keeps popping off Daphne's big head. Ellen helps me latch her on, or rather does much of the work since I'm suddenly feeling like a social butterfly and want to chat up everybody in the room. Ellen takes down everyone's guesses on how much Daphne weighs...Sean's guess is the highest, at nine pounds, which I think is ridiculous, but the weight comes back 9 pounds, 10 oz. Daphne's head is 13.5 inches around, but her chest is 15. (No wonder I tore a little.)

I remind everyone I want to eat a little piece of placenta. Hospital lunch has just arrived, and K, eternal good sport, takes the knife and fork from the tray and saws off a thumb-sized piece of a cotyledon. I rinse it in the bathroom sink and pop it under my tongue for a minute, then swallow it whole. For the curious: it tastes like nothing at all.

There are a few bummers about being in the hospital, chief among them the fact that Montgomery (apparently alone among hospitals) requires FIVE heelsticks for blood sugar testing in big babies. That, and the toilet is so high off the ground my feet don't touch the floor. But we end up with a cadre of supportive nurses (I suspect there is a LOT of self-selection going on here), and not once is Daphne removed from our room. Heelsticks are done with her in my arms, and nobody says a thing about taking her to the nursery. Well, except for the hearing test, but I go along and hover right outside the window. In a place that usually has a 48-hour discharge, we're gone after 22 hours. Beautiful.

********
A note on placenta eating: I decided that I would eat a little piece right away, and then I took it home and froze little chunks (maybe 10-15) that I've been putting into smoothies every other day. Some people cook it; some have it dried and encapsulated, but I just felt like raw (even raw and frozen) was the way to go. I have to say I've been feeling so good, physically and mentally, and I think the placenta has something to do with that. My milk came in right away, my brain feels fairly clear and even-tempered (and I don't feel anxious or sad or anything), fundus going down really quickly. Thumbs up for placenta eating!

********
Also, thumbs up for acupuncture! I don't know if it was second baby or all the needling, but I suspect the latter is what made dilation so very easy. Well, not easy exactly, but certainly not terribly painful or difficult. It was a really cool labor to have; I needed to use all my "tools," if you will, but they were all helpful (as opposed to back labor last time).

********
And finally: what was up with the transfer? I think Lilian hit it in the comments when she described it as a "mental lip" -- there were two things going on there. The first was clearly mental: We hit some stuff that triggered traumatic memories from Sophia's birth (pushing too early, pushing with someone holding back a lip), and at that point I started to feel stuck, trapped, unable to cope. On some level I knew there was no way I was getting any kind of epidural or narcotics -- that late in labor? please! -- but I also knew that I just couldn't stay where I was, literally or figuratively. So that's part of what the transfer was about.

The second is a physical issue. After last time and this time (and taking into account the labor patterns of my mother and sisters), I think there's something about my pelvis that makes babies rotate through OP before they come down. With Sophia, we were worried about her heart rate and didn't have the luxury of taking a break from pushing and letting her take her time coming down. But with Daphne, who had a nice heart rate all along, we were able to wait out the pelvic issues. I know my midwives, in the past, have picked up their knitting during a slow pushing stage and just waited until the mom felt the urge; if I had been in a better space mentally, that would have been just the thing, I think. But I clearly wasn't backing down from my "GOT TO GO NOW" idea, so off we went...thereby ensuring at least an hourlong break in the pushing stage. I also think my posture in the car was helpful in getting Daphne past the pubic bone and better rotated in my pelvis; I never would have come up with the position at home, but it was really perfect.

Would I do it again? Well, I'd do this birth again the same way, since it clearly worked out so well. If there's ever a next time. it might be prudent to plan to go in, either to a hospital with midwives or birth center, but stay at home as long as possible and be prepared for an oops-baby at home. (And by "prepared" I mean have a midwife and a doula there!)

On the other hand, I might try for that homebirth again...

*******

Last of all, I want to say how absolutely wonderful everyone involved in the birth was. I can't recommend my midwives and doula highly enough. No matter where you're birthing, a doula (okay, Ellen in particular!) is so, so wonderful...Sean can tell you more about that in his guest post.

