The Labor Story.

So I was just sitting outside thinking about how awesome ice cubes are (They're cold! And wet! And made from liquid! And they're COLD!) when I had a flashback to long ago when I was pregnant. I couldn't sleep one night because the monstrous fetus inside me was pressing on vital organs and shoving things around to make room for his fat ass. My back was SO SORE, in desperation I got up and rummaged around in the freezer to find something to put on my back.
All I found was a frozen pork tenderloin, and I thought, "Perfect!"
It was pretty perfect until I woke up cuddling up to a thawed piece of meat in my bed.







I've decided to share my labor story, but it might be difficult because I'm still getting over the horror of it all. I feel like it's something I need to do though.

That night we didn't think I'd be going into labor AT ALL. It was Mother's Day. Aaron made a delicious shepard's pie. He took a Xanax that a friend gave him, for his anxiety. And we went to bed.

Right after we got under the covers and Aaron slipped off into la-la land, a heavenly world full of clouds and pillows and rainbows and corn dogs, I got slammed into by a minivan. At least, that's what it felt like.
For weeks before that, every little twinge made me go "Call the paramedics, I'm in labor!!" By the time I really went into labor I didn't really believe it. But this time some little voice inside smacked me upside the head and told me to go take a shower because soon there would be a team of medical professionals peering in between my splayed legs. It's like making sure you're always wearing clean underwear in case you get run over by a bus.

So I had a shower, peeled Aaron off the ceiling and we went to hospital, all the while feeling ridiculous for arriving there after only three contractions. Everyone knows you're supposed to wait at home and count. But something in me told me it was more urgent than that. Turns out that inner voice called 'intuition' that I never usually listen to, was right.

We walked in to the hospital and I said "Epidural please." The nurses informed me I'd have to wait until I was four centimetres dilated. FINE. So I got into bed, got jabbed in the ass full of morphine, "To help you sleep, because labor takes a long time and you need your strength."

Aaron promptly went to sleep. I did not. I was stoned though, BOY was I ever stoned. I might have enjoyed if my insides weren't being ripped open.
I was alone in my misery, but I wanted it that way. If anyone came near me I bit off their face and chewed it up. It's a good thing Aaron had that Xanax, because he slept RIGHT through my shrieking and yelling and climbing the walls.
Apparently I was so loud I scared the bejesus out of another couple in labor.
I'm not going to get into detail, because the memory of that pain and what it did to me is SO HORRIFIC. Basically, they came back to check to see if I was dilated enough for an epidural, and well wouldn't you know it, the last four hours that my head was spinning around and green bile was spewing out my mouth was actually because I WAS IN ACTIVE LABOR.

I'm still pretty pissed about that. I mean, I was SCREAMING. I actually wanted to die. I was so overwhelmed by the pain, God, I don't even have words to describe it, so I won't. But Aaron was there. He's still traumatized. You can even ask Anneke, she was there too. I'm pretty sure I said some hateful things to her too, but she understands I didn't mean it, because she ALSO pushed out an eleven-pound baby, WITH. NO. DRUGS. She is the real hero.

But WHY didn't they come and check me sooner? I'm pretty sure they thought I was just overreacting. I did tell them as soon as I arrived at the hospital that I wanted every and all drug possible because I didn't want to experience pain any greater than a stubbed toe. They must have thought I was such a wimp.

Anyway, they checked me, I'd been in labor for six hours and I was ready to push, so I missed my opportunity for the epidural, told the nurse I was going to have my hit-men come and smash their kneecaps, then the doctor came and I tried not to poop on him, then a ten-pound baby (that's right, ten pounds, on the dot.) was born, we named him Angus, and then it hurt to pee for two weeks. THE END.

Writing this post was a lot more difficult than I thought it would be. I can't seem to describe it adequately. You had to be there. Ha ha. No, better that you weren't. I left some parts out because I'm already sick of talking about it. There was a bath tub involved at some point, and another shot of morphine, and magazines being hurled at anyone who came within five feet of me... but that's enough talk about labor. Labor? Who wants to read about LABOR anyway?

Mostly the experience was just surprising... it's something you just CAN'T PUT INTO WORDS. It overwhelms you, takes your breathe away, you're beaten down by it and nothing can save you.

Afterwards I was stunned for about two months. The whole time I was pregnant I couldn't really grasp the concept that a human would actually be the end result. When he arrived I didn't really believe he was MINE, with my D.N.A. I made that! I just couldn't wrap my puny little brain around that.

Then he screamed for two months straight and I knew he was definitely not my kid.

But now he is the most perfect, beautiful little thing I have ever met. I'm so in love with him, I stare at him all the time. I can't stop staring, because I'm scared that he's going to vanish in front of my eyes. This whole growing up thing, already he's so different than he was as a newborn, I panic that I forget what he used to look like, like the memories are so fragile I don't want them to fade away!
I spend every waking moment staring at him, or smelling his head, or kissing his feet, I could do it FOREVER. Until he's a smelly teenager who won't want to have anything to do with me. But I probably won't want to kiss his feet then anyway.