Birthday Eve

            May 12, 2014…. There I was, 216 months pregnant. Big and hormonal, sweaty and not giving any craps about anything, holding one baby on my hip and another in my gut, looking like the red-neck woman’s pregnant best friend. Even my toddler couldn’t believe I was still pregnant. He was supposed to have been here days ago, months really, if you take into account the size of my watermelon-esque mid-section. He wasn’t supposed to wait this long, get this big! How in the world is this even going to happen tomorrow? I mean, he has to be the size of an NFL linebacker by now. And, I don’t know much about labor and all, but I’m pretty sure linebackers don’t come out all that gracefully.

            I’m 100% terrified, to be honest. I’m one half terrified of him coming out, and the other half terrified that he’ll stay in…. Scratch that. Maybe it’s more like 40/60. Either way, there’s some serious fear going on. I keep crying. And then I puke a little. And then I double over for 45 -90 seconds, and then I cry some more. I haven’t slept in days.

          Literally. I mean, I have not slept. Here’s hoping the fourth night’s a charm? Although, I don’t see that happening with all cramping and puking and contracting and crying going on.

            But the doctor said we’re headed towards a c-section if this baby refuses to come on his own. For some reason, he just won’t drop. She’s worried about the cord. I’m worried about the cord. But the only thing I know to do is to walk. Well, waddle. I’m going to waddle a trench down my driveway if it’s the last thing I do. And since I think I’m dying, it very well may be the last thing I do.

            Waddle down the drive. Waddle up the drive. (Quick pee break while near the house.) Waddle down the drive. Waddle up the drive. (Another pee break. Rest ankles for a minute while I contract.) Waddle down the drive. Waddle up the drive. (Pee. I almost made it to the toilet, too. Wipe every sweaty inch of my body with a paper towel.) Waddle down the drive. Waddle half-way up the drive. Collapse in the drive. Contract for a minute. Roll around for a while because I’ve fallen and cannot get up. Cry. Decide I will deliver the baby at home, in the drive. Decide I don’t want the neighbors to see my vagina. Roll some more. A gust of wind and fairies help me up. Waddle up the drive. (Pee….dang. Not even close.) Decide to stay indoors where it’s safe.

            It was finally time to sleep. I was amazed that my husband could snore so loudly on a night like tonight. Didn’t he know that I was expecting any second? Wasn’t he worried at all? I laid awake, gripping my stop watch, fearing that if I let the contractions get too close together, we’d never make it to Pittsburgh in time. What if something went wrong on the drive down? Oh, no…. (this is where things started getting gross, so I’ll spare you the details, but apparently a woman’s body “rids itself of all things when baby is on his way”). I finished ridding and then took a shower to rid myself of the ridding remnants. And there was husband, still sawing logs with his chainsaw snout. But 3:30 a.m. was go time, and go we did.

            May 13, 2014…..I continued to rid myself the entire way to the hospital and throughout the endless hours of labor that followed. Since I had already been in labor for the three previous days, complete with regular contractions and all, I was basically a pro. I did my breaths, I spread my legs for every Tom, Dick, and Harry wearing a doctor’s coat, and I prayed for him to drop. But that’s when his heartbeat went away. And everything seemed to fade a bit. The pain grew small and the doctor’s grew quieter as the heartbeat in my ears thudded louder and louder.

            “I need you to flip, now,” said the nurse to a woman who hasn’t been able to roll over independently for at least two months. My husband, my nurse, and my momentous girth got me flipped in a colossal team effort. An effort we exerted every 15 minutes or so, each time we lost the heartbeat. We did this for hours. I couldn’t see straight anymore. Baby wouldn’t drop anymore. And the doctor’s couldn’t wait anymore. It was time.

            Thirty-minutes later, despite my horrible experience in the OR (something I don’t even want to allow myself to re-tell, just in case there are any pregnant mamas-to-be out there), he was here. Wyatt Patrick Costa had finally arrived. The poor little man had been twisted inside of me to the point that his head was stuck and unable to move down. I would still be pregnant to this day had my doctor not made that hard call for me.