On the Road Again

I'm not sure what happens when; I try the pool again. The water's cool, but I don't care; someone puts more hot water in and I don't like it. I don't like much of anything. I'm making a hell of a racket, and it's not helping anymore; I can't find a position that helps. I feel unmoored. Sean says later I'm just writhing around in the tub. I'm aware that the water is full of all kinds of stuff, and that it's in my hair. I feel gross. "I don't want to do this," I tell everyone. "I'm done. This doesn't feel right, it doesn't feel right -- this is some serious PTSD shit!" I yell, hoping to impress upon my birth team the seriousness of my resolve to be ALL DONE, NOW.

J tells me that I was making the best progress pushing flat on my back -- I need to get the baby under my pubic bone. I also haven't broken my bag of waters yet. With every push the midwives lean way back, but it hasn't popped yet; there's some talk of this baby being born in the caul. I want it to break so maybe the baby will move more, and finally it does -- a huge gush of clear fluid with tons of vernix floating in it. Baby's heart rate is good, 120s, 130s, everything fine. Still trying to get past that bone and that lip.

"Sometimes when a baby is OP or a little malpositioned, this part is hard and you get that lip," J says. I know that! But...wait. OP? That baby was not OP when we started! What the hell? Malposition! Oh huh-uh no. That's one of my buzzwords.

"It may be something about your pelvis, this is just the way babies move to get through," J says calmly. "We know you can do this! If we weren't sure you could, we wouldn't be here -- we'd be at the hospital already." I am firm in my insistence that I do NOT want to do this, and furthermore am NOT going to, and you all are going to have to take me somewhere else RIGHT NOW. Because I am DONE. There is going to be an epidural, or something, and I am not going to have to do this ANY MORE.

Sean leans in close, and says wonderful, heartfelt things about knowing I can do it, I did it before, I'm strong, I can do this right here. He's crying. "Uh-huh," I say. "But I told myself that if there was another malposition issue, I was going to get pain meds." And in my head, my new mantra: I don't want to, I'm not gonna, and you can't make me.

Apparently I had neglected to tell him about my resolution. Or anyone else, for that matter. And the thing about women in transition yelling for some kind of intervention? Is that they are not particularly convincing.

The midwives explain what would happen if we went to HUP, our emergency transfer hospital down the street: sit in the ER. Admissions. No privileges for the midwives. Several people checking my cervix. Push bag of IV fluids. Then maybe some pain meds or an epidural, two hours from now. "Or we could stay here, and have your baby in two hours!"

I groan, but not because of a contraction. I don't like either of those options. The non-laboring parties gather for a talk in the next room. Ellen tells me later that she, knowing Sophia's birth story pretty well, lets the midwives know what might be going on in my head. A mental anterior lip, if you will. They file back into the room and suggest one more try at pushing, and then a transfer to Montgomery Hospital, where they have privileges. "You'll have to get dressed, and then we have a long car ride," someone tells me. I don't know if they think such things will dissuade me, but I'm resolute. Determined. I boss Sean into the bathroom to get me a headband, instruct Ellen to find me some socks.

It feels really, really good to put clothes on. Warm and dry and snuggly. I stop every minute or so, it feels like, to have a contraction, but I get clothes, socks, shoes, grab purse and keys. Getting out of the apartment feels like getting out of a stuck place inside my own head. We get into the elevator, which immediately stops to let someone else in: a batty woman with whom interaction is fraught, even on a good day.

"Is she okay?" she inquires of the midwives, who inform her that yes, I'm fine, I'm just in labor.

"Oh, I bet she's not even in labor!" squawks the woman. "My daughters always thought they were, and then they got sent back home! You'll have a baby in a couple days, honey!" In the part of my mind that exists underneath the shell of labor pain, I laugh.

Sean tells me later he asks the midwives what he should do if the baby comes in the car. "Pull over," J tells him. "And call us." The hospital is 40 minutes away, most of that on the Schuylkill Expressway. (For those of you non-locals, it's either a raceway or a parking lot, with semitrucks.)

We load into our cars and drive off. It's frigid outside, coldest day in two years. I'm not wearing my coat and I don't care. The cold is a distraction. I buckle up and set the seat back so I'm ramrod straight; I shove my fists behind my lower back and bellow like a cow through contractions. Ellen follows behind, and I see the midwives in their cars coming too. The sky is bleak gray and I watch our neighborhood roll by, think about what's going on in the world right now: La Leche League meeting. Kids in preschool. Sophia with neighbor, Grandma on her way. Each landmark we pass on the way feels like an item checked off on a list; I'm not going to have to do this for much longer. I am almost done, and I can let somebody else take over for a while. Between contractions I notice traffic is bunching up, thickening, slowing way down, even out here past the city interchanges where the road goes to three lanes. A blast of snow swirls down over the semi in front of us. I'm so glad it's snowing. Up in her car, J tells me later, she thinks of me when the snow starts -- I'd been asking, all night, if it was snowing. I wanted it to snow when I was birthing this baby.

