not that you asked...

House Hunters: I have more to say

So if you want to listen to me whine incessantly about parenting two small children and how tired I am and how impatient I am and how proud I am of myself when I do something like complete an entire load of laundry in one day AS WELL AS brush my teeth, please know that I am continuing to blog three times a week at Parents.com. I'm pretty worn out lately (if you already read the Parents site, I would not blame you if you are currently rolling your eyes and screaming your computer screen for me to SHUT UP about it already, since DUH I have had a baby before and shouldn't be so surprised about it) and it's because of my two small children (You: OMG, WE KNOW) and therefore, if I have anything to blog about, it is related to them and my coping mechanisms for getting us all through the day and leaves me very little energy to blog about anything else here. I hope to remedy this situation soon, but it will depend entirely on someone who weighs eight pounds and out-farts the dog, so don't hold your breath. Actually, if you're in the room with us, DEFINITELY hold your breath, because I am so not kidding about the out-farting of the dog. Lucy is the stinkiest baby I have ever been in contact with in my entire life.

Anyway, I want to talk more about House Hunters (remember the conversation we already had?), because I'm still at home a lot (OMG I'M ALWAYS AT HOME ALWAYS ALWAYS ALWAYS HALP), and my background noise of choice continues to be HGTV, which I know you cannot even believe I continue watch if I'm just going to keep complaining about it all the fricking time.

So. If I were to venture a guess, I would confidently estimate that 98 percent of the people featured on House Hunters say the EXACT SAME THINGS when viewing the kitchen/living room area of a home: “This is a great space for entertaining.” Or maybe, “I could see myself here, you know, making the food, while everyone hangs out in there.” Or even, “It's just perfect for big family gatherings!”

And I'm sorry, but what I want to know is exactly how much entertaining are these people REALLY DOING? Are they going to base what is likely the biggest financial decision they will EVER MAKE IN THEIR LIVES on whether it seems like a great place to serve mini quiches and white wine spritzers? And I'm not saying that these people DON'T have friends over a lot or host a fabulous Thanksgiving every year, but even if they threw ONE LOUSY PARTY A WEEK, it still seems like it might make a lot more sense to picture yourself living in that house the way you would the OTHER 164 hours in the week: watching TV on the couch, eating take-out on the coffee table, watching the kids throw toys around the room and get marker on the furniture and spill juice on the carpet. WOULDN'T THAT MAKE MORE SENSE? But no one's doing that! They're all picturing themselves serving cocktails in formal attire amidst their new granite countertops and stainless steel appliances.

Which, incidentally, brings me to granite countertops and stainless steel appliances and how I wish the world (and especially the people on House Hunters) would SHUT UP ABOUT THEM ALREADY. Stainless steel is nice, I agree. It's pretty and shiny, and granite countertops are smooth and fancy and expensive and guess what? I like them, too! But how many times have I watched people wander through houses and discount them completely because they didn't have upgraded countertops or stainless steel appliances even though the rest of the house was PERFECT? People, I am not saying you should have to live with a stove from 1978, but the fact that you simply cannot stomach that black refrigerator because it is not stainless steel, despite the fact that it is BRAND NEW, makes me want to vomit. Do you know how hard it probably is to clean vomit off of stainless steel? You're going to need SPECIAL CLEANERS AND WIPES, even. And yeah, I know no one wants formica countertops anymore, NEITHER DO I, but can we not act like there is nothing remotely appealing about a kitchen unless you can describe the countertops by using the word “slab?” Also, News Flash: You can REPLACE appliances and countertops with VERY LITTLE HASSLE. Last time I checked, they came in all kinds of sizes and plug right into the wall and everything. I know! Can you EVEN BELIEVE IT? Honestly, I'm not even against stainless steel and granite, I just wish it wasn't the Be All End All for making housing decisions while also being featured on national television.

I won't elaborate on my next point (because I'm tired) (You: Seriously, SHUT. IT.) but I'd also like to say that if all you plan on cooking is Pasta Roni and frozen pizza and the occasional batch of frozen mini quiches for your infrequent parties? YOU DON'T NEED A VIKING RANGE. I assure you.