            He was so big….so long! He looked like he needed a good steak. But since all I had to offer was milk, he settled for a liquid diet.

            I was so sick afterwards that I couldn’t hold him, couldn’t experience his skin on mine or take in his tiny little features or plant kisses on his long fingers. I’ve always felt sad - cheated that I missed out on the best moment of my life.

            But today, on the eve of my son’s first birthday, I realize that I didn’t miss out on the best moment of my life. Because every day with him is my new best moment. I constantly caress his soft skin as he’s cuddled up against my chest. And I admire those big, beautiful, brown eyes and memorize the heartwarming tone of his laughter day in and day out. And I have planted no less than a million kisses on those long fingers, tiny toes, and every other kissable inch of his perfect little frame. His conception was a miracle, his delivery was a miracle, and his smile reminds me that today is a miracle.

            I love you, Wyatt, with all my heart. Thank you for giving me a new best moment each and every day.

What I Wouldn't Give

What I wouldn't give.....

     How often do you find yourself saying those exact words, followed by some far-fetched dream or wish that, if answered, would literally make your life?
     I say these words often. Some call this discontentment. I call this sanity. I am sorry, but doing dishes and wiping butts all day just isn't glamorous enough for this lady! I mean, honestly, as much as I love taking care of my super-old house and running my kids to their appointments and nagging everyone in my life to death about everything, I allow myself to have dreams of What I Wouldn't Gives. And sometimes those dreams get me through the monotonous days of motherhood. Here's a list of my Top 20. Shall we see how many we have in common?

What I wouldn't give.....

1) To be thin. (Ding Ding!! Thank you, and goodnight.) There's obviously no one else who has ever uttered these words. Never after Thanksgiving. Never in the changing room as you stared down that swim suit on it's itty bitty hanger. Never as you held your breath while standing on the scale, hoping that the air in your lungs would somehow help you float and give you a smaller number.

2) To be able to read an entire book in a week. I used to love to read. The sad thing is, I probably still do. But I'll never be certain of this, because I live with small people. They are the holders of the time cards. They are the keepers of the books. And there is literally no time to test this theory.

3) To shower. I mean really shower. Shave, exfoliate, deep condition, soak, face mask. The Works. At this point, I'd settle for a quick Febreeze and a head-band.

4) To not be tired. Seriously. There are so many hours in a day and yet they seem to slip through my fumbling fingers week after week after week. I don't know where these hours go, especially the ones that happen while I'm "sleeping".... but I think the Sand Man and Father Time are in cahoots on this one.

5) To go on vacation. Who's with me? (I'm taking legitimate offers, here!) I will fly first class, business class, coach, or with the luggage.... I'll go by plane, train, car, or camel.... just get me to the beach, please!

6) To not have chin hairs. (Oooo, it's getting real up in here.) Yes. I'm starting my own beard collection. To date, my beard hairs come in black, red, blonde, and gray. Congratulations to me. I'm considering pulling a Hilary Duff and dying them aqua or lavender, help me and my beard fit in with today's youth. But the best part is, I can pluck until the cows come home and STILL get into my car, look in the flip mirror, and see at least 20 more little rascals that were waiting until they were in natural sunlight to show their ugly little faces. Next step? Hedge trimmers. Final step? Circus.

7) To have 7 brand new seasons of the Gilmore Girls. When I'm knee deep in piles of laundry, I fantasize about Luke and Lorelai pro-creating, Rory finding the man of her dreams, and Sookie having 30 more kids. I long for quick-witted, small-town characters to sweep me into their world, far away from my piles of socks and underwear. Someone get on that, would ya? Thanks.

8) To have a normal poop life. Yes. You read that correctly. After years of IBS, I would give anything to poop like a girl instead of like a trucker who's just eaten at Muffy's Burrito Stand.

9) To be allergy-free. Sneezy, Runny, Itchy, Coughy, Rashy, Wheezy, and Plugged. I am the new and worse-for-wear 7 Dwarfs, all rolled into one. Bring on the hay fever and pollen, Mother Nature! Come get me, dust mites and mold! Allergy shots to the rescue!