River, snow, leafless trees, icicles hanging down the rocks. Contractions, one on top of another. I sit bolt upright, hold onto that handle above the door; I fight each contraction, doing everything you're not supposed to: I clench my toes, tense my body, will it to stop. Shove. I feel the baby move down. Shove. Again.

I puke all over myself, the orange juice and honey concoction J fed me, a miracle drink said to bring back the tiredest laboring woman from the brink of exhaustion, but which only served to piss me off because I hate sweet things when I'm in labor. "Oh, poor Joey!" Sean says. He passes me his handkerchief, which I am holding near my mouth when I puke again. Shove. I feel something now, something suspiciously lower than before. I surreptitiously reach into my pants to check, but it's still out of easy reach. I am not going to have this baby on the Schuylkill. Here we are at the hospital.

We work our way through the maze of parking garage, bridge, elevators. I trudge like a zombie, making zombie noises, pausing to hang onto railings for contractions. It's hard to walk with what feels like a canteloupe between my legs. Near the front desk, Ellen leans in and whispers to me: "Here comes the security guard with a wheelchair. You don't have to sit in it if you don't want to." And I really, really don't. "So tell them you absolutely can't sit," she says. Good doula, I think. I'm so glad she's there. The poor security guard, who has been listening to Night of the Living Dead coming down the hall, offers the chair right in the middle of a contraction. "nnnnNNNOOOO!" I say. "CAN'T SIT!" And maintain my trudge. (Later Sean goes down to thank her for her kindness.) Sean takes the chair and piles all our stuff on it, and up to L&D we go.

The staff at least knows me from my NSTs, and greets us; J and K are set up in a room already. I hustle best as I can down the hall, and Ellen is whispering again, saying they're going to offer me a gown but I don't have to take it. "I have puke all over my clothes," I point out. "I want the gown!"

I see they're hanging the IV bag; the rule is you need a bag of fluids before you can have an epidural. "But let's do a quick check to see where you are first," J says. I flail a little on the bed, looking for something to hold on to during a contraction, but submit to a check.

"The head's right here!" says a surprised (maybe not TOO surprised) J. I've been hearing that all night, and it's been meaning "way too far for me to reach, or for Sean to see," so I'm not impressed, but what she means is that it is RIGHT THERE, as in "about to crown." Sean is asking Ellen, "Does this mean it's past the pubic bone yet, and the lip?" And Ellen says, almost laughing, "Oh yeah. Way past."

"I need to pee!" I yell.

"Go ahead then!" says K, smiling. "Get J!" I try, but I can't. At all. I want a catheter, quick, and K obliges -- it feels like nothing, but all of sudden I don't have to pee anymore.

"Push!" says somebody, cheerfully, and this time I can. This time I feel like I have something I can push, and almost immediately I feel something I remember -- except last time I didn't recognize it. The ring of fire! That baby's head is on its way out, and I push, and it burns, and it feels really, really good. Ellen gets a mirror, and for a minute all I can see is the back of J's head -- and then she moves aside and a blue-gray head streaked with vernix is there. "There are the eyebrows, there's the nose..." somebody calls, and it burns, and they want me to slow down and pant, but at this point I don't care if I tear, I want this baby out NOW! And the head is out all the way, a little break in the burning, but it's time for the shoulders. I feel J give them a wiggle, another wiggle, and then she defers to K. I push, K does something bigger than a wiggle with those shoulders, and...

...the baby is out. There is a baby on my stomach, a beautiful squishy wet blue baby, and my first thought (and I think my first sentence) is "OOOOH that feels so much BETTER!"

"Daphne," I say, beaming. "Daphne Wren," Sean says, also beaming.

But wait! There's more...

And Then

(forgive my changing tenses from the first part of the story. Bad writer! Bad!)

E arrives, and I don't remember it, which means my attention must have been focused on the, erm, contractions. She must have asked me where it was hurting -- "Low in front, and a tightness in the middle of the back," I say, somewhat in wonderment that it wasn't back labor. It still feels like heavy period cramps, with a deep node of tension above my sacrum. Not pain exactly, but the anchor point for the energy of the contractions. E presses gently on two points near the spot, and the tension releases. "Acupressure," she tells me. Two things impress me: the effectiveness of a gentle, pointed touch on that powerful sensation, and the fact that I actually don't want a bulldozer pushing on the spot. Because I am not having back labor! Woohoo!

