Geronimo!

For our second baby, who is 8 years old today. Yep. If you checked in in the last day or so, you know we’re birthdaying again. But, as Queen Mum, I’m just reveling in the memories. So come back in another day or so, if this theme is making you yawn. I’ve pulled out the old journal, kept while I was pregnant with Catgirl…

August 8, 1997

Dear Baby,
I’ve been feeling you move around for a week or so now. It’s such a nice, familiar feeling, knowing your tiny body is growing, getting ready to meet us in January. On Wednesday (in 5 days!), we’re going to try to see if you are a boy or a girl! Will we have a house full of boys, or a little girl too? I’ve dreamed twice you are a girl, but I’m just not sure. Who are you? Maybe in 5 days, we’ll begin to get an idea…

13 August, 1997

Well little one,
It seems you are a girl! The doctor today told us your immodest sonogram pictures reveal a little girl. We are so thrilled…your brother is going to have a little sister! Oh the clothes I am going to find for you! The sonographer tells us you look very healthy, despite my rotten eating habits, and you are 18.5 weeks along. Almost half way til the time we can meet your sweet face! Now. What to name you?

9 September, 1997

Baby Girl,
I fear even putting that on paper, should you surprise us and turn out to be a boy. I’m going with it now, hopefully. It is a gray Tuesday, shortly before noon. Your brother is watching the garbage trucks and back hoes go by outside the window…it is the height of his day. I am on the sofa. Still sick. At 22.5 weeks, I’m still throwing up, and exhausted. At this point, I’m just hanging on til January…I’ve dreamed you have dark hair, like your daddy’s, and surely you’ll have blue eyes like the rest of us. As much as I know better than to wish time away, I do hope these last months go quickly til your arrival. I’m trying hard to just let them be…

20 February, 1998

You are one month old tomorrow. I cannot believe the time has passed so. After your birth, a last minute second section for me, I was so exhausted I wasn’t sure I could even focus my eyes to see you, much less even lift my arms to hold you when the nurse asked if you should be brought to me in recovery. Then, I thought of all we had struggled through together to get you here, to meet each other, and you were placed in my arms. You were amazing. So dark, and alert, only about an hour old. As with your brother, and much to my dismay, that was as early as I could see you O.R. You nursed well for about 30 minutes as I tried to get a good look at you. Your hair was nearly black, and your eyes seemed navy, almost black, also…when we finally were taken to our room, I called all our dearest friends to announce your arrival. I told the story over and over, and never grew tired of it…

So. Apparently I still haven’t tired of it. There’s just something about reliving the birth of your babies that only gets sweeter with time. Here’s to you, Baby Girl, who’s just not a baby anymore!

The very funny and inventive Queen has issued a royal decree for Mommyfabulous, Mommyliscous and other “fertile” and domestic diva type photos. I, not being so funny or inventive, have just jumped on her train, and submitted what would usually be embarassing pics of myself, with out an ounce of shame. And so have several other women. Check it out at the Queen’s place. I believe the royal contest ends this evening, by midnight. Consider it one of the few times you can show off half nude pictures of yourself and not cross any lewd or pornographic standards. I’m in a tub, no less, with bubbles. But trust me, between my size, and the word “HOSPITAL’ banded across the towel covering as much of my girth as possible, there is no chance of a turn on. It is an entertaining way, yet again, to avoid changing the sheets, or figuring out what to do with that pound of frozen beef (or tofu!) for dinner.

I pretty much check in with running2ks every day. I’ve even spoken with her on the phone, more than once. So it’s safe to say I like her. I also like to copy her. As I am doing now. She is posting some pics of her “fertile” self, for a little contest Queen of Spain is running. So I will, too. I never said I was original.

I love this shot because at that moment, I actually thought I’d have a baby without major surgery (I’ve had 3 c-sections).

And this one, after it was all over, and I did indeed get the major surgery, because she looks as ticked as I was. Lord knows we tried…note the cone head.

(The contest didn’t call for the babies themselves, so I improvised a bit. For me, these go together, and after all, this is all about me, right?)

March, 1997

So, First Boy Jakey is 14 months old, and weans (see Breastfeeding 101, in all things baby, if you want). And suddenly, and overwhelmingly, I feel deep baby need. Should we, should we not, should we, should we not, are we nuts, are we not….and so on. It seems that now knowing how damn hard being pregnant, giving birth and incorporating a yowling, vocacious, nipple ripping being into your life can be, we are a bit more tentative knowingly diving in again.

What do you think? No, what do you think? I dunno, what do you think? And on and on…and there is this one night. Is it, um, safe? He whispers. Oh yes, I really think so, I reply with kisses…and I did, really think so.