10) To be able to teleport myself away from my children when they fight. As fun as it is to hear the whining and the crying and the screaming, I think I'd rather just leave. Immediately. Until they're 20 and living independently.

11) To eat ice cream at the end of every meal. I don't think this is all that unreasonable. Especially if I could have my first wish come true in conjunction with this one. I would eat far less ice cream if I knew that I would get it again in a few short hours. In fact, this would probably help me lose weight, right?

12) To have someone clean my house. Now, I like cleaning. This is not the problem. I simply no longer have time for such nonsense as dusting, let alone washing base boards and moving the fridge to scrub the spilled orange juice. I want someone to wipe out my cupboards and flip my mattress and to wash the outsides of my windows -- to do the kind of cleaning that would make Monica Gellar proud.

13) To hire a personal shopper. I would love, love, love someone to take my measurements and magically know what would look amazing on me. This person could spend my pretend money going to any store she wanted and get me full outfits that are functional yet trendy, slimming yet breathable. And this person would become my best friend and I would share my mealtime ice cream with her.

14) To be a real writer. Like, a for real- I get paid for it- someone wants to publish me sort of writer. That way I could do what I love and be able to support my family all at the same time. (And this, folks, is the stuff that dreams are made of.)

15) To move to the beach. This would take care of my need for a vacation and many of my allergy-dwarf selves! Give me a shack, a shed, or a tent.... as long as I have warm breezes and constant sunshine, I'm a happy camper!!

16) To not be pooped on ever again. Today, my pastor and I went to meet with another pastor at his church. The baby came with us. He seemed to be playing nicely with his car, until I saw what looked like orange cement splashing onto the carpet around him. It took me a moment to realize that the ceiling wasn't leaking pureed carrots. My baby was crapping so ferociously that it was shooting out the top of his diaper, torpedo style, and then landing in heaps around him. I used all the wipes. I used all the spare clothes. I used all the plastic baggies. And it was not enough. There was a 6-foot radius of poop and no amount of scrubbing was getting that stuff out of the carpet, my clothes, or his hair. Yes. I would give anything to not have to do this ever again.

17) To go to the movies. Similar to my desire to read a book, there's just no time to go to the movies. Or money. Money and time.... maybe this list would be shorter if those were my only two items?

18) To have all of my family and friends live close to me. Sadly, many of the people that I love the most live all over the country. And there are times that I just want them (need them) to pack their things and move to my small little town and be near me. It's not like it's that hard to call a realtor, right?

19) To have more fun with my husband. (Get your minds out of the gutter, people!) When we weren't ships passing in the night, we used to laugh. There was time to unwind to the point that you could notice the funny things instead of bustling past them to get to the next chore or appointment. It was uninhibited, flirty, carefree laughter. What I wouldn't give.

20) To be a perfect parent raising perfect children. I want so badly to do everything right. However, this literally never happens. I do an awful lot of yelling and I make threats that I don't follow through with (mainly because they're outrageous and ridiculous threats in the first place, i.e. "I will quite literally BUY a bulldozer so that I can dig a hole deep enough to put all the crap you've hidden under your bed in.... and then I will bury it and build a 6-foot monument of my face to place on top of the pile to forever remind you that it's best to clean your room the first 30 times I say it!!!"). And I often focus on the little things, easily forgetting the big picture moments. But since my children are maniacal, dirty, pooping, weirdos (whom I love with every fiber of my being), our imperfections are often the highlights of our neighbor's dinner parties.... especially when they look out their dining room windows to see a muttering woman digging holes in the back yard with a large shovel (because obviously I could never afford a bulldozer).

     Those are my Top 20 What I Wouldn't Gives. What are some of yours?

