Babymania

Afternoon of September 7: I am huge, hot, swollen, and no longer enjoying the state-subsidized disability leave. I am also one week over my due date. Bring it.

5:00 p.m. Shawn and I go to the doctor's. I'm 3 cm dialated, which I learn doesn't mean anything. To induce labor, he strips my membranes (which is as fun as it sounds) while asking, "How would you feel about having this baby tomorrow?" I remain unconvinced that the kid is going anywhere.

7:30 p.m. We return home with Thai food and Arrested Development on DVD (Jason Bateman: who knew?) I am crampy, but figure that is due to the stripping of the membranes.

8:30 p.m. I'm not as amused as I should be by the Bluth family antics. In fact, I'm really uncomfortable. But this still doesn't feel like what (I imagined) contractions would feel like, so I chalk it up to the doctor's appointment and (now) the paad thai.

10:00 p.m. Maybe this is something. Shawn has my cheesy NIKE stopwatch and is timing my "cramps" just in case. They seem to be coming quite often. I'm getting increasingly belligerent.

10:30 p.m. Things quickly change. Call the doctor. Get the bag. I am in agony. Everyone has told us that it takes hours of labor before the hospital will admit you. The thought of hours of this is too much, and there isn't a consistent rhythm to the contractions. Shawn emails his work into Apple, which is very conscientious of him, but conscientiousness gets you nowhere with a pregnant, laboring wife.

11:30 p.m. I don't care how long my contractions are or how far apart. We're going to the freaking hospital. I'm barfing, pooping, and am exhibiting the all the charm and grace of Linda Blair in The Exorcist.

12 a.m. We arrive at the hospital. The admissions guy takes one look at me and waves me to the third floor.

12:30 a.m. Things are now a blur. I remain in agony. We are lucky to have a very sweet nurse who talks me through my breathing, helps me calm down, and most importantly, promises me pain medication. She checks me and I'm 5cm, and can be admitted. She leaves my side for one minute and I try to rip the monitors off me during one hairy contraction. I worry they will tie me to the bed.

1:00 a.m. I am admitted to a labor and delivery room, which Shawn notes is nicer than some hotels we've stayed in. I get hooked up to an IV, and they administer something that makes me feel like I've just had a pitcher of margaritas. The pain still comes, but suddenly, I don't care!

1:45 a.m. Margaritas wearing off, I was just about to go off on someone else when the wonderful anesthesiologist comes in. I never thought I'd be so happy to have a huge needle in my spine. I swear to you, the guy looked just like George Clooney, and within minutes, I feel about 100% better. My mood is suddenly much better and I'm able to laugh and joke and for the first time since arriving at the hospital, stop asking when my epidural is coming.

2:00 a.m. I chill and let my body do its contracting without fighting it. I sleep. Shawn even curls up on the couch next to my bed. It's actually quite cozy. I can totally do this! The lights are dimmed and it is peaceful.

3:30 a.m. My nurse informs me that the baby's hearbeat isn't varying as much as it should be with the contractions. They are worried and my epidural bliss is gone. My doctor is paged and comes in from home. A specialist comes in with a huge, scary-looking contraption that will be able to better gauge the heartbeat. Everyone looks grim as they waits for her to get started. I am no longer feeling peaceful.

3:45 a.m. God bless the specialist and her scary contraption, because it verifies that the kid is still thriving in there. They make the mistake of telling me the range of beats per minute in the average healthy heartbeat. I sit there and offer constant commentary. "Oh, he's up to 50 beats! And now back down to 38. That's OK, right?" (It is.)

4:00 a.m. We're back to being peaceful, and I'm now up to about 7cm. They tell me to get some sleep, send the doctor home and keep checking on me.

6:30 a.m. Party's over. I'm stuck at 8 cm, and need to get a move on. Pitocin is administered.

8:00 a.m. We're back in business--10 cm and good to go. My nurturing, sweet nurse has left her shift and been replaced by a tough-love, Bobby Knight kind of nurse. She's not here to coddle me, she's here to get that baby into the world.

8:15 a.m. Where the heck is my doctor? I start pushing. Bobby Knight gives me the tough talk. ("You call that a push? No! Try again!") And Shawn is the cheerleader. ("You're doing great! Just keep going!") Truth is, he looks as terrified as I do.

9:00 a.m. Still pushing. Bobby Knight gets more focused and Shawn looks more terrified. I'm told that the baby has moved down the birth canal and is crowning. And that he's "vacumable" at this point. Where is my doctor?

9:15 a.m. There he is. He comes in from a meeting downstairs, and frankly, looks a bit grumpy. He starts talking about how he hates these Thursday meetings, while I think, "Um hello? I'm pushing out a baby here!" Hardly the place for small talk about hating meetings. What's next--Mondays?

9:30 a.m. Enough with the pushing. I'm not getting anywhere, but more importantly, neither is baby. Out comes the vacuum. And before I know it:

9:36 a.m. ... Welcome to the world, little Finian! Before I know it, there is a little squirmy baby on my belly. This is surreal! Look at him! He's got hair and long fingers (and fingernails! Howard Hughes fingernails!) and toes, and... He's crying and the nurse wraps him in a blanket and suctions out his nose and throat. Then Finn just kind of looks at me, and I look at him. It's amazing! This is the little fellow who was squirming in my belly for 41 weeks? He's, he's... huge! Did someone say 9 lbs. 1 oz.? Are they kidding me?

9:40 a.m. Shawn and I make awestruck smalltalk with the little guy. ("Welcome, Little Finn! We're happy to meet you. We sure hope it wasn't too stressful on the way out... How was your trip?") The doctor and nurse are still down at the foot of the delivery bed. I ask if I tore at all (thanks to my pal epidural, I haven't felt anything!) and the response? "Let's not talk about that right now." I get a little faint.

9:45 a.m. It's confirmed that we have a genius baby when he aced his Apgar tests. The nurse cleans him off and puts him back on my belly and Shawn and I continue to hold him and talk to him while I get pieced back together. This takes quite a while and I get a bit squirrelly as this is happening. While I know the epidural is some magic stuff, I also know that I won't get to take it home. I try to forget and focus on the baby. I'm high on adreneline and can't believe that I just birthed this baby. I figure it's a good metaphor for motherhood--if I can do this, what can't I do?

And thus, I end on a sappy note. We love you already, Finn!