Flash forward 3 weeks, April, 1997. At the OB/GYN’s for yearly appt…

At the time, my Doctor, Cheryl, was a friend all the women in my family had seen for years. Older than I, younger than my mom, patient, intuitive. I just didn’t know how intuitive until the end of that appointment. As she entered the room, I greeted her in all my tissue paper gown splendor, hoping my ass isn’t completely hanging out as I try to maintain some semblance of dignity. And right then, as I shook her hand, she said hey, are you here to confirm your pregnancy?Um, no, Cheryl, I am not, remember this is my yearly? But thanks for pointing out I still haven’t lost my belly from the last one! So she proceeds with the exam. Are you sure you’re not pregnant? Well, I’d think I’d know, now wouldn’t I? Aren’t you late? My cycles run from 28 to 38 days, this is like, day 36, so, no. I am not late. Well, let’s just run a test to be sure…

As I peruse the uterine charts in her office, they run the test. Now let me say that if I had any of the remotest ideas that I, in fact, was pregnant, I would have been extremely nervous. Not scared, but dying to know. As it was, I was flipping through pictures of fallopian tubes, and cervical scarring, and bursting ovaries with ripe ovum…when the nurse strolls in. And this part I’ll never forget. So, Allison, do yall think you ever wanted more children? Um, well sure, eventually. And all my senses start tingling, like I know where this is going, but cannot, cannot believe it. I haven’t felt a think yet, that I’m aware of, I CANNOT be pregnant. Well, she teases, which is started to irritate me, would now be too soon?My face heats up, I can feel it, my eyes water, and I have trouble forming simple words. N-n-n-ow? A-a-a-s in r-r-r-ight n-n-0w? And then I hear the words come out of her mouth, like when they do slo-mow on the movies, and they slow the footage waaaay down, and somebody’s trying to say something important before there’s some huge catastrophe, but can’t get it out in time, and the catastrophe happens anyway…Y-y-y-y-y-e-e-e-e-e-s-s-s-s-s-s, A-a-a-a-a-a-a-l-l-l-l-l-l-i-i-i-i-i-is-s-s-s-s-s-o-o-o-o-on-n-n-n-n-n, you are p-p-p-p-p-p-p-r-r-r-r-r-r-e-e-e-e-e-e-e-g-g-g-g-g-g-n-n-n-n-n-n-n-a-a-a-a-
a-a-a-an-n-n-n-n-n-t-t-t-t-t-t-t-t-t…….And then it’s like in the movies where the room starts spinning, literally, and I can’t breathe, and I seem to be somehow removed from what’s really going on. And I have to drive home like that.

Arriving home from the OB/GYN’s

My mom is with Jakey. And man, can she read me like a book. Really. She sees into souls, I tell you, and she cannot not know before Blake. I’m adamant. I pray to play it cool, I feel I’m wearing a huge “I’m Pregnant” banner on my forehead, but I pull it off. The first person I tell? Little Jakey. And I find that I tell him with a confidence of knowing I know how to do it this this time. I am no novice. I have been pregnant, given birth, and not killed the baby. In fact, he’s standing right there, to hear our great news. We tell Daddy together on the way to dinner, and he nearly drives us into oncoming traffic.

May, June, July, August, September, October, 1997

Vomit, vomit, vomit, more vomit. Vomit, vomit, and vomit. Vomit crackers, soup, jello, water, gingerale, tea, coke, toast. Vomit air, vomit bile, vomit what is beyond bile, and vomit some more. Vomit all day, vomit all night, vomit in the shower, in the car, at the mall, at my mom’s. Move in with Mom and Dad to get help with Jake, so I can avoid vomiting on him. Vomit in her house, in the yard, in the bath, in the sink. I think I am dying, and prefer to. Sweet Mom asks what, if anything she can do for me, and I say GET A GUN.

End of October, 1997

Midwife announces it is now time to stop the yarfing. Baby Girl Tannery (yay, a girl, and it is the only part of this pregnancy that is pulling me through) will not gain the fatty acids necessary for nuero development if I cannot keep anything down the last trimester. At this poing, I’ve lost 10 pounds. Take Phenergan. Still yarfing. Try Class C Reglan. Yarf only 2-3 times a day, but it is enough progress to declare fatty acid victory. Only if I will now eat, high calorie meals every 2 hours. For the first time in my life, I am ordered to eat, and eat a lot. And I’m not hungry. My Mom, the Wizard of Southern High Calorie Foods, flies into action. Hagendaaz milkshakes with Carnation Instant Breakfast blended in. Homemade buttermilk biscuits, with honey, butter and real bacon. Buttered rice and homemade bacon gravy by the bowls full. Creamy pastas, 100 % whole chocolate milk, coconut cake, apple turnovers, Lays potato chips dipped in whole sour cream. And none of it actually tasted very good, but baby was growing fine.

December, 1997

Had now gained 40 pounds, and ALL in my belly. I looked like a normal, thin, non pregant woman from the back, and a torpedo from the front. Hugely slow, the Reglan made me tired. Highly uncomfortable, belly skin felt like it was splitting. But our baby girl was doing great. Surely, this time, as huge as I was, I’d go early. We were planning a v-bac.

January, 1998

New Year’s Day, we were 11 days from the due date. Having made it through Christmas, and celebrating Jake’s 2nd birthday, I felt now it was time. We were ready, crib up, rocker out, little pink clothes in place, food staying mostly down. Up another 7 pounds. Ouch. So came the 4th, the 6th (Blake’s Birthday), and the 9th. Had appointment with midwife on the 11th…The Day of Being Due. Nothing. No progress. Spent the rest of the day in self indulgent tears…was it all going to go like Jake’s birth, again? Doesn’t God know how much I want this, a natural, or at least vaginal birth? Please?

12th, 13, 14th, 15th, 16th, 17th, 18th, 19, of January, 1998.

Nothing but depression.