The Sarcastic Welcome Wagon

            I never thought I’d say this, but….. I miss being pregnant. (GASP!) I know. I know! Those are the words I was pretty positive would never leave my lips, not in a million years. Now, I’m not saying that I long for the days of constant puking and horrible back pains – not a chance! But let’s just say that I didn't acknowledge the perks of pregnancy and give them their due at the time. But as I sit here in my grass-is-always-greener state of mind, I feel a tinge of nostalgia for the days of swollen feet and profuse sweating.

            This week, three evils have resurfaced in my life – evils that pregnancy had gloriously masked. And now, in the full light of post-natal day, I’m feeling rather deflated (and not just in my abdomen).

1)      Welcome Back, Nail Biting. Ugh! The habit is so disturbing I can’t even handle it. I don’t enjoy biting, I don’t like the way my nails look, and I can’t even handle thinking of the trillions of germs I’m ingesting each time I put a fingernail to my lips. And after 16 months of gorgeous, hard-as-rock nails, I’m back to square one. Me and my stubs are disappointed in my defeat. Pregnancy hormones did for my nails what nothing ever has – I had perfect color, shape, and thickness growing at rapid rates from my fingertips with nary a break, crack, or peal. But even though I’m still nursing my little man, the hormones had to eventually come to an end, bringing with it dull, flimsy, pealy nails. And what’s an ex-nail biter to do? Leave them there, all scratchy and sharp? My OCD wouldn't allow this. And so, with bitterness in my tone, I say Welcome Back, Nail Biting.

2)      Welcome Back, Period. In the past year-and-a-half, I’d forgotten just how horrible it is to bleed profusely and for no freaking reason at all. If this were a nosebleed, I’d already be at the hospital getting cauterized. Isn’t it bad enough that I’m still not able to fit into half of my old clothes? Isn’t it enough that I’m utterly exhausted and that I change more diapers in a day than I get hours of sleep? Nope. Apparently it wasn't enough. Because now I get to wear nipple pads AND crotch pads, along with my granny panties and my super huge nursing bra. I make Victoria’s Secret models weep. So, with sarcasm and utter hatred, I say Hello, Cramps. Hello, Tampons. Hello, Back Aches. Welcome Back, Period, you disgusting piece of crap.

3)      Welcome Back, Mood Swings. Perhaps this one goes along well with number 2, but it’s also a sign that my hormones have continued their decline from pregnancy and freshly-labored Mama to just a regular old crabby, menstruating machine. And unfortunately, these mood swings are running rampant! No one cries over a generic Christmas card. No one. Oh, wait…. I do! I cry over generic Christmas cards, staring at a pile of laundry, and each time I step on the scale. On the flip side of all this sobbing is the real problem. The rage. I never realized it before, but when I watch crime shows on television, I’ve now noticed that I’m one pick axe, roll of duct tape, and a trash bag away from finding myself on America’s Most Wanted. It’s crazy how quickly it creeps up! One minute I’m making dinner while quizzing spelling words, and the next minute I’m screaming my head off because my kids bought themselves gifts at Santa’s Workshop when they were told only to buy for their family. (The hundreds of dollars spent on presents currently sitting under the Christmas tree was obviously not enough for them.) I threw things, screamed things, grounded things, and threatened things. I was seconds away from bellowing to the entire world that there really is no Santa Claus! (Spoiler Alert?) And you know what followed this almighty tantrum? You guessed it. More tears. And alas, with bi-polar tendencies I holler a hearty Welcome Back, Mood Swings!

I can see now why women have more children. For a long time I didn't see it. I couldn't look past the terrible pregnancy symptoms and terrifying labor and delivery events long enough to realize that these women of multiple children are not crazy. No. They’re just putting off the Welcome Wagon a little bit longer. And to these women I tip my hat. 

