After birthing other humans you understand why women through history always died in childbirth. It’s an exhausting, often brutal and gruesome affair, no doubt. Thankfully, with modern medicine, women today are stitched up good as new and parenting commences.

I have issues with stitches. I think it stems from the time my sister fell off the bed and cut her head on the edge of the dresser when we were kids. She had to have four stitches in her head. I couldn’t even look at them. I had to sit on the other side of her in the car on the way to church the next day so I wouldn’t be near the dark blue stitches. The doctor used blue thread.  She smelled like apple juice after leaving the emergency room. While I was genuinely concerned for her welfare, I couldn’t deal with the little blue knots that tied together the tender flesh of her skull. Let’s not even get in to the stitches my Dad had on his face after multiple sinus surgeries.

One of my biggest fears going in to birth both times was a c-section or episiotomy. Scalpels mean stitches. Skin sewn together. I always smell apple juice when I see them. If you show a Facebook picture of your stitches after your ACL surgery, I will hide you. Period.

Fortunately, I was really lucky and delivered my babies vaginally with no episiotomy. Now, this is the point in this post when I talk about stitches in my lady parts. You’ve been warned.

No one really warned me about tearing. I knew about perineal tears, I guess. I never gave much thought to my perineum in general until it was stitched up. I followed all the doctor’s orders of proper care. I kept those ice pack pads coated in Dermaplast. After Charlotte’s birth I think I was in such a hormonal haze, I just prayed it would all heal properly. After Henry, I dared to see for myself how my most tender flesh was healing.

I looked, ya’ll. I looked! It was late. Jill had warned me not to. It was one of those postpartum nights when I was miserable, sore and exhausted. I gingerly lifted my leg on the counter and held a mirror under me. Stitches! Apple juice! I nearly passed out at the site of this vaginal crime scene.

For the record, I am healed up. Everything is pink and happy. It’s all back to normal down there. So, don’t fret ladies, for those gruesome few weeks, it may seem like your nether regions will be forever wrecked, but thankfully there are stitches. Just don’t look at them, that taint no joke.

What?! You thought I would get through this post without a taint joke? Come on! 

The Wait

It was the first week of November again. It was finally getting cold and we had once again hidden from the world, munched on Halloween candy and waited in anticipation for any signs of another baby joining our family. I told my friends, “My babies are born in November. They just are.”  Both were due in October and November 6, 2013 marked 41 weeks of pregnancy with Baby #2.

We still didn’t know if it was a boy or a girl. We surprised ourselves by getting pregnant the first month we tried. We spent the day before our scheduled induction finalizing name choices. This baby was our little mystery, keeping us in great anticipation until the very end.

We waited for the call to go into the hospital. At 7:30 am the phone rang and it was the nurse. Greyson watched my face fall as I listened to the news that the labor and delivery ward was slammed and we would have to wait. More waiting. I took a deep breath and tried to hold it together until I could call back and check-in midday. I kissed Charlotte goodbye as Greyson took her to school to join the rest of the 3-year-old class. I dressed her in her “Big Sister” t-shirt, praying it wasn’t in vain and we would in-fact have our baby today.

We watched TV. We watched the clock.

I said, “Let’s get out of here.” I wanted to get out, but I didn’t want to get too far from the hospital. The North Carolina Museum of Art in Raleigh is right across the street from the hospital. We went there to walk around and kill time. I wanted to hold Greyson’s hand and be distracted. A Porsche exhibit was there. Okay cars. Let’s look at cars.

The pic is a little blurry, but this is us a the exhibit. I’m wearing the same holey old college t-shirt I wore the day Charlotte was born. I think it’s good luck.

 We walked through the history of Porsches from decades ago, to today. I learned a little . I didn’t realize Steve McQueen loved Porshes so much. It dawned on me they named Lightning McQueen from Cars after Steve McQueen. I wondered if this baby would like Cars as much as his/her sister. I looked up from a photo of the actor looking rugged on the set of a 1970’s racing flick and asked Greyson the same question we had been asking each other for nine months. “Boy or girl?” “Girl,” he said. “Me too,” I replied. We smiled

Yep. Probably a baby sister. Not that it mattered. We just wanted to meet this kid.  We walked some more.

One of the racing Porsches had the names of drivers on the side who had the privledge of racing that pristine machine. I pointed out one name printed on the side of the car. “H. Haywood” was next to an American flag on the car. My eyes grew large and grabbed Greyson’s arm. We looked at each other with our mouths open. “Henry Haywood” was our name for a boy. We grabbed our phones and took pictures. Was it a sign? Was this a baby brother? Maybe.