January 20, 1998, midwife’s appointment…

Haven’t you been uncomfortable? Well, hell yeah, for weeks. No, I mean, feeling contractions? Um, lots of Braxton-Hicks, you know, occasional cramping, stuff like that, but not labor, I’m sure. Well, hon, you are at a 3, and 80% effaced! 3!!!! 80%!!!!! I’m going to do it!!! My body’s in gear!!!! There actually will be a baby, and she’ll come the the right way!!! And then, much to my discomfort, she stripped my membranes.

Later in the day…

Hubby’s at the office, waiting for my call. Mom’s got Jake, and the stop watch, and a little piece of paper, driving me nuts with all the jotting of notes, keeping track of what I’m not convinced are contractions. What was that? She’d ask, and grab her notes…shouldn’t you call Blake? I don’t think so, I’d started to snarl, as I gripped the kitchen counter with “minor lower back discomfort”. But finally, she had a point. Every 5 minutes, was starting to get tough to talk through them…I really, really was in labor, and I loved it.

Mom drove me home, with Jake, to get his things, and see what I needed while Blake raced home to meet us. We got squared away, and Mom prepared to take Jake back to her house for supper and bed. The sun was starting to go down, a cold January night, and they started to descend the front steps. Wait! I grabbed my camera, and captured the shot…my baby boy waving bye-bye to me, as I suddenly realized the next time I saw him, our lives would be so different. Tears stung my eyes, and I felt a stab of worry…what if I can’t love her as much as I love him? He’ll no longer be my baby, but a big boy. It will no longer be just the two of us.

January 20, 1998, 4:30 pm

Blake comes tearing in the door, and we make sure we’re ready to go. Pillows? Bag? Slippers? Film? Music for relaxing natural birth? Check, check, check, check and check. I eat a little soup, have some coke, make some tea. They won’t be feeding me once I go to the hospital…that part I remember clearly. I report contractions, Blake keeps notes. I try to give him intensity levels. He draws me a bath, we turn on some music. It is heaven. I really am laboring at home, in control, no Pitocin, no Dr. Doomsday, no IVs. Just painful bliss. Just the two of us, and our baby, working her way into the world.

January 20, 1998, 6:30 pm

Hurting, hurting, hurting. Contractions coming hard. And I’m getting nervous about the pain. And I’m already tired. It feels the day has been months, the last months, years. Water has cooled in the tub, and I’m pruney. Time to call the midwife, and a few friends. We’re on the way.

January 20, 1998, 8:00 pm

In the hospital, checked in and checked out. The LDR nurse reports I am at a 4. 4!!!! Stinking FOUR!!!! I’ve been laboring aaaaallllll day, and nothing but a stupid 4, and damn, this hurts! And my back is killing me! Blake knows it’s going to be a long night, I’m not thinking anything but how am I going to do this, naturally. We start walking the halls. And we walk, and walk, and then I’m crying and moaning for all to see, leaning on Blake, not giving a rat’s arse who sees me, huge and swollen, and hanging out of that ridiculous gown. Weeping.

January 20, 1998, 9:30 pm

My midwife arrives, Pleasant, soothing, calming, peaceful. She suggests the jacuzzi tub, which is perfect. She talks to Blake about how to pour water over my belly and rub the excruciating spot in my back. Blake relaxes. This is when I decide my midwife is sent from God. Then she checks me before I climb in the tub. 4. Only 4. I start crying again, and she actually suggests a bit of Fentanyl, saying that if I relax some, I may progress more. I give. And then am in looove with Fentanyl. Fentanyl is awesome. Fentanyl is my best friends. For 20 minutes or so, then I have to have another shot. And in 2o more minutes, I request the third. Midwife laughs. Honey, that’s the legal dosage, we can’t give you more. Well, check me. 4.OK, then, get the Epidural Man.

January 20, 1998, 11:30 pm

Calm, happy, can’t feel my ass, but am pain free. Finally. And have moved to a 5. A whole 5. But it’s one more than 4. And got there in less than half the time than from 3 to 4. I think things are looking up. The monitor goes through the night, as I get checked every little bit. 5 to 6, to 7. Our parents arrive, Jake is at Mom’s with a family friend. My midwife goes to lay down for a bit, we are that good. I feel confident.

January 21, 1998, 4:00 am

Midwife breezes in. I am at a 10! I did it, no pit, no induction, just me and my uterus! She declares it’s time to get this baby out…PUSH! I push. I push squatting, I push kneeling, I push on all fours. I push and rest, I push and push. At some point, Blake says he sees dark hair, and this gives me the strength to push some more.

January 21, 1998, 5:30 am

Still pushing, and very tired. Blake and the midwife start exchanging glances, but I can tell they do not want to discourage me. It seems, she says, that the baby keeps regressing when you stop pushing, and is not clearing a certain point in the birth canal. Really? Well, I’m going to push some more, not take a breath, and then push harder. She is coming out that damn birth canal.

At another point, they clear away the sheet. It seems I’ve done what I’ve sworn I would never, thought I would die of shame if I ever…poop the sheet. In front of my midwife, in front of the husband I’ve told I actually do not poo, ever. And I don’t give a crap, not even the one I crapped. Not one bit. I just keep pushing.

January 21, 1998 5:50 am

The dreaded Doctor has been called. It seems they don’t like you to push more than 2 hours when there has been a previous c-section. I am so exhausted, I hardly care. And the epidural is wearing off, so my back seems to be beginning to split in two. I can’t stay still on the gurney as Doctor checks around my cervix, declaring it’s time to call it. Another section will be performed. This baby just isn’t descending. All this for nothing.