The Birth

     I'm not sure I'd win the award for the world's worst labor, but I'm definitely a contender for the world's oddest labor! Before it all even began, my doctor had prepared me for challenges that may arise, and to remember that things can change in the blink of an eye so it's best to be flexible during delivery.... these things I knew and I prepared myself accordingly. However, what I wasn't prepared for was EVERYTHING being thrown up in the air, causing me to face fears I didn't think I could face in moments that I felt too tired to face them. So, for those who are interested, here is the story of Wyatt's birth.
     Past my due date and convinced that he was never going to come out, I decided that I was tired of waiting around for him. It was Friday night and we planned some family time, so we rented the beloved "Frozen" to watch for the evening. Halfway through the movie, I started to have contractions (not that I got too excited over this, because who knew if they were real or just another form of Braxton Hicks, right??). Either way, I decided to pull out my handy dandy contraction tracker app on my phone, just to see if there was a pattern to these annoying pains. And after several hours, I realized that there was no consistent pattern, but that I was averaging a contraction once every 15-20 minutes. I'd already had one false labor scare and my poor parents drove all the way from Michigan just to sit here and watch me remain pregnant, no grandchild to be produced, so I certainly didn't want to make that mistake again and call them too hastily. I decided to just go to bed and see how I felt in the morning.
     Except trying to sleep through contractions is kinda like trying to sleep through an earthquake. Some things can't (and shouldn't) be ignored! By morning, the contractions were averaging 10 minutes apart, but still there was no set pattern to them, which I was told was a sign that they were Braxton Hicks and not true contractions. So, on I labored (I just didn't know I was doing so). We picked up Isaac for our weekend visit and hung out around the house for the day, just in case my body did anything too crazy. And anyways, I was exhausted from not having slept at all the previous night. Never having pulled an all-nighter before, my body was stuck in Zombie Mode. Finally, by around 5pm, my husband encouraged me to call my parents to come out. The contractions were getting stronger, but still all over the place. And, as sure as I'm sitting here, about an hour after making the call, the pains slowed down considerably. Great, I thought, another false alarm as soon as my parents get on the road! However, being several days past my due date, Mom and Dad decided to keep driving because it was only a matter of time before I would have to pop, right?
     They arrived at 11pm on Saturday night and we all decided to "get some sleep" just in case things were to pick up again. Sure enough, moments after placing my head on the pillow, the contractions went from about 15 minutes apart to 6 minutes apart (but STILL irregular!!). I laid awake monitoring frequencies and strength of the pains as my husband sawed logs next to me. But once I had two episodes in a 4 minute span, I promptly woke him and my parents up at 1am and we began the hour ride into Pittsburgh where my hospital was located. Thankfully, there isn't a whole lot of traffic in the middle of the night and our trip was shorter than expected! Long story short, the doctor examined me and found I was only half a cm dilated (seriously?!?!) and he had me walk laps for an hour to keep the contractions coming strong. They were 2-3 minutes apart when he checked me again, but I had only increased to 1 cm dilated. The option to induce labor was mentioned by the nurse and I told her that I didn't want to do anything that would increase my chances of having a c-section (my horrific fear of needles and knives being a major concern!). So, after almost 11 hours at the hospital, the doctor gave me a shot of morphine to help me sleep (aka help me hallucinate) and sent me home to finish laboring there.
     I managed to get 2 hours of sleep, although somewhat interrupted.... my hubby's nerves through this whole process had the poor man sleep talking and asking me random questions every few minutes! When I woke from the nap, the contractions had slowed to about one per hour. Awesome. I spent the rest of Sunday evening power walking up and down my driveway and my patient and sleepy husband even took me on a bumpy quad ride to try to get things going again. But all of it was in vain. There was nothing left for me to do other than wait until my OB appointment the following afternoon. Feeling defeated, I went to bed. I managed almost 4 hours of sleep before contractions woke me up again, keeping me hopping until mid-morning, at which point they decided to hibernate once more. I was starting to become very angry at my uterus. Maybe it was the lack of sleep, or maybe it was the mostly consistent pains I'd been experiencing for almost 3 days... but I had just about had it with this pregnancy! I was hanging on by a very loose thread and my hormones just couldn't take it anymore. By the time me and my family arrived at my doctor's appointment on Monday afternoon, I was a frazzled, hairy mess. My doctor checked me and informed me that, guess what, I was 1.5 cm dilated. Oh my gosh, for real???? All those contractions for 3 days and I'm only 1.5 cm and 50% effaced??? There had to be some mistake! My mind was reeling and my doctor could tell I was going to lose it, so she offered up some more bad news, just for good measure.
