Welcome to the first of five installments of THE birth story. I’m long winded and even though my labor lasted less than 24 hours, I just can’t shorten the story. That, and I have a short attention span so I try not to make these posts too long. Because if I can’t make it through the whole thing without being distracted, I can’t expect you guys to either! If you want a succinct version, head over this way.
And as a special treat, Big A has added in his commentary. so, you know, get ready for that. Turns out he uses Oxford Commas, which could be grounds for divorce.
Picture it. It’s a Sunday night. Our house is a disaster. The shower gifts are still piled in the front room. The kitchen is littered with pizza boxes after the Friday AND Saturday impromptu drinking shenanigans. The crib is in pieces. There is a keg in the garage. Big A says: …ummm, yeah, that’s my bad. What I thought was going to be a couple small get togethers turned into consecutive nights of what appeared to be college flashbacks…”That’s my baby’s daddy!!!”
I take a shower and get ready for bed. My stomach doesn’t feel so hot, but that’s probably due to the amount of Dominos ingested. My back hurts. Big A says: Two things…A – I didn’t know she ate a hot pocket, B – why the hell didn’t I know that we even HAD hot pockets. I also like to live dangerously, and full of regret. Little A starts going wicked crazy. More than normal. Flipping, kicking, punching, climbing, who knows what the f$#@ he was doing in there. What I do know is that it hurt. And made me pee a little.
And then pee again. And again. And I started to think it wasn’t pee.
I retreated to the basement office to find the handy dandy guide that I was given at my very first OB visit, complete with phone numbers, emergency info and signs to be on the lookout for.
Timeable Crampy? Don’t know, since I can’t tell what’s a cramp and what’s a wildly squirmy fetus.
Big A tried to tell me to not worry. So we went back to bed. Then the gush happened. THE GUSH. And he realized I was not being my typical hypochondriac self. I called the emergency line, told them my life story, they transferred me to triage and I told them my life story, they transferred me to Labor and Delivery and I told them my life story, then the nurse called me back and I told her my life story. Big A says: yeah, like I knew the story of her life already, and all of this repeating of herself was making it hard for me to sleep…smh.
All the while, I’m just slowly leaking. And starting to get concerned that the little doofus did not heed my advice and now I am angry and decide we are no longer a team. I get the official instructions to go to the hospital.
All weekend, the joke was that I didn’t have a go bag ready. JOKE’S ON ME.
BECAUSE SHIT JUST GOT REAL. Big A says: Yeeeaah son.
I throw random shit into the you’ve-gotta-go-now-bag, put on a skirt so I can shove a towel up there as to not wreck my car interior and yell instructions at Big A. We’re surprisingly calm.
It was a dark and stormy night. NOT EXAGGERATING FOR DRAMATIC EFFECT. Lightening, torrential rain, a huge accident on the highway. I couldn’t totally remember how to get to the hospital even though I was there three days ago learning how to make my boobs into feeding machines. Thankfully we do stumble upon it, try to go in the wrong doors, find the ER and head on in.
We’re going to have a m%^@f^&@ing baby today.