January 21, 1998, 6:00 am

Just redose my epidural, whatever else you do I don’t care. They do, and I start to throw up. I do so once more through the insision making, something they don’t seem to like while cutting. And then, at 6:21, she’s out. I hear my midwife say, look at those linebacker shoulderss, and I think I said Shit, don’t tell me it’s a boy. I know that’s a rotten thing to say, or even think, but I did. Turns out, she’s just huge. And broad. And really fat. 9 pounds, 3 ounces and only 20 inches long. She looks like Buddah. And my grandfather. Which at that point, was not really a compliment, but I thought she was gorgeous. And, she was upside down, in the birth canal. Sunny side up. Which explained a lot…the back pain, the lack of progress for so long despite strong contractions, the fact that maybe, she just was just too ill positioned, and fat to come out the proper orifice. Damn all that southern food. But, she is healthy, and so sweet, and I am in love.

(4 days later, as we are about to check out of the hospital, we finally come up with a name, and seeing as how she is definitely the last baby I’ll ever have, we throw all the family names at her…Katherine Blake Elizabeth Tannery, we call her Kat.)

My husband suggested on evening to just write what I know…I got this out…

He (DH) got me thinking. And whether or not anyone sees this, I’m gonna go. Breast feeding. It’s amazing. One of the most satisfying, primal, honorable, Godly (not that if you don’t, it’s unGodly, I am NOT saying that) things you can do with and for you child. You envision that serene scene in a sunlit window seat, a whisper of a fulfilled grin on your contented, lightly made-up face, the child, round and warm, calm and satiated at your breast; an angelic gaze meeting yours, your eyes…pools of reflections of each other and all those that have gone before and will go on. A Madonna and her child, the two of you are, taking your place in the history of your ancestors, of all our ancestors, nourishing and nurturing your child. You can sense your holy task, the sacred duty and privilege that nursing your baby is. And all is right with the world. And so it is, as natural as natural is. Hell no it is not. At least not necessarily. My first 3 days with our first child…uneasy, unsure, he’s surely starving, does he need sugar water, is his circumcision bothering him, NO FOR THE LOVE OF GOD DO NOT GIVE HIM A PACIFIER…DON’T YOU KNOW ABOUT NIPPLE CONFUSION?!? How can even the nurses be so stupid…are they foiling my attempts behind my back in that subversive place they call The Nursery? Can I meet his needs, will my milk ever “come in”? How can these AAs ever do anything but fail him? We left the hospital, milk still “not in”, and me beside myself with nerves that I could never help him grow…what was God thinking? My measly mumps of boobs? Feed a baby for like, 4-5 months or more? Does it have to be 4-5 months? Isn’t there an optimal cut off? And yet, we did it. All three of us. My righty, my lefty, and little Jakey. After a C-section, and 2 nights at home, IT hit me. The MILK. No colostrum this time, the REAL deal. I awoke in a unfamiliar sweat, my pajamas soaked along with the sheet all around me. I had erupted. My very small, very perky breasts were HUGE, and leaking. And hot, and tight like drums (and looked pretty darn good, great even, if it hadn’t been for the gelatinous belly full of stretch marks they had to rest on). IT was here. THE MILK everyone had told me about. And there was a hungry baby in the other room. The problem? My boobs were so tight, the little newborn boy mouth couldn’t get a grip to save his little newborn life. Each breast was like, twice the size of his downy, perfect head. Nipples too tight? I’d never heard of this. Yet, here I was, in the middle of the night, screaming baby, two too full breasts, and no one happy. CALL THE LADY! Blake stumbles around in the dark trying to discern whatever I could be talking about. Who on earth does one call at 2 am, Allison, he is saying. THE LACTATION CONSULTANT MILK GODDESS NURSED 14 BABIES LADY!!! So the anwser? Express some of that milk right off the top of those babies, she said. What? Doesn’t that make even more milk? Well, yes, but not so much in the beginning that it’ll be an issue. Apparently my body, my boobs, and the baby will all magically sync up, soon. So Jakey gets the hang of it, I deflate my nipples down to decent latching on size, and start storing gallons of expressed milk in the freezer. He gets it so good that he’s demanding it nearly every hour and a half. At least I know he’s not starving. But there is a cost to all this milk demanding. My nipples pay a high price. They crack, they bleed, they begin to shred off in small chunks of gnawed on skin. And I have to do the “hee hee hee hoo hoo hoo” thing just to get through each feeding, which seems like 32 times every 24 hours. And I’m completely sleep deprived, and unclean. We both smell so much like puke, Mylicon and sour breastmilk that my mother demands that I hand the baby over one day, so she can bathe him, and I can shower. Which hurts my nipples. CALL NURSED 14 BABIES LADY! So I did. The answer this time? Air them out. Air what out, I whine. Air your nipples out. Oh. And the prescription for this means going without a shirt or bra for 2-3 days, and using copious amounts of the Diamond of All Balms, Lansinoh. And no, it doesn’t hurt the baby. So later that day when Blake arrives home, there I am in the kitchen, in all my National Geographic-like glory, baby on in a sling across my raw chest, warming up a meal my mother had prepared and frozen in anticipation of the arrival of the Most Precious Baby on Earth. Hoping some shred of nipple doesn’t wind up in the dinner. Don’t ask, I tell my dear husband. Just hold the *&^*%%* baby and lemme go pee by myself. And later some time that week, which is like the 3rd or so we’ve been home, and feels like an eternity since our old life, the one I miss, and the one where I need not worry about someone finding bits of nipple scab in their meal, I decided I’d had it, and we’d ruined our life. On the boob, baby is blissful. Off the boob, our entire household is hell. I can’t take it! I wail, as I sit in the rocker for the gagillionth time that evening, to submit my poor breasts to the torture I know this feed will be. And my husband, in the loving, worried, I need to help her way that he should, suggests the unsuggestable. I’ll go get bottles, he said. And formula. This is too hard on you. WHAT!?!?! I shriek. This insidious, evil, unsupportive snake of a thought (not that I’m saying bottle feeding is bad, just a statement of my over ripe postpartum state, don’t tell me I’m against moms who choose bottles - I’m not) strikes me like a right hook to my post surgery swollen chin. And rob my baby of my IRREPLACABLE MAGIC MILK, and let his poor, undeveloped immune system be slaughtered by uncountable numbers of disease and plague? And what if we never bond and I hardly recognize him when he’s 14? Are you insane? Support me here! Which is, of course, exactly what he was trying to do.