I bought a toy car at the gift shop to give to our baby. I figure we’ll tell the baby the story of Mama and Daddy with the Porsches before he/she was born.

We ate at the museum restaurant. I gobbled up my risotto, hoping it would be my last meal and give me energy for labor. We drove home and I called the charge nurse to see if we could get in. I think she heard the desperation in my voice when I asked if she was sure I would be able to get in that day. She gave me no guarantee, which sent me in to the kind of tearful, hormonal fit I had become accustomed to in the last week. Apparently every baby in the county was being born at our hospital today.

I tried to relax and take a nap when we got the call asking if we could be there by 3:oopm. We would be there before that. Make no mistake. If I had a Porsche to get me there faster, I would have driven it but, no infant car seat would fit in there.

The Push

We sat and waited in the lobby, filled out paperwork and waited for the nurse to come and get us. We were finally there and when I got a little irritable at the even longer wait Greyson put on his sarcastic sypathetic face and said, “Hey, I’m here.  Don’t worry. I’m your Baby Buddy.” I fell out laughing. My Baby Buddy. He is indeed the only person on earth I’d want to be with me during labor and delivery. I took my buddy’s hand and went to the room where we would meet our second child.

By this time it was 4:00 pm or 4:30pm. I took my last pregnant photos and put on the gown. It did cross my mind that these may be the last few hours of my life that I would ever be pregnant. Part of me was sad. Part of me did not care and was ready to have this kid. Plus, the bag of Pitocin was by the bed. There was no turning back now.

After some more paperwork, vital signs and fetal monitors, they started the Pitocin and the other bag of fluid they give you for whatever reason. Soon after, contractions started, exactly as they had with Charlotte’s birth when being induced. Happily, my water broke on it’s own and I didn’t need the creepy glove with the tiny hook up there like the doctor used last time to break my water. The worst pain was very localized. Always low on my right side. In the last three years since giving birth the first time, whenever I have the slightest menstrual cramp, it is in my lower right side. That’s when I instantly have labor flashbacks. The pain was exactly as I remembered it.

Seeing Greyson’s face as I grimaced was awful. You could tell he felt helpless. The epidural was welcome. Once again, I can’t remember what the anesthsiologist said, or what he looked like. I just know the prick of the needle in my back was nothing but a tiny sting compared to the pain of my contracting belly. The first epidural attempt was futile. The left side of my body was a little numb, but my hot spot for labor pain remained on fire. Even with heavier doses of the numbing medicine I could still feel serious pain. I knew they were going to have to take it out and do it again like they did for Charlotte’s birth. With her birth, the anesthesiologist blamed it on new catheters but, this same scenario with a second child led this anesthesiologist to believe he needed to administer the epidural again in a different spot. It worked. Thank God. This time, fortunately, I could mostly feel my feet and my legs, unlike with Charlotte’s birth when I was nothing but a torso. Greyson said they should have tattooed my back with the proper place to put in the epidural.

Similar to Charlotte’s birth, it was just another hour and I was ready to push. I couldn’t feel the pain of the contractions, but serious pressure. I was so numb with Charlotte that I didn’t feel the type of pressure I felt this time. When I explained this to the nurse, she checked me and called the doctor immediately. She said, “It’s gonna be like, two pushes and this baby is gonna be out.” I liked her positive thinking, but she was wrong.  The doctor gave the nurse orders not to let me push until she got there. We had a few minutes to sit through the pressure.

The doctor and the nurses in the room were excited to have a delivery where the parents didn’t know the sex of the baby. They told us births like this were fun. I looked at Greyson, “Last guesses, boy or a girl?” “Boy, I think,” he replied. I disagreed, “No, I think it’s a baby sister.” We smiled at each other, knowing we didn’t really care.

I followed the doctor’s instructions to push as the contractions came. I didn’t need instructions. I could feel when to push. Greyson was an excellent Baby Buddy as he dutifully brought me ice water to sip between pushes. I asked for handles to pull on, instead of pulling against my legs. I had better leverage that way. It was about 45 minutes of bearing down and catching my breath, bearing down and catching my breath.

The Arrival

The last push brought our baby out and the doctor held him up for me. Him. I heard the words leave my mouth, quiet and breathless, but with true astonishment “Oh my God! It’s a boy!” Greyson and I looked at each other with open mouths. The waiting was done. The mystery was solved. The name on the Porsche was a sign. He was here. Our son.