One month

I feel like there's so much to write about and no time to write it all down, at least, no time to write it all down so that it sounds witty and clever like I want it to sound. (HOW VAIN IS THAT?)

Having a newborn is not what I remembered it being. I don't know if I'm just not remembering it right or what, but Lucy seems to be a more difficult baby than Asher was. Except I do remember Asher crying, and Lucy NEVER cries, but this could be because Lucy has absolutely zero reason to cry, since we're still practically force feeding her and I'm pretty sure she's never felt hungry in her entire four-and-a-half-week life. She doesn't fall asleep easily, even when she's tired. She doesn't sleep in the car, she doesn't even fall asleep easily in my arms most of the time. She wakes up as soon as you put her down and although she doesn't cry about it right away, she makes this horrible helicopter noise that forces you to pick her up before your ears start bleeding. You don't want to have to listen to the helicopter for very long, I assure you. She is starting to develop an evening fussy routine, which is okay by me because the time frame for her fussiness is 10 to midnight, and fortunately, 10 to midnight encompasses the 11pm feeding, when Dave is on baby duty and I am falling asleep upstairs to the low hum of HGTV on the television (it tends to drown out the fussing). The last two nights she has slept beautifully from midnight to 3 or 4 am, and by that I mean QUIETLY, but after I feed her in the middle of the night, she closes her eyes and fusses in her sleep until it's time to eat again. It appears that something I cannot do is sleep next to a friggin HELICOPTER.

So we are tired lately. I do okay on little sleep during the day. Oh sure, I'm way less patient and way more frustrated and I can get a little mean, but I can still function. What I can't tolerate is the way Dave walks around saying, “I'm so TIRED.” Because DUDE! I KNOW! I'm tired too! Also! I KNOW YOU'RE TIRED, because there I was, sharing a bed with you all night long! But talking about it and complaining about it just makes me angry; it's like we're trying to Out-Tired each other all day long. Something I don't want to waste my energy on is getting angry about the fact that I know I'm more tired than my husband is. Which truthfully, is not even something I know. Maybe he IS more tired than me! (BUT I'M THE MOM, and I do middle-of-the-night feedings, so he doesn't have any right to be more tired than me, even if he actually is.) (OMG, delirious much?)

Lucy poops once a day, and it is an Event each and every time. As soon as she starts the process, I haul her upstairs to her crib where I undress her and let her have at it. It takes about 15 minutes for her to finish, and I stand by, sliding clean diapers under her butt. Yesterday she pooped through FOUR DIAPERS. And when I say “pooped through,” I mean that four diapers were absolutely SATURATED with her output. It is pretty gross to watch, but also a relief, too, because she's always a little more cheerful after we've thrown sixteen pounds of her excrement into the diaper pail.

It's also proof that she's eating well and growing, although so is the double chin she seems to be sporting, and the fact that her preemie clothes keep getting tighter and tighter. Oh, who am I kidding, they definitely still FIT, but they're not swimming on her anymore. They fit perfectly, for the most part. Except for her freakishly long arms, that is, which have never fit into ANYTHING AT ALL, which mean even from birth, all her sleeves have looked like ¾ sleeves. We can't find anything that reaches all the way to her wrists. I BIRTHED AN ORANGUTAN, is what I'm saying. (Less hairy, though.) Today she's wearing a little yellow owl outfit that Asher wore when he was a baby, and it fits her almost perfectly. She's worn it only once before, when she was about a week old, and the reason I remember is because it was the first time we'd seen her wake up enough to fuss about something. We tried a lot of things: feeding her, rocking her, swaddling her, but nothing seemed to work. It was when the reality hit that OMG THIS IS A BABY, and all the dreamy, soft-focus effects melted away and we realized that this was going to be It for a while, dealing constantly with a fussy, screamy baby, and finally I took her upstairs to change her diaper and found that her bellybutton scab had gotten irritated and BLED THROUGH HER SHIRT AND FLEECE PANTS. And it clearly HURT, because once we got her cleaned up and into a new (blood-free) outfit with some Vaseline and gauze protecting the sore spot, SHE WAS GOLDEN. And Dave and I both felt like total rookies again, even though I realize Checking Fussy Baby for Open Wounds isn't something you really have to contend with on a regular basis. Or even at all since the first time, actually.

