July 21, 2011 6:30 am...
Persistent dull backache + 9 months pregnant = Labor. This is what I knew. I headed to the doctor with The Kid and Mom in tow. Mom wasn’t accustomed to driving in “the city” and didn’t feel “comfortable” driving me. But, apparently her comfort level was okey-dokey with me (in case you didn’t catch it the first time, I was in LABOR!) driving. No words.
Why didn’t I wait for Hubs? Well…he was like 30 minutes away and the nurse wanted me to come immediately. Still not convinced are you? Okay, okay. Here’s the deal. I was nervous that he would be too nervous to drive. So, Option A: Ride with Mom breaking every 5 seconds AND driving like a turtle stuck in Laffy Taffy because she was scared. Option B: Ride with Hubs driving like Ricky Bobby from Talladega Nights and scaring the hell out of me. Honestly, I would have rather taken my chances with The Kid, who was 8 at the time. But, I went with Option C: Grabbed my X-Mom gear and floored it.
The pain stopped as soon as I parked the car and I just knew they were going to send me home. A quick check from the nurse confirmed I was still in labor and baby was ready, so I bounced over to the hospital next door. The anesthesiologist strolled in with his supplies and I was like, “Stick me, baby. Stick me good!”
So, let’s recap. (1) I drove myself (2) Contractions were next to nothing (3) Epidural was locked and loaded. Me: 3, Labor: 0. I was kicking Labor’s b-u-t-t.
Time ticked off the clock and I kept smiling and dilating. Labor was on the ropes. Yeah, buddy. Give me that heavyweight title because The Champ is here! Woot, woot!
I was Party Rocking in the ring and getting ready for the Big Push when I saw something pink out of the corner of my eye. I turned to see what it was and, bam! The Baby sucker punched me right in the kisser with her hot pink gloves. What happened, you ask?
Okay. I started feeling this very, very intense pressure that was fast approaching the threshold of pain. Yes, even with the epidural. I’m crying and the two nurses are puzzled. Not only can’t they figure out why I’m in pain, but they don’t know “what” they’re feeling when they check me. The doctor breezes in and thinks The Baby's head is on top of the umbilical cord. He whisks in an ultrasound machine to confirm his suspicions and kiss my grits…The Baby is breech! So, "what" they were feeling was her tush, which hadn't been there a few hours before.
They pumped up the epidural juice and wheeled me towards the operating room all in one swoop. While the surgeon and nurses were happily bantering over my exposed guts, I was left wondering what in the H-E-double-hockey-sticks happened.
When I retell the story people often ask why they didn’t try and turn The Baby. Um, no clue. Everything happened so fast and before I knew it I was spread out on the operating table like a starfish. And I didn’t think it was wise to argue with the guy holding the scalpel and my uterus.
And the intense pressure/pain? Now, that's the icing on the cupcake. That was the moment The Baby pumped her brakes. She decided she didn't want to be squeezed through the tunnel. So, she ignored Nature's GPS and executed a U-turn. At freaking 9 centimeters. Yup. She came into this world kicking ass with her own set of rules. And I’ve got the scars to prove it. She's lightening fast and throws a wicked left jab. She’s the baddest, droolingest, diaper-wearingest, mamma-jamma you’ve ever seen.
But, I’ve got my gloves up and my chin strap extra tight.
Baby? Bring it.