So, slowly, we got Jake into a more managable feed and sleep cycle (read here: I just stopped giving in every 90 minutes, sorry La Leche), and the seemingly interminable winter became spring, literally, as things thawed in our household as well. Jakey worked his way from those 14 feedings a day, to one little nip at the end of our days, just before tuck in each night, when he was 14 months old. The old girls really did toughen up, and adding 2 more children over the next few years have probably guaranteed never being as sensitive as pre-baby again. And that early spring, a lifetime from the previous, I remember one night I swear I’ll remember if I live to be 100. We sat down, settled in the well rocked rocker, and I began to arrange us. He sat up. This was odd. So I made the attempt again. He sat up. Milk? I almost pleaded, not allowing my heart to go where my brain knew this was taking us. “All done”, he signed (we’d done the baby sign language thing), and then signed “bed”. As if I’d been stabbed straight through the most tender spot of my heart, I slowly carried him in to his Daddy, unable to put him down without our blessed ritual. Watching him being carried off to bed, his Daddy able to do for the first time, I caught him smile and a wave nigh-nigh to me. And I felt as if someone had died. Over many tears, and with a truly broken heart, I cleaned up our dinner dishes (with my shirt on, and without bits of nipple), and realized the great break of independence that had just occured. That had to occur. The thing that I thought would nearly kill me to get going, nearly killed me to have to end.

So sometime the next month, we found out we were going to get to do it again. And 10 months later, Kat was born. I could hardly contain my joy that first couple of weeks as my poor breasts readjusted to once what was so familiar, painful and wonderful. This time, though, I knew we’d survive, and even thrive. And that it most certainly would not last forever. And heck, there was nothing a little nakedness and Lansinoh couldn’t cure. And I knew that without calling The Lady.

I admit, I’m a sucker for baby stories…how they were conceived, how long it took to conceive, how the pregnancy went, how they were born, how long it took, what dreams were realized, and which ones were shattered. I’ll surf blogs for a time (embarrasingly enough) and read the tender tales of women (or men) I’ve never met, and will probably never meet, and remember the indescribable feeling of meeting my own babies, for the very first time. And what it took to get them here. I even get weepy over Brooke Shields story, and Lord knows we won’t ever meet.

Now, I’m just going to post, for no reason other than he’s nearly 10 years old, my own oldest’s birth story. This is my blog, and although I’d like pleasant amounts of interested traffic, I’m mainly self-absorbed enough to write what I want just because I want to.

March 1995, more than a decade ago now…

It’s positive. It’s positive! Three negative home preg. tests, and one trip to a clinic finally reveals that the reason my basal temps are still high, and I’ve not started my period yet is that, in fact, we did it (I mean, yeah, we DID it, but we DID IT!). Our friend from college was visiting, and in the shower. I seduced my delighted husband (I think I’ve done that three times, and hey! We have three children…go figure) and did the pelvic pillow tilt. Reveled in the afterglow that we may have actually began a new life, a life that would grow in me…my body, especially created to carry out this task, should we choose to use it in such a way. The first month we tried, we created a baby. God created a baby, through our feeble abilities. I get a pregnancy journal. I write to our baby to be. I ponder him/her and the life we’ll have, wrapped in magic. I read my first entry to our unborn child to my beloved husband. We weep. We dream. And then I think, what have we done…

April 1995…

Oh Good Lord Above…what horrible, evil, unforgivable, egregious act have I commited to deserve such a sentence?!? I vomit all day, every day. I am gray, I am stringy. I stink. I can’t stand the smell of PopTarts. I’d rather have rats crap in my mouth than smell my husband’s head. The horror…the horror! His pee in our one bathroom is abominable! Can’t he see I’m dying? Why pee while I’m showering? What is his selfish heart thinking? Damn him, damn him!

May 1995...

Repeat of all above, and add that I am sure we’ve made a graaaave mistake.