     "I hate to tell you this, but I'm not usually wrong about these things. Your baby is very high and isn't dropping at all. You need to prepare yourself for a c-section." (Cue waterworks now.) Too tired to contain myself, I let the sobs take over. And when I could catch my breath, I politely begged her to get my baby out of me.... immediately. Lucky for me, she was the on-call doctor for the following day, and she was able to schedule my induction for 7am the following morning. Thank GOD! Finally some good news!
     My plan was to sleep well that night so that I'd be in better shape for delivering a kid into this world the next morning. BUT, true to form, as soon as I laid my head on the pillow, the contractions picked right back up. 10 minutes apart... 7 minutes apart... 5 minutes apart.... shoot, gotta puke.... oh no, both ends? really??... oh, Lord in heaven, make it stop!... 4 minutes apart.... time to go, but can't bring the toilet with me... At 5 am, we were in the car, barf bucket in one hand, contraction tracker in the other. We made it to the hospital in time for me to book it to the bathroom yet again. It was later that morning that I learned my mother-in-law and son both developed the flu, which I had probably caught on my delivery day, as luck would have it. But since my contractions were moving along steadily on their own, the hospital staff decided to wait on the induction and just let me labor for a bit. I was 2 cm dilated and having strong contractions 2-3 minutes apart.
     My husband held my hand for the next few hours as I practiced my breathing and tried new positions to see what would help alleviate the pain. And then, my husband surprised me and asked me when I was going to start yelling at him.... I guess he thought I was gonna be a monster during labor, screaming and yelling and writhing in pain, but I told him I didn't think it would help and he didn't do anything worth yelling at (yet) so what would be the point?? He sweetly stayed by my side and repeatedly told me how proud he was of me for doing such a good job. I don't know why, but that meant more to me than anything else. By early afternoon I was only at 4 cm and ready to talk epidural (hello, Fear!). The lovely nurse Shelley assured me that my progress would increase when my body was more relaxed. So, I made the doctor promise to not tell me what he was doing and the nice man agreed to let Pat stay in the room with me for the process. Unable to control my full body convulsions (these happen whenever I'm terrified or in great pain....so having contractions while terrified didn't help) I was overwhelmingly proud of myself that I didn't pass out!! And sure enough, an hour later I was at 6 cm.
     However, 6 cm is where I stayed for the next 5 hours. During this time, Wyatt's heart rate kept dropping off the radar and they had to hook a little coil into his scalp to better keep track of his heart beats, also inserting a probe into me to monitor the strength of my contractions as they tried to find the right dose of Pitocin that would keep me progressing without risking Wyatt's health. "Try to sleep," they told me as my baby's heart rate blipped inconsistently on the monitor next to me. "It may just the the cord wrapped around his neck, which is really quite common." Sleep?? Really??? Tell me, exactly how does one sleep when their baby is in danger? Pat was watching me stare at the monitor, refusing to rest. So, my incredible husband told me that he would watch the monitor for me and would wake me if anything was wrong, but that he wanted me to rest. So I tried.... not very well, but I think I got a few minutes in here and there.
     Finally my doctor came in and told me that we had given it as long as we could.... Wyatt was still far too high for whatever reason, and I was not dilating any further. It was time for the c-section. Nurse Shelley was there and held my hand. "You've been so strong all day... it's ok to cry," she said. And I did. I couldn't keep it in any longer. My greatest fear was happening and there was nothing I could do about it. I couldn't get Wyatt out any other way and his heart rate was still posing a concern.... it had to be done, but how was I gonna make my mind get through it?? I looked over and saw my husband, still holding my hand, crying right alongside me. He knew I had tried so hard all day and that I was scared beyond belief. In that moment, it was as if he felt my pain and helped share it with me. All of a sudden the nausea came back with a vengeance and I felt like I was on fire. Out of nowhere I had spiked a fever and the puking returned. But there was no time for this, because prep work had already began and I was being wheeled to the Operating Room moments after my parents prayed over me and the baby one last time. Pat wasn't allowed into the room until the very last minute and I laid there, shaking like a leaf, unable to move anything from my neck down. I vomited through most of the prep and part of the surgery.... throw up ran down my cheek and rested in my ear, in my hair, and down my neck. The slightly-too-peppy anesthesiologist didn't see this as a problem and just kept chattering on to me about how a nice alcohol wipe to the forehead was just what I needed. (No, what I needed was for her to unclog my puke-ear and to get out of my face for a few minutes!)
