Here’s how my day went. How about yours?
After spending the morning brunching in city (trying to keep busy!) and buying baby goodies at H&M (yellow cords are a must for stylish infants—or something), I headed back to Brooklyn for a big fat nap. The sleeping plan didn’t quite work out, however.
Every time I crawled into bed, I felt like I had to pee. And my back hurt. Labor?
I checked the clock to see if me feeling shitty came in any predictable pattern. Every 10 minutes—give or take 10 minutes. What the hell do I know? (Worthless birthing class!)
I called Nate at 3:40; he walked in the door at 4:10. He was buzzing around asking all sorts of questions. “Do you want to update the site?” “Can I get you something to eat?” I wasn’t feeling the need to answer his queries politely. Instead, I felt the need to sit on the toilet—aka the lazy woman’s birthing ball. Plus, if you have to pee, you’re right there.
While I was on the toilet, Nate was perched on the tub intermittently consulting one of my so-you’re-going-to-be-a-parent books and peering into the toilet. Checking for baby? Who knows. But there was some blood in there. Book was no help, so Nate called Linnea. She was reassuring. Contractions 8 minutes apart? Some blood? You could be at this a few hours or a day. Have some wine.
At 5:41 Nate tells me my contractions are 3 minutes apart. That’s crazy talk, I tell him. He called my doctor to share his 3-minutes-apart theory. She wants to talk to me. Mid-conversation, I hand the phone back to Nate. There will be no talking. Doc tells Nate: “Get her to the hospital.”
5:44pm: Nate calls 911 for an ambulance. I protest. I don’t want to be one of those people! Watch, I won’t even be 3 centimeters dilated!
Nate calls off the troops and quickly brings me choices of sweatpants to wear to the hospital. Very sweet, but I could not care less. When I go to put my shoes on, I notice a swollen lump in my pants. I make Nate touch it. Panic ensues.
5:47pm: We are in the car. I am in the back seat with my face is in the baby seat, one foot on the door, one foot on the floor. We make it a few blocks. I ask Nate how long it will take to get to the hospital. Nate says 15 minutes. He’s totally lying; it’s about 30 minutes away. Call 911,
I say. I spot an ambulance in front of us. There’s one.
Like we can hail an ambulance.
5:55pm: Police arrive. I ask lady cop if she’s had kids. She says yes and I ask her to feel the lump in my pants. She obliges and makes a move to take said pants off. “This baby is coming.”
6:10pm: Ambulance arrives and I very nicely ask them not to deliver my baby on Flatbush Avenue. I can see people eating cheesecake at Junior’s for Christ sake! I am in the Buick!
They kindly listen and get me onto a stretcher.
6:15pm: Nate has been booted out of the ambulance and I’m left with a cute EMT named Andrew. He looks like he’s 11. Have you delivered a baby before?
I ask. “Once,” he says. “I was hoping I wouldn’t have to do it again.” I was hoping dear Andrew wouldn’t have to again, either. I thought labor was supposed to last for hours—days!
I say to dear Andy. “Not this one.”
6:25pm: All ER-
like, we barrel into the emergency room of the nearest (and dumpiest) hospital. I hear people say, “Is this the lady having the baby?” We wiz into a weird not-quite-delivery-room room. They tell us they’re not ready for us. Not ready? Ha!
People in white coats are telling me not to push. Are you kidding?
6:30pm: In the delivery room. Doctor people are having trouble finding baby’s heartbeat. I ask Nate to help me take my coat off. He says, “The head is here!” I’m told to push one more time. Don’t say ‘one more time’! It’s never one more time.
6:34pm: Baby! It’s a boy! It’s a Theodore!
He is beautiful, healthy, and plump and simply the best baby ever. Nate and I are freakin’ dumbfounded. What the hell just happened?