I am happy the first month is over. While there is no more magical moment than the birth of your own child, the weeks that follow – at least for me – are filled with more frustration and anxiety than awe and wonder. It has been much, MUCH better for me this time (I always say “I think I had some PPD” when I talk about my postpartum experience with Asher, but the truth is that I KNOW I had PPD, and not just SOME, I had A LOT) but it is still kind of boring dealing with a newborn all day. I find that I am way more relaxed about her eating and sleeping; would you believe I haven't even tried tracking when and how long she sleeps, looking for an emerging schedule? I DIDN'T THINK I WAS CAPABLE OF THAT. But I am being laid-back about it, which feels like the right thing to do this time around. No use getting caught up in the “WHEN WILL SHE SLEEP?” thing, because I can't do anything about it anyway. And I think that has contributed to my general health and well-being, and has also made the past month fly by. I am longing for the time a few months from now when Lucy will be more interactive and engaging, but I am somehow also able to take it one day at a time. One nap at a time, one feeding at a time, one overnight helicoptering suckfest at a time. And I'm pretty proud of myself for that.

And I just know, that despite not loving this newborn thing, that I will totally make up for it by being an awesome mom when she's just a little bit older. I promise you that, Lucy.

Yes, how productive INDEED

Postpartum

Postpartum started off on the wrongest of feet with the whole medication debacle. I was not moved up to the recovery floor after delivery because my doctor was worried that my blood pressure situation wouldn't resolve itself appropriately and I would require magnesium sulfate, which, for some reason, she said would have been easier to administer to me in the labor and delivery unit. I am not sure why, and I did not ask. This is primarily because I was very busy writhing in pain in my Craftmatic adjustable bed, tears streaming down my face, lips pursed, and hands white-knuckling the bed rails while someone else pushed my pain button for me and we all tried to listen closely to see if we could hear the medication being released into my IV. And GUESS WHAT? THE MEDICATION WAS NOT BEING RELEASED INTO MY IV.

The nurse fiddled with the dispenser thingy for a while, even going so far as to take out the batteries in and out and then go off wandering the halls in search of new ones, and every ten minutes I faithfully pressed the stupid joystick button and hoped and prayed that some small drippy pain-relieving miracle was making it's way down the plastic tube to my veins. I'm guessing it took her five or ten minutes, tops, but when you're lacking pain medication and your entire abdomen has been hacked into not two hours prior, ten minutes feels like an ETERNITY. A big fricking PAINFUL eternity. I believe I caught an honest glimpse of hell during that hour or so I was Without Narcotics.

Eventually I convinced the nurse that I was actually GOING TO DIE if she didn't do something soon (I didn't have to say it, the look on my face communicated VOLUMES, and the volume I made sure she got to read was titled “I Will Take You DOWN, BITCH, If You Do Not Do Something VERY VERY SOON,” and pardon my French, but you do not mess around with women who just went through childbirth) and so she contacted the anesthesiologist and he immediately sent over something that had to be administered in my shoulder via injection. I believe I actually laughed when the nurse said, “OK, this will sting a little,” because OMG, SERIOUSLY? Do you know what REALLY STINGS? The giant, fresh incision in my bikini area! Five minutes later I was so happy from that drug, I would have let the darling anesthesiologist who prescribed it impregnate me immediately with another baby if he darn well pleased, even though I'd given birth like, what, an HOUR ago or something. (P.S. He would never have wanted to impregnate me, what with my giant swollen head and appendages. I'm just guessing, of course, but I bet I'm guessing RIGHT.)

(Giant. Swollen. EVERYTHING.)