E suggests the shower while she and Sean got the room and the birth pool ready. "Does it adjust?" she asks. No, but it hits just the right spot once I'm in. Also it is decorated with bath crayon renderings of cyclops, but I am largely oblivious. It's the middle of the night and I'm glad; I have hours of hot water before the building shower rush starts to siphon it away. Clearly, of course, I am still in pretty early labor; I have it together enough to change the water temperature between contractions. I start to overheat and get out, remembering to use my own towel, and to dry off thoroughly; I'm aware that I'm naked, and cover up with the towel to walk back to the bedroom. The tub is set up and filling, the bed is made up with layers of plastic and old sheets. "Good idea to put the chux pads under the sheets," I think to say to Sean and E. One of them tells me they're towels taped down. E, watch in hand, wants me to tell her when I'm having a contraction.

"Now," I say, and there it is. The tight feeling begins to recede, and I announce that one's over. I do a few more like that, leaning on the dresser. "Don't forget to call the midwives! They want an update!" I instruct in between contractions. As though anybody could possibly neglect to do so.

E, observing, casts a sideways glance at me and smiles a little. "I think you're just reporting the peaks," she says. "Not the whole thing." And she's right: I've been saying the contraction is over as soon as things feel tolerable again, which means they're both longer and more frequent than we thought. Or than I would admit to. Either way, I'm getting back in the shower. Somebody calls J, the midwife on call.

E hangs out in the bathroom while I stand in the shower, and somehow she knows before I realize it that the locus of tension has moved. I have to bend over in the shower for the water to hit the spot; it's getting harder to manage the water temperature too. I turn to face the water, but good luck getting a shower spray to hit the underside of a pregnant belly. "J's here," E says, "but don't get out yet, she's still setting up." I think I start to make a little noise at this point: a long low groan, that old-cow sound I remember making from Sophia's birth. It feels satisfying but not urgent, making that sound. I'm ready for J to check me. I let myself think I'm dilated to a five; that seems possible.

This time when I get out of the shower, Ellen has to dry me off, and I don't care that I'm naked. The labor demands all my attention during contractions, but in between I feel like myself, aware, conscious of the need to rest and get ready for the next one. I feel strong, in control, like I'm pacing myself. J's almost ready, and as soon as the next contraction (done leaning on the dresser, long low sound) is over, I flop onto the bed and assume the position readily.

"And you are...at eight!" J proclaims. "You can get in the pool if you want to."

Eight? I'm overjoyed. I even laugh as I jump into the pool, which feels wonderful even though the water's not quite high enough yet. Eight!

"Dude," I say to the room. "This is a piece of cake." J tells me later she's worried that the other midwife won't believe I'm that far along, since I'm not making much noise, and I'm still in happy spirits. After a contraction, agreeably spent hanging over the edge of the pool, Sean asks me if there's anything he can do.

"Next time," I tell him, "use a condom." Damn right, I think. Making jokes. At eight! I rock.

Not long after that, everything disappears in a labor haze, and I focus on getting the rest of the way there. I hear Sophia wake up -- it's six a.m.! -- and her sweet little chirpy voice fills the apartment. She comes to visit me, pets my head, wipes my face with a washcloth. I try to talk to her between contractions, but during all I can do is make that noise. Loud now.

The contractions are hard now, and I have to do two things to get through. The first is to sing the Shema in my head: it's just the right length if I pace it slow. By the time I get to ehad, I feel okay. The second is to groan exactly five times, and I count on my fingers: one to start, two three four are hard, five is the last one and it's over. Adonai...ehad.

People bring me drinks. "Bucket," I say, and promptly throw up into it, untroubled. It'll move the baby down, I think. But when Sophia touches my hair during a contraction, I growl at her, and she cries; Sean takes her to the neighbor's apartment, where she'll stay until we leave. I feel awful but I can't do anything about it. Shema Yisrael...two three four...that one went past five a little bit. Hmm. But I won't give a contraction more than five groans, so I have to make them longer. Adonai...ehad.

K, the other midwife, is here, and I don't remember her getting in. Heart tones have been good, 120s, 130s, and I'm so glad; whatever else is going on, the baby is okay. So I don't worry about the baby, at all, for the rest of the labor. Myself, on the other hand...