June 1995…

We go to the beach, Pawley’s Island where we’ve gone forever. At least since I was 12. Where my husband came when he was a wet behind the ears newbie, trying to prove himself to my father years earlier. And now, as I gaze at the sunset over the ocean, I know our life is changed forever. And for the first time in 3 months, I don’t barf. Maybe this won’t be so bad.

July 1995...

I start to show. I complain about feeling fat. I complain that my boobs aren’t nearly big enough for a pregnant woman…aren’t we supposed to be full? Voluptuous? Have perky, full boobies? Not here. Hardly a cup size change, but don’t you DARE touch my nipples…they may fall off. Linen shirts hurt. Blake says they look about the size of Husky pencil erasers, and tells all our friends that, too.

August 1995…

Definitely bigger, and feeling better. Planning a nursery. Beginning to dream again. Can stand to be near my husband again. Maybe this won’t kill me.

September 1995…

Getting down right cute…little tummy poking right out. Feeling positive about my husband. Scared about the baby. Sit in my folks’ driveway and sob, “what if I don’t like him?” (we didn’t KNOW it was a boy, but I KNEW it was a boy). Mom took me shopping, shushing sweetly that’d it’d be OK. Looking for maternity clothes, purchased by the grandmothers to be. Love that about first grandchildren.

October 1995…

It’s early, but on Halloween, we put the crib up. And the swingy thing. The one that you wind up, and it goes and goes and makes your baby happy (not ours, but others we’ve heard). I’m a OCD neat freak, organizing pregnant fool. Fold and refold the little clothes. Wash and rewash the baseboards, the top of the fridge, and the dark place no one should wash, above the kitchen cabinets where the fake ivy is. I occasionally sneak into the nursery, and wonder, and try out the soft little rocker. I set up the I’m Clearly a Better Mother Than You Cloth Diaper Service. We’re ready to roll.

November 1995…

Swollen at Thanksgiving, 3 weeks and some spare change from due date of December 17. The 17th. They told me the 17th. I know when we did the deed, when the babe was made…the 17th he will come. And three weeks out, I can’t see my feet or tie my shoes. I’m not happy.

December 1995…

Where is the freakin’ baby?!? My in-laws arrive on my due date, to WAIT FOR THE BABY. What kind of dumb ass idea is that? Doesn’t everyone on the planet know that a watched pot never boils? That time does not fly when you’re watching the clock? That a cranky, due to give birth mom to be will NOT GIVE BIRTH if you’re sitting around waiting for said event to happen?!? 17th comes, and goes. I cannot come out of my room. I am devastated. Why? Because I believed I would actually GO INTO LABOR on my due date, no matter what the doctor said. Christmas comes. Christmas goes. I swell by the minute. I hate my life. I hate my husband. I hate my hovering family. I can’t put the sweet gold charm bracelet my Mom gave me on my big, fat pregnant wrist. My husband is frightened. I am mean. The day before my birthday comes…the 27th for Pete’s Sake! The baby was due 10 days ago! Had an appointment that day. Great way to spend your 25th Birthday, with an OB’s finger painfully feeling your ever-tight cervix, informing you that no, you HAVE NOT PROGRESSED AT ALL. Meanwhile, aforementioned in laws are making noises that they really need to “get back”. Can I help my inability to give birth? That this child just won’t come or give any signal that he’ll ever come?

December 27, 1995…

Dr.: So, Mrs. Tannery. Seems you’ve been pregnant long enough.
Hyper-Emotional Me: Um, sniff (wipe tear), it feels that way.
Dr.: So, I’m thinking, we should induce.
Me: Induce? Cold induction? Doesn’t that increase our chances of difficulties (sniff, sniff)?
Dr.: Well, nooo, we just do what we need to do to get that baby out. That’s all. Come in in the morning, and we’ll have us a baby in no time.
Me: Um, OK, if you’re sure…
Dr.: Oh yes, we do this aaaalll the time.
Me: Um, OK, if you’re sure…I mean, my regular doctor (the one I was meeting with was a partner in the rotation, my doctor was on vacation), wasn’t so sure we should not just wait.
Dr.: Well, you’re 10 days late, you’ve been pregnant long enough.

(anxious husband and hormonal me exchange glances…what do we do? We don’t know, we feel so desperate to have the baby here, the waiting over, so we go with the “expert’s opinion”…the Doctor.)

December 28, 1995, 7:00 am…

Try to do the cervical suppository. Nothing. Start a pit drip at 9:00 am. Stay on it aaaaaalllll day, til 9:00 pm that night. Cervical change? NONE. None, none, none. Rotation Doctor calmly states we’ll start a second day tomorrow. NO problem Go over to private rooms, as after 12 hours of pit, they don’t want to send you home. Dear, dear, anxious husband stays with me. We wonder. We pray. And after a sleeping pill, I fall asleep, feeling surely, this pitocin will get things cranking by morning.