I don't remember much about that night. I know I held Lucy, and I know I saw Asher and my parents and Dave's parents and POSSIBLY my sister-in-law, although I have no real recollection of what I said to any of them. We sent Lucy to the nursery for most of the night due to my Severe Pain Situation and the fact that I couldn't even eat ice chips without requesting the immediate placement of a bedpan under my chin to catch my copious vomit production. The next morning, after a dose of Zofran to stop the puking, I was moved up to the postpartum wing for recovery. And my first nurse? SURPRISE! Was the same nurse I'd had after delivering Asher, and she had made my experience MISERABLE the last time.

Last time, I had sky-high blood pressure after delivering Asher, and she didn't read my chart, so she yelled at me rather shrilly for not getting up and walking around more. “Do laps around the hallway!” she said. Then, when I got up and walked around and took a shower like she told me to, she came back into the room – presumably AFTER reading my chart – and yelled at me to GET BACK IN BED, that I could have a STROKE if I got up again. And then! Three days into my stay, she ordered a CATHETER for me and it wasn't until another nurse showed up to place it that she figured out she'd ordered it for the wrong room. I was moments away from getting an UNNECESSARY CATHETER, PEOPLE. (Hate.) The good news was that she was only my nurse for one shift, and during her shift I was pretty hopped up on painkillers, so I don't remember much. I do remember her helping me to the bathroom the first time, which GAH, if there is one person in this world I would rather not have helping me put a maxi pad into my mesh underpants and showing me how to use the peri bottle, IT WOULD BE HER. (Yes, you read that right. Showing me how to use the peri bottle. Something I really thought was self-explanatory, even if this hadn't been my second delivery.)

After that, I got a really awesome nurse, and the rest of the stay was pretty decent, EXCEPT for the part where I had to put on real clothes and go home. It seemed impossible, but I was even more swollen LEAVING the hospital than I was going in, so my clothes (the ones I'd worn into the hospital) were almost too tight to wear out. And I hear this is normal for a lot of people, especially since I was pumped full of bags of fluid during my stay, but do you guys know what horrified me more than anything else, even though it happened to me last time too?

My body held the water in the strangest places. In particular, this means that while I was swollen all over, my hips were the most swollen place on my body. More swollen than my FEET, even. And so swollen that it looked like the junction between my waist and my hips was a ninety-degree angle. Like, from my armpits to my waist was a nice straight line, and then suddenly, MY HIPS JUTTED OUT, in a freaky freaky unnatural way. I don't even know how to explain it except to draw you a picture:

Only after the swelling went away did I dare bring it up in conversation with Dave. I believe I said something like, “Wow, so... my hips, huh?” And he exhaled and all the words came tumbling out in a jumble of relief, “I WAS SO WORRIED THEY WOULDN'T GO AWAY.” Seriously, they were THAT HORRIFYING. Why the hips? Is that the last place left on my body that hadn't already been stretched to gigantic proportions? Was it the fact that I spent most of four days sitting in one place? Was it the epidural? I DON'T KNOW, only that going into this c-section, I worried about Return of the Enormous Hips, and then I had to see and deal with them again and it was just as horrifying as the last time, even though this time I knew they would go away. Last time? I thought I was going to have to LIVE with those hips. How could I have known they would disappear? I cried many bitter tears over those hips in 2006. (In 2008, I used them as an excuse to eat cookies. NATURALLY.)

And just as the Hips of Doom were the thing I dreaded most about delivery (I know, right? Not accidental death from anesthesia or anything, because I am WEIRD), the thing I love most about having a baby is the very first time you get to go to the bathroom on your own after it's out of your body. People who are pregnant for the first time, let me just tell you how amazing and wonderful and thrilling it is to pee for the first time after delivery. Mostly because the pee? It just keeps coming. And coming. And coming! And you wonder how in the world your body could ever hold this much pee because it seems like enough pee to overflow the entire TOILET and I can't say you'd be the only one who ever actually stopped peeing JUST TO CHECK AND MAKE SURE, but also? Oh, does it EVER FEEL GOOD. I can recall with clarity my first bathroom visit after both of my deliveries. It was just that fantastic. I kind of envy you pregnant people, just the TINIEST bit, for getting the Thrill of the After-Baby Bladder Evacuation. I might love that even more than I detest the appearance of the Robot Hips, and that? THAT IS SAYING SOMETHING.