     Eventually, Pat was allowed into the room and they immediately began the procedure. He held my hand and I found myself getting dizzier and increasingly convulsive as the minutes ticked by. My dream delivery was to have worship music playing, my mom and husband next to me, and for me to immediately hold my baby as he came out. I pictured myself crying happy tears and planting loving kisses all over his face. But my reality was far less lovely. There was no music, just the sounds of instruments clanging and doctors exchanging words I didn't understand. My mind felt heavy and my body felt sick and out of my control. And when I finally heard little Wyatt's first cries, I felt nothing. I didn't see him until everything was over, but even then, I couldn't keep my eyes from crossing and I couldn't even make it register in my mind that I had just had a baby.
     They wheeled me back into recovery and shoved Wyatt's little face onto my breast, telling me long instructions of how to feed him as I stared blankly at them, unable to make words that even resembled English come from my mouth. Machines beeped frantically behind me and doctors ran in and out injecting more and more medication into my IV. What is going on? Why all the beeping? Why is this lady telling me to feed my baby when I can't move anything below my neck? Why am I so confused??? Apparently my blood pressure had decided to plummet and they couldn't get it re-stabilized with the medications. And since I had thrown up so much during delivery, the doctor told me that they had given me literally every single nausea medicine they had in stock at the hospital, none of which made a difference. Not to mention the anti-anxiety med they injected to help me stay calm, and the high dosage of benedryll that probably aided my overall feelings of loopiness! They finally got my BP somewhat stabilized (68 over 44!) before sending me upstairs to my new room where I was able to actually meet my new little man without my eyes rolling back into my head! And as I looked at his little face, I realized that he was perfect. (Well, mostly.... he had a bit of a cone head from sitting in my pelvis too long earlier that day! Turns out, Wyatt had been sunny-side up with his head cocked to the side.... there was no way he was ever going to come out vaginally, and he had the funny-shaped head to prove it!)
     After 4 sleepless days and nights, it was finally time to rest. Or was it?? Due to the low blood pressure, the nurse had to come in and check my vitals every 30 minutes, and due to some bleeding issues I was having, the doctor had to come use my uterus as a trampoline every hour, pushing on it as though giving it CPR as I gagged in pain. And at 4am, apparently my bleeding was a bit more than they had planned for and I heard a code go out over the loud speaker as no fewer than 20 nurses and doctors charged into my room to look between my sprawled legs, push on my uterus some more, and discussing with each other my state of "gushing". I looked over at my personal nurse and told her I was starting to feel like a $2 whore.... "Oh no, honey, you're worth way more than $2," she said with a smile. And once the bleeding stopped, it was time for vitals again, and then to feed Wyatt, and then to have my uterus jumped on, and then vitals..... so on and so forth. It had now been 5 days with only 6 hours of sleep... my blood pressure still teetered on and off the safety zone, and my fever wouldn't go away. Apparently my blood count was also rather low, due to the loss of blood, and the word "transfusion" was flippantly tossed out there. Good heavens, this was getting ridiculous! To top things off, the local anesthesia they gave me refused to wear off and I couldn't properly use my legs for almost 2 days, AND I had an allergic reaction to all the tapes they used on my skin (the reaction is still with me to this day, as is the persistent fever, hooray!)
     Pat, Wyatt, and I were finally released from the hospital on Friday, a week after this entire event began. My parents were here to help out, and my husband has been a God-send. In fact, before we left the hospital, Pat looked at me and told me that he loved me more than he ever thought possible, and that, after going through this experience, he had never felt this close to another human being in his entire life. And even now, he tells me daily that I'm doing a good job, that I'm a good mother, that, even when I'm crying and exhausted, he's so proud of me. I don't think I would've made it through quite this well without him being my faithful cheerleader and backbone. Still tired, still sore, and still kinda sick, I am at least in my own home with helpers all around me as I learn how to be a brand new mom in a way that I haven't had the privilege of experiencing before. Are there tears? Um, yes. Are there a few breakdowns as I stare into the refrigerator at 1:30am not knowing what to eat, but recognizing the somewhat familiar pangs of hunger jabbing at me as my baby refuses to sleep? Yep. But overall, we're getting through it! Cameron and Taylor love their new sibling, and Isaac will eventually get through his feelings of "dethronement" with a little extra love :) Thank you to everyone who sent up prayers, cards, and words of encouragement through this entire ordeal. I have loved sharing every second of this journey with you all!