December 29, 1995, 6:00 am…

Blake, Blake, I yell/whisper excitedly. I think I’m having CONTRACTIONS. Stumbling from his bed/chair/cot from Hell, he starts timing. Ooooh, I think this one’s for real, I slightly moan, elated to be using all that hard practiced natural labor technique. I better take a shower, get my hair done, because today must be the day! I stroke my belly in the shower, yelling out my “pains” as they come. Another one! Another one! And for every 6-8 minutes, I feel “uncomfortable”. By 8:00 am, I’m back in LDR. My REGULAR doctor arrives, fresh from her frickin’ vacation. Soooo, Mrs. Tannery, you went with the induction. I don’t DO 2 day inductions. Um, I…what, I mean, he…I stammered…I never would have recommended a COLD INDUCTION she nearly cackles. But, she warns, we WILL get a baby today, OR ELSE! Nurse! MUA HA HA HA HA HA…start the PITOCIN…crank it HIGH…get US A BABY or I’LL CUT HER OPEN….MUA HA HA HA HA…

December 29, 1995, 10:00 am…

Um, it’s hurting. It’s hurting A LOT. Makes the little discomforts in the shower feel like tickles…I’m trying to be strong. I do not want medical intervention (what was I thinking, I’d been getting drugs for 24 hours!?!?). NO pain meds for MY baby…we’re going Natural. But then, they crank the pit up more. Nurse! Let her have it! And they do. Let. me. have. it. And I start to tear into 2 pieces. Really. My torso and my pelvis began to separate. I could feel it. And it hurt like Hell. More than Hell. Hell with biting Black Widows and stabbing razor blades. Dear Blake is there, hee hee hee, hi hi hi, breathe, honey, focus on the Pooh Bear. Focus on Pooh my Big Fat Splitting in Two Ass! Don’t tell ME where to put my eyes! If I want to close them, I will, By GOD! I do not want to open my eyes!!! And stop that infernal talking…don’t make me be one of those raving lunatic laboring women who cuss out thier husbands…JUST SHUT UP…THE TALKING HUUUURTS!

December 29, 1995, 11:30 am

I am nearly unconscious…I’m sure of it. After trying the stupid birthing chair, the water option, and every assanine position any Natural Labor Moron ever concocted, I am nearly dead, but not dead enough. Blake says he can see the monitor of all the laboring women contracting on the LDR floor. Normal, peak, back down again. Normal, peak, back down again…and then there’s mine, with Super Pitocin insidiously forced into my veins…High, Higher, Peak off the Scale, Higher, Higher even more, down to high…every 2 minutes. Please, honey, he whispers. There’s no need to fight this by yourself. Maybe just a little something to take the edge off. I feel as if his voice is a faaaar way off, and I hear myself mumble maybe just a little Demerol…

December 29, 12:30 pm

Dumbest drug on earth. Now I’m in all the pain I was before, but cannot speak clearly to convey what I need. Nor keep my eyes open. All I can muster is gripping the gurney as I lay sprawled out ginormous and naked, moaning like I’ve never moaned before. And then, my water breaks. And what I thought was truly wrenching the lower part of my torso apart from the upper, BECOMES EVEN WORSE. The glib LDR nurses breezes in, throws my legs apart, inserts a gloved finger as I nearly come off the damn gurnery, and announces 3 centimeters, yall. Through the tears that I’m sure add even more to my state of overstimulated pain I’m sure I can endure no longer, I whisper to a helpless husband, get the epidural man, get him, now.

December 29, 2:30 pm

I love the Epidural Man. He is a man of God. He is my favorite person in the Solar System. I want to marry the Epidural Man. Give him a big wet kiss. Pay him a million dollars. When this baby thing is over, I’ll have sex with him. I love him sooooo much. The party starts. I can’t stop giggling, talking, frenetically chattering. I am sooooo happy now, to be relieved of the burden of excruciating pain. Everyone should always just start with the epidural…just pipe in on in around the 8 month when you really start feeling big, and can’t sleep well. Who the hell told us natural was better? Who would say such a stupid thing? Why choose pain when you can choose to not even feel your ass, or the need to pee, and can just get a tube up your hoo-hoo? And, the nurse announces I am at 5. FIVE!

December 29, 1995, 7:30 pm

OK, been pretty damn comfortable, but I’m tired. It’s been a long 2 days. Hell, it’s been a long 10 months. And nobody’s fed me for 24 hours…what is up with that cruelty? Blake sheepishly eats his lovingly packed snacks, the ones I thought we’d surely be sharing by now, as I wave it off, sure honey, go ahead and eat, you must be hungry…I KNOW I AM! And the fourth nurse of this adventure drops by. Checks me out, blissfully absent all feeling, especially the painful ones, and says, we’re (what’s this we’re?) at 10. Time to push. Push! Push! It’s finally coming!!! Hurry, someone grab a leg, I can’t move! To hell with this on my back thing, I wanna squat, like the ancient women of old!

December 29, 1995, 8:30 pm

Still pushing.

December 29, 1995, 9:00 pm

Pushing, pushing.

December 29, 1995, 9:30 pm

Getting tired of pushing. Doctor “I wouldn’t induce” breezes by. Does a quick check while I push again. Announces it time to call it, go ahead and do a section. Can’t see progress in the head coming down. Keeps receeding. Blah, blah, blah. Wait! I haven’t come this far, gone through this hell, to give up now and get cut open! Noooo waaaaay Dr. Doomsday…I can DO THIS! Let me hang off the table, let me sit on the ball…hang me up by my wrists…Dr. Doomsday declares one more hour, I’ll let you go one more hour. But then I’m going in. Alright, I’m going to push like no woman has ever pushed in the history of pushing a human out of an orifice from which no human should ever erupt. Blake tells me my eye’s blood vessels are bursting.