GEEZ this is long already, so let me just say: The mesh panties of yesteryear are NO LONGER MESH, but more of a ruched gauzey-type material, and, well, just NO. Thank you, but no. It was not the same and the fact that they are labeled L/XL is just an insult to postpartum women everywhere. Makers of mesh panties? Label those suckers XS. That's the way to a woman's heart. I am so not above vanity sizing for mesh panties. Even when I am clearly sporting XL hips.

Lucy's Birth Story

December 16, 2008

10:30am
Dave and I arrive at my weekly OB appointment. It is a Tuesday, and I am exactly 37 weeks along according to the little plastic due date predictor tool. Although Dave has only been to two other appointments with me during the duration of this pregnancy (incidentally, both of which involved sonograms), he insists on coming along this morning. Later, he will SWEAR he just had “a feeling” I would be having the baby that day and felt it necessary to come along, but I don't actually believe this since he insisted we take TWO SEPARATE CARS so he could go directly to work afterwards.

10:35am
The nurse calls us back. She has me step on the scale and even though I don't want to look, I can't help it and so naturally, I am horrified when I see her move the weight to an absolutely astronomical number that is approximately nine pounds more than the astronomical number the scale read the previous Wednesday. That means I gained nine pounds in six days. NINE. POUNDS. I try not to cry.

I step into the bathroom to collect my urine sample and pee all over my hand and the cup. So far: crying about state of body and urinating all over self. BUSINESS AS USUAL.

I take my (carefully wiped clean) cup across the hall to the exam room where Dave is waiting. I set it on the counter and climb up on to the exam table. The nurse takes my blood pressure: 144/95. Then she tests my urine for protein. I have a level of +4, the highest reading possible. The nurse smiles an apologetic smile at me. “Honey,” she says, “I would be surprised if you got out of here without a baby today. I'll send in the doctor.” She pats my leg and closes the door behind her and I burst into tears. I AM GOING TO HAVE A BABY TODAY. I am not ready to have a baby! I don't have a hospital bag or a charged cell phone to call anyone with or a NAME.

Dave tries to reassure me that everything will be fine. But then I start thinking about Asher, and about how I am never going to see him the same way again since the new baby will make him look so gigantically enormous and all I can do is cry harder.

Conveniently, this is exactly when the doctor enters. I'm sure she's thinking that the highlight of her day will be operating on the basketcase snuffling away on exam table #2.

She tells me she thinks the baby should come out; that we could probably manage to postpone delivery for a few more days if we really wanted to, but that since I'm at 37 weeks and full term, a few more days isn't going to do anything more for the baby. And those few extra days could be dangerous for my health. I just nod and agree and sweat through my shirt and try not to sniffle too pathetically.

She tells us to report immediately to labor and delivery, where they will get me all set up on the monitors. She says she will be by as soon as she can finish up with her morning patients. We thank her and leave; the receptionist calls out a cheery, “Good luck!” as we pass through the office door.

10:50am
We are to walk to the labor and delivery unit by following the blue stripe painted on the wall. I call my mom from the hallway, but I can't even tell her what's happening because I'm crying too hard, so Dave has to do the dirty work. We pass a lot of people and I am suddenly aware that being hugely pregnant and also hysterical probably makes people think something BAD is happening to us. I certainly don't appear to be filled with joy about the impending birth of my second child.

10:55am
We reach labor and delivery. They've been expecting us, and after five minutes of questioning in the Registration office, we're shown to our room. It feels so weird and so familiar putting on my hospital gown in the bathroom; almost like it was yesterday I was there putting one on to have Asher. But it gets weirder when I come out and get into the hospital bed and discover that one of my nurses is the same nurse I had the last time I delivered. The other tells me her name is Lucille. I tell Dave that I think that's a sign, and Lucille asks me, “A sign for what?” I tell her I want to name the baby Lucy and my husband is holding out on me. Lucille looks horrified that I would name my child this, and shares with us that she has always disliked her name. Well. THANKS FOR YOUR HELP, LUCILLE.