Come Out, Come Out, Wherever You Are

     From what I can gather, there comes a time in every woman's pregnancy where she is simply done with being pregnant. I mean, over it. That time when all she wants to do is hold her new baby, get her body back to a somewhat normal existence, and finally stop feeling sick. Sadly, I may have reached that mark prematurely, because now this ticking time bomb flipping and flopping inside of me has me living on pins and needles, fearful that he won't come out at an opportune time or, worse, that he simply won't come out at all! I have vivid dreams that my water has broken, only to wake up and realize that I was just sweating.... really badly. And, when asked the daily question "Wait, you're STILL pregnant??" I joke that I'll be taking this kid to college in utero, only to seconds later well up with tears because maybe I wasn't really joking. And since pregnant women are known for their highly rational thoughts and emotions (gulp), it shouldn't come as much of a surprise that I bounce and rock back and forth on my yoga ball so much during each day that I induce motion sickness and nausea instead of labor.... and since this method obviously doesn't work, I continue to do it again later that day.... and that evening.... and right before bed.
     I had one ray of hope on Monday when I went for my weekly check-up and the doctor gave me my "show".... ladies, for the men's sake, I won't discuss what kind of show it was, but let's just say that I was mortified and thoroughly grateful that this happened at the doctor's office and NOT in my bathroom at home, or I would've thought I was dying for sure. It looked like Edward Scissorhands himself had performed the pelvic exam. My doctor followed this ray of hope up with the usual comments about 0 cm dilated (blah blah blah) and still only the same amount of cervical softness as last week (blah blah blah). So, in true pregnancy form, I decided to celebrate my feelings of overwhelming disappointment with a blizzard from Dairy Queen.... size? Large. But, Shivonne, you may ask, won't that upset your lactose-sensitive stomach??? And in reply, I would laugh heartily in your face, because this stomach of mine refuses to keep ANYTHING inside, lactose or not, for more than an hour anyways.... one more "symptom" that labor is surely on it's way (which I'll believe when I see it, because this has been going on for WEEKS and still, no labor!).
     The "show" is yet another sign that labor is 24-48 hours away, or so I'm told. Although, like weathermen, the writers at What To Expect are simply misguided fools getting paid to raise one's hopes, only to dash them away again with a clause that says "But every body is different" or "There's a 50% chance of rain, hail, and sunshine". Because it's been 49.5 hours and I am still not contracting, laboring, or doing anything else that would make me feel hopeful that my baby will ever come out. And D-Day is tomorrow! A mere 9 hours away!! What is he waiting for!?!? Does he not want to meet me as much as I want to meet him? Is he just as scared as I am that he's too big to fit through an impossible opening?? (Because I could at least get on board with that line of reasoning.) Or maybe he just really likes a good game of Hide and Seek.... whatever his thoughts, I hope he changes his mind soon, because I want to see him (and my feet) in the worst way. Please come out, Baby Boy. Mama wants to hold you, kiss you, and finally be able to sleep on her stomach again. PS, I love you.