December 29, 1995, 10:20 pm

Maternal fever, lots of meconium in the fluid, fetal heart rate dropping now with each push. I have no choice, I’m told. And they wheel me to the OR, in tears of which I thought I’d run out. I am exhausted, crushed, defeated. My body will not do what it was designed to do. Blake holds my hand as they start the incision. An entire neo-neonatal respiratory team is standing by, as Doctor is concerned about the meconium…I’m nearly asleep.

December 29, 1995, 10:50 pm

John Kimmel Tannery is pulled out. Red, squirmy, squeaking. 7 pounds, 5 ounces, 21 inches long. Oh! He has his Daddy’s cowlick, in the same place on his forehead. I see him for a fleeting moment as they whisk him off for the suctioning, Apgar, clean up, temperature taking, more suctioning, and I’m left behind to get 30 minutes of closing up. We meet for the first time, about 45 minutes later, in recovery, where they tell me he’s just fine. Has all his fingers, all his toes. Healthy. I have to just trust them, as he’s wrapped up to his chin in a tight cacoon of pastel flannel.

December 30, 1995, 12:30 am

After nearly 48 hours since this ordeal began, we are in our room, with our baby, finally. The nurse pokes and prods my extremely sore belly. The nasty stuff pouring from my uterus is alarming. I thought all that stuff came out the top with the baby? Is there no advantage to a c-section? Apparently not. Get to get sliced open, and leak blood and fluids for weeks. Oh yippee. After changing my sexy disposable mesh panties and diaper sized pad, and the sheets, for the third time in an hour, the nurse offers to take the baby to the nursery, so I can rest. Is she on crack? After all that? I’ve barely seen him yet…certainly haven’t even had a chance to unwrap him, touch him all over…start to nurse him. And a fierce need to just hold on to him settles over me, and doesn’t really let up til he’s about six months old, but that’s another tale. There, that night, I just had to be near him. So I was. Told that nurse to take her cold, hard, stupid plastic bassinette, disposable diapers, her heinous suggestions of sugar water and pacifier nipples sure to cause my baby irreversible nipple confusion, and get the hell out. We had some bonding to do to which she surely would cause harm with only her mere presence.

So, we were a family. Squirmy, wiry, little cowlicked boy, and two exhausted and suddenly terrified parenting newbies. Whatever would we do when we had to take him home?

postscript: He truly is nearly 10 years old now, which I cannot believe, has that prominent cowlick just like his Daddy, a damn stubborn streak that he may have gotten from me, and in light of the fact that he suffered egregious mistakes being our guinea pig, he is turning out to be a true joy, a delightful young man whom I’m proud to call my son. This is proof there is a God.

My Blue Boy’s age today (busy October).

5 years ago today, a crisp and sparkly early autumn morning, we arose to head to the hospital. I was tired. Who isn’t at 10 (why do people say 9 months? 40 weeks is 10 4 week months - do the math, doc!) months pregnant with 2 toddlers at home? Hadn’t been sleeping, had been griping about my siatic (sp?) nerve thing rendering me nearly unable to walk the last 3 weeks, much less rest. Had been eating a lot, also. An avocado (the whole thing, thank you) and a coke every morning for the previous 8 months. That’s a whopping lot of calories, and don’t give me the good fat thing…fat is fat. Between those breakfasts, and my insatiable craving for Wendy’s cheeseburgers, mustard/pickle only, please, there was going to be a lot of “recovery” going on for the next year (little did I realize that also turning 30 only 10 weeks later would extend that “recovery” by like, 4-5 more years, I’m still losing 10 pounds…so much for that 20s metabolism).I’d actually been a vegetarian prior to this pregnancy, making my own granola, multi-grain burgers, and whole wheat bread…the whole nine veggie yards. Even sprinkled the children’s cereal with toasted wheat germ each morning, and gave them soy or rice milk instead of dairy. Had no will power pregant. And introduced the kids to Happy Meals, God forgive me. Anything to get to the end, and the morning of October 18, 2000 was IT.

Unfortunately, I was scheduled for a c-section. Previous 2 babies had ended up with a last minute “emergency”, so my midwife was recommending this route. I can second guess all day, and did till the 6th month, but in the end, went for the sunroof exit. Fortunately, that decision allowed me to miss all the last few days torture of “is this it”,”was that a real contraction”, “hey, look at that mucous plug, hon” fun. I knew that morning, from start to fisnish, I’d be holding our new baby in about 40 minutes. I got into the gown, did the epidural, got masked and hair-netted (after a charming pubic shave, have to go low on those incisions) and held Blake’s hand while we contemplated silently what this new one would do to our lives, and what he would be like, look like, and I wondered if he would nurse well, and how low my belly would sag this time. And then he was here. Some tugging, some pulling, a squeak, and they lifted him over the sheet. The one thing I’ve really regreted about the sections is the inability to hold, touch and see my babies up close right away…it’s usually 30-45 minutes till they can get you stitched and to recovery. Just made me crazy every time. But then I got him, gazed wonderously at him, nursed him, and marveled at how completely you can fall in love, over and over and over. The children said it once, it’s as if God makes your heart bigger every time you love some one else. It’s never crowded, and no one ever need be left out. But in light of that young wisdom, I remain amazed at how absolutely, completely, and utterly full, near to bursting even, my heart would feel each time I held our new babies for the first time. Thank you, God, for stretching it just enough, as needed. And Happy, Happy Birthday, my Boy Blue.