I am asked a ton of intake-ish questions and only make Dave cover his ears when I have to announce my astronomical weight out loud. The questioning lasts for 20 to 25 minutes. I am asked repeatedly to describe my last meal and when it occurred (toast with butter, 8:30am) and whether I am having my tubes tied (no). Honest to God, I am asked by THREE DIFFERENT PEOPLE about my tubes and whether they are to cease functioning after surgery, and NONE OF THOSE PEOPLE WERE MY DOCTOR. Perhaps I look like someone who OUGHT to have their tubes tied? Have they somehow heard that I produce children with verbal communication issues who are going to be a DRAIN ON SOCIETY and require services paid for by THEIR TAX DOLLARS?

11:30am
First round of blood work is drawn. The nurse who draws it is the only nurse in the duration of my hospital stay who listens to me and takes blood from my hand instead of my arm. She is also the only nurse in the duration of my hospital stay who gets blood on the first try.

12 noon
My doctor stops by. Up until now, even the nurses aren't aware that she has recommended we deliver the baby today. The nurses are still operating on the assumption that we are in for testing and monitoring. However, my doctor assures me that what we discussed in her office is still the best course, and therefore would like to go ahead and do a c-section at 3pm, after she finishes up with her patients for the day. Dave and I are TOTALLY FINE with this idea, until we look at the clock and see that it is NOON ALREADY, HOLY CRAP, and that we have exactly three hours to pull ourselves together and call our parents and arrange childcare for Asher and GET A FRICKING CAMERA to take into the delivery room. We start making phone calls, and a few minutes later, Dave departs for home to pick up some necessities. I watch HGTV and listen to the baby's heartbeat on the monitor and just generally chill out for the next hour or so.

1:30pm
Dave is back, my mom is here and I still feel completely calm. I send a couple of text messages and post to Twitter, but I'm not ready to make any phone calls. I don't know why, exactly, except that I don't really relish the idea of explaining to everyone WHY I'm in the hospital to have my baby two weeks earlier than planned. It's possible that it's my own fault, as I have a really hard time paring down the details to what is really necessary and always end up blabbing my entire medical history to whoever I get on the phone, so it's probably for the best.

The activity in the room starts to pick up right about now – almost like we're getting ready for Major Abdominal Surgery and the Producing of a Human Infant from My Womb. I use the bathroom a few times, knowing a catheter is just around the corner waiting for me. Nurses come in and out bearing all kinds of prep items. Dave tries to get a wireless signal through the window and fails miserably. I hate not being able to update everyone on what's happening via the Internet. This means I am a big fat loser, I think.

2:30pm
Dave is handed a set of scrubs. I am given my hair net. A nurse named Doris tells me about the procedure, and how I will walk down the hall to the OR of my own accord. Dave will sit outside while I get my spinal placed, and then she'll bring him in and we'll begin. NOW I'm getting nervous.

Another nurse comes in with my post-surgery pain medication pump. It looks like a big square, plastic alarm clock. I will be hooked up to it after surgery and will be able to press a button once every ten minutes to dispense pain medication at my own pace. I watch as she accidentally drops it on the floor. I shouldn't have laughed under my breath – immediately post-surgery, I will go more than an HOUR without any pain medication AT ALL because the dropped pump WON'T BE WORKING. My pain will get to a 10 on the pain scale and I will grip the bars of the hospital bed and cry until someone finally injects me with a big syringe full of something that makes the pain subside but makes me vomit through the rest of the night. Dear Nurse Butterfingers: I will never forget you, BUT FOR ALL THE WRONG REASONS. Love, Emily

2:55pm
Here we go. I am escorted down the hallway by several nurses. Dave stops at some point to sit on his chair. I am so preoccupied by the idea of the spinal that I don't even notice. I am just hoping that this time they don't have to try to insert the block SEVEN TIMES before they get it right. (Flashback!)