I start to shake. I throw up again. "Do you need more hot water?" somebody asks. "NO!" I shout. "NOT COLD!" I know it's transition shakes. "Is it gonna fit?" I demand of J. "Is it gonna fit?" I don't feel like the baby is where she needs to be.

I get out, unwillingly, for a check. Complete, anterior lip. That sounds familiar. I don't like it. Of everything that happened during Sophia's birth, pushing past that anterior lip while a midwife held it out of the way was the most horrible, painful, traumatizing thing: to have to participate willingly in something that felt like torture, but was necessary. It's okay to push, they tell me. But I don't feel like it.

I try anyway: squatting, lying flat, finally with somebody holding the lip back, and it's awful. Everyone is full of encouragement, direction, positive reinforcement, but something isn't right -- it's like pushing against air. It's like pushing against something I don't have a grip on. K exhorts me to "Try to poop! Go ahead! Push it out like you're pooping! It's okay!" And for the life of me, I'm trying! But I can't get my body behind it. I can't get organized to push.

I'm starting to really resent these contractions.

keep going...

Pics to Tide You Over

...because it's hard to type a birth story while watching the inauguration!

Me and my tiny giant baby. (Apparently I only wear one shirt. Ever.)

Proud big sister. (We have a few not-so-proud pictures too, featuring a very betrayed look on the face of Big Sister.)

 

Sean, Daphne, and ceremonial chihuahua headdress:

We go soft-focus:

And finally: Mmmmmm. Placenta.

Spontaneous

I spent the morning raiding Whole Foods for shelf-stable yet labor-friendly foods -- juice boxes, yogurt tubes, Luna bars -- but dawdled in putting together the hospital bag. I got as far as taking everything out and strewing it all over the bed, and then opted for an early afternoon nap instead, since we had our Awesome Babysitter for a few more hours.

Long about 3:30 I noticed the usual mucous goo was streaked with pink. "Hmm," I thought. And left it at that.

Thirteen minutes later (when I had to pee again), more of the same. And nine minutes later. And so forth.

"Hmm," I thought. And left it at that.

And noticed a familiar crampy sensation too. Exactly like very mild period cramps. Every few minutes.

Hmm.

But then Sean got home, I fixed supper, time for Sophia's bath-story-bed train. I mentioned my interesting findings to Sean, who got a gleam in his eye, but said something along the lines of..."Hmm." We checked in with our doula Ellen before bed, just to let her know something was up -- she was out to dinner, but encouraged us to call when things were regular but not bad, because it would take her about an hour to get out here. "Sure, of course," I replied, thinking that things would die down after I went to sleep, but maybe in the morning we'd have some news to report.

Hmm.

And then around midnight I woke up, and the cramps were stronger -- like bad but not intolerable period cramps -- and after some futzing around with an internet contraction timer, it became obvious that they were reaching that magical interval: every three to five minutes, about a minute long. Of course it wasn't time to call anyone yet -- not at that time of night! -- they were still so easy to deal with.

Hmm.

Around one we decided to call Ellen again. You know, just to let her know. Because, eh, these crampy things, they were pretty easy to deal with -- stop a second, breathe through the peak, all done, doze in between. "I'll have some coffee and come on over," she told me, after I had to put down the phone to get through what I was somewhat dubiously referring to as a contraction. "Let's time them for an hour," suggested Sean. Which seemed like overkill to me, but okay, whatever. Our midwives' policy is that you call when things get to 4-1-1: Four minutes apart, one minute long, for an hour.

And sure enough: Every four minutes. One minute long. From 1:30 to 2:30 a.m.

Hmm.

the next installment...

Babies Are Awesome.

but they make it hard to type. i'll get a story & pics up soon, promise!

you guys are very nice, btw.

We Haz a Baby!

Daphne Wren, born January 15 at 12:45 pm

Weighing: a whopping NINE pounds, TEN ounces

Came out of: my vagina
At: the hospital, just barely (because of possibly the most comical transfer story EVER)
(seriously, just wait 'til you hear it)

And: labor started spontaneously!
AND: my giant baby was covered in plenty of vernix and not postterm AT ALL!
AND AND: I ate some placenta!
AND AND AND: she looks a lot like her sister, and is lovely!

(and Sophia calls her "Daph-a-nee".)

Pictures and rollicking stories to follow.