I greeted him as I greeted his sister three years prior, “Hi! Happy Birthday! I’m Amy, I’m your mama. This is Greyson, he’s your daddy.”

The doctor put the scissors in Greyson’s hand to cut the cord. He didn’t do this with Charlotte. He always said about fathers cutting the cord, “Um. The pilot flew the plane. I’m not going to help him with the  landing.” The doctor didn’t give Greyson a choice. I watched my nervous Baby Buddy land the plane by clamping down on the scissors and officially separating our son from my body.

He didn’t make much noise until they took him over to the heater. That’s when we took a few minutes to laugh and marvel that we had a son. They asked us what his name is. I said, “Henry Haywood.”

He was 8 lbs. and 1.9 ozs. “8 lbs. 2 oz.” the nurse rounded up when she announced his weight. He was 20 1/2 inches long.

The nurse brought Henry to me, swaddled and sweet. His hair was black and wavy. He smelled so good, so brand new and lovely. He started rooting around and I knew he needed to be fed immediately. My sweet boy latched right away and ate for awhile.

I looked at him, listened to him suckle and felt his warm weight in my arms instead of my belly and suddenly my life felt bigger, our family more complete and I was somehow more whole.

I couldn’t wait to introduce him to his sister and make this little one part of our family. Like mothers do, I wondered what type of boy my baby would turn in to and what type of man we were capable of raising. That’s when I stopped my brain from going too far into the future and I froze time in that hospital room for a moment. A moment when a new member of our family arrived. It was another November in which life got a little better.

It’s only been three years. I tried to jog my memory and remember all of the nitty gritty I had forgotten about postpartum life and having a newborn. Our son arrived a week and two days ago and there are some notable similarities and differences from Baby #1 to Baby #2.

Ouch!– I had to describe to my first-time pregnant friend what it was like physically after giving birth. I was honest. “It’s like a crime scene down there.” I felt bad. I thought she was going to cry. Well, she should know. I wish I had.

Once again, I am wrecked yo.  But, it healed up up quick last time. I was good as new. I fully expect the same this time. Fortunately, I was aware that it would take 10 minutes to go to the bathroom every time these first couple of weeks, so I was ready. Allow for bathroom time, new mothers! You’re welcome.

I’ve been thankful for Dermaplast and perineal ice packs. Greyson even made a run to the specialty pharmacy to get more of the cold pads for me. I figured out why they only give you so many at the hospital. They are $4.00 a piece! The thing is, I would have paid more. You ladies understand.

I remember some after pains or cramping when nursing after Baby #1 was born. Oh my God! This time?! Insane! It felt like contractions again. Seriously. It died down after a couple of days, but good Lord! That’s when the nurse and my mom informed me, “Oh yeah, it’s much worse with subsequent babies.” Good to know. Take note, second-timers.

The Hospital and Recorded Feedings– With Baby #1, Greyson and I hung on to the doctors and nurses’ every words. We dutifully filled out their feeding chart with time and duration of each nursing session. We kept track of each bit of meconium and consulted the lactation consultant a ridiculous four times. We both loved our nurses and thanked them a hundred times. We looked at each other and thought, “Oh my God! They’re letting us leave here with an infant. What the hell are they thinking?”

This time we didn’t write down jack. I humored one nurse, by making up some numbers. I could just tell her feeding times. I refused to write them down and continue this ritual for two weeks! With Baby #1 for two weeks I went insane recording every feeding and poop in a cute little notebook. I set the timer on the old iPhone 3GS and recorded each one. Really?! No. Not this time. Granted, I enjoyed the little notes I wrote at the end of each day about my newborn daughter’s early days, but I think it made me go a little crazy to keep those types of records. I think some Type A, detail oriented mothers would love that, but it caused me too much anxiety. Sorry. Let’s just feed the kid and move on with life. So far so good with  Baby #2. I’m just feeding him while checking Twitter on my iPhone 5 this time.

We were generally annoyed and really ready to get out of the hospital, frankly. I think every baby in the county decided to be born the same day as our son. The staff seemed busy and frazzled. Paying a higher copay than last time didn’t help our moods. We were just generally irritated by the end of our hospital stay. We enjoyed all our sweet visitors, but it was time to go!

Snip- We didn’t know if this baby was a boy or a girl, so when we saw his kibbles and bits, we had to make a decision. A circumcision decision. I wanted to make sure I understood the pros and cons of circumcision and types of circumcisions. There are different kinds. Who knew? We didn’t. Baby #1 was a girl. How would we know?

I did some research on my phone and had extensive Twitter DM conversations with some of my boy mom blogger friends. I won’t tell you what we decided because that would be discussing my son’s genitals on the Internet. Poor kid. It’s bad enough his shameless mother discusses hers.

Milk and Weight Gain– The dairy is open for business, ya’ll! This kid came out an eater. In the delivery room he was rooting around and ready to go. The milk came in faster this time. Thank God. Colostrum wasn’t cutting it. This baby wanted milk. He was born 8 lbs. 2 oz. and left the hospital 7 lbs. 13 oz. He stayed 7 lbs. 13 oz. at his two day appointment.

I am not making this up. In five days the child was up to 8 lbs. 10 oz.! The doctor had to look at the chart twice. She thought it was a typo. I’m proud of my boobs. Not gonna lie.

His name is Henry.

He has downy black hair and round cheeks. He’s warm and soft when he lays on my chest in that floppy way only newborns can. His smell is intoxicating and lovely. He joined us November 6, 2013 at 9:53 pm. 8 lbs. and 2 oz. of perfection.

We are coming together as four. It’s a new era for us and it is wonderful. We are “Somebodies Parents”. There is much more to come. Welcome.

For the second time in my life the calendar has turned to November when I was supposed to have a baby in October. I’m not making this up. I wrote this three years ago TODAY. You’ll see. I didn’t publish it until later. This time I’m letting it out.

It’s back. The darkness. The up-and-down fury. All of it.

That old familiar madness.

You would think I would have been prepared this time. I worked through my due date, which is better than last time when I worked up until 2 days before my due date. This week we went to the doctor on the 30th. My due date. I was so happy. We had worked so hard to get through this last month. Work was handed off, we dutifully took bags and the car seat and left them at daycare, ready for Grandma. We had a plan. The doctor would likely schedule an induction for the next day, we’d be home by Saturday for Charlotte’s birthday. Not this time.

I’m a fool. Once again, I am a victim of my expectations. I am an eternal optimist who assumed, wrongly, that it would work out this time and I would be as lucky as my friends who have already had their babies. Nope. Instead I remain panicky, weepy and dissolving into sobs on my closet floor like a damned psycho.

I had a friend tell me that when his wife went in to have their baby earlier this year a woman stood in the OB’s office and continued to scream until they agreed to admit her. She refused to go another week. I totally understand. I don’t judge her. Keep it up girl. Have that baby. Good for you. Get what you need from your medical professionals.

I know. I’ve heard it all. “You have to let nature take it’s course!” “Your baby is not ready.” “You have to let your body do what it needs to do.” “Another week isn’t that bad.” “You’re only two days past your due date!”

Shut the hell up. All of you. You have no idea the hormonal exhaustion of this. You think I don’t know all of that?!

My favorite thing I heard this week was, “You know, in Europe they don’t even consider induction until after 42 weeks.  Over there they have great methods of helping with natural childbirth.” Well, great! When I decide to move to Sweden and have a litter of little ex-pats born naturally in artisian Swedish pools, I’ll keep that in mind. Oh! Just to remind you, most European women have a year of paid maternity leave. I’m a working American mother and do not have that luxury. I chose a modern OB/GYN practice for a reason. This is about time. Time with my baby and money for my family.

Granted, I have been very blessed with great employers offering benefits far better than some other women get. I understand this. I’m very appreciative. But, the time I will actually get home with my newborn is very fleeting.

Wednesday the doctor informed me that a push in obstetrics is to not induce unless medically necessary. Okay, was anyone going to tell me that? I have done everything I was supposed to. Last week at 39 weeks the doctor said, “Okay, well, if you’re still pregnant next week, we’ll talk induction.” Great. I assumed that meant I’d be scheduled for the next day. She knew that is what we did last time. I lost my shit about 40 weeks and they agreed to induce me at 40 weeks 5 days. That alone, was maddening.  Waiting until 41 weeks, ridiculous. Two additional days is a lifetime. I know that’s crazy, but it is. Trust me.

People then say, “But, being induced can mean complications for your baby and a very hard labor!” Bull shit. Pitocin is a miracle drug and a blessing. Three years ago this week they started that stuff and I had my baby in about 4 hours and 35 minutes. I only pushed for the 35 minutes. Minimal tearing. Done. Easy. It was far preferable to another week of sobbing and counting vacation hours.

Due dates are the biggest crock of shit in the world. Obstetrics and meteorology are the two professions where you can predict what’s going to happen, be wrong most of the time  and still keep your job. News flash! The rest of the working world is on tight deadlines and demand accuracy