3:00pm
Doris and I walk into the OR. It seems so much smaller than it did the last time. I am able to climb up on the table myself, and Doris introduces me to the OR team, which she insists is the “A-Team” of the OR. Everyone laughs. Doris is clearly well-liked around these parts. I am introduced to Charlie, who I am told is a retired OB who likes working at the hospital as a surgical assistant. Charlie looks like your average, everyday Grandpa. He is very very sweet and very reassuring, but it is still a little bit creepy to spend 15 minutes with my head on his chest while someone swabs my naked back and pokes a gigantic needle into it.

Everyone is in a good mood while I'm having my spinal placed. Christmas carols are playing on the radio, and the staff is cracking jokes and gossiping about the hospital holiday party, which is taking place that night. At some point, my doctor comes in and the conversation turns to her 40^th birthday and the fact that her husband is planning a surprise trip somewhere for her. I agree with everyone else that it sounds romantic, but I beg her not to let him pack for her. “PROMISE ME,” I tell her. “I speak from experience.” Everyone laughs.

The anesthesiologist has absolutely zero trouble placing my spinal. Charlie talks me through the process, and he is right about everything: the way my legs get warm, and then tingly, and then go completely, creepily dead. He announces that someone is going to help him swing my legs onto the table, and then they will lay me down and get to work. They grab my legs and spin me around on the table and I, having absolutely no control over my body from the chest down, rip a gigantic fart. It is so loud, and yet, everyone is totally professional about it and no one laughs. I would actually feel better if someone WOULD laugh because OMG I TOTALLY FARTED in front of 15 people. And it was a fart to be PROUD of.

3:15pm
I'm lying down and I can't feel my lower body, but I do know that they've pulled my gown all the way up to just below my breasts. It's probably even more awkward than the farting situation: everyone is milling around and chatting and they're doing it around MY NAKED BODY. How long do you have to be a doctor before milling casually around a naked body is just ROUTINE? They finally put the drape up and I feel better. At least I don't have to look at people looking at my naked body anymore.

This is the moment when I am reintroduced to my Very Favorite Thing about having c-sections: a plastic blanket filled with hot air that rests atop every part of my body I can actually feel. This thing is like heaven. I remember how much I loved it last time I was in this OR, but this time I'm way more relaxed about being cut open and so if it's possible, I have expanded my capability to love it even more. I profess my undying love and devotion to the blanket for the next 15 minutes, until I have an actual baby to profess my love for, that is.

Dave is allowed in and he sits down beside me. He takes my hand. So. This is it. We are about to have a baby.

3:25pm
They make the first incision. A few moments later, my doctor says something about being thankful I didn't try for a VBAC. Apparently my uterus is stretched so thin that she thinks the contractions of labor would have ruptured it. Later she asks the nurses to check under the baby's hat a second time and make sure she didn't cut her when she made that first incision – THAT'S how thin my uterine wall was. So thin that SCALPELS WERE (almost) COMING IN CONTACT WITH MY BABY'S DELICATE HEAD.

3:30pm
The doctor tells Dave he can stand up and look over the drape if he wants. She's about to pull the baby out; does he want to see? Dave stands up, but I can tell it's out of politeness and not curiosity. He watches as they forcibly yank her from my womb. (He does a hysterical reenactment of the process in the recovery room.)

Up until this point, everything has felt so surreal. All day, I've tried really hard to take everything one step at a time and have tried not get too worked up about the next thing coming my way, to the point where I've almost forgotten that the end of the process is a brand-new, squalling infant that belongs to me; that was CREATED by me and grown inside my body. It seems almost too crazy to believe, but then there she is, and she's crying and she's real and she's my baby girl and I'm crying too because something is different this time around. I'm not frightened or worried or nervous about how I'm going to do it. I know I want her and I know how awesome it's going to be, so this time, I just go ahead and love her immediately.

 

Lucy Claire
Born 12/16/2008 at 3:30pm
5 pounds, 11 oz; 19 inches long

!!!
Postpartum experience is a WHOLE DIFFERENT POST. One I'll most certainly get to. (The lack of pain medication! The nurse from hell! The swelling that made me look like a robot! The MESH PANTIES, HOLY CRAP YOU GUYS, THEY CHANGED UP THE MESH PANTIES AND THEY'RE NOT AS GOOD AS THEY WERE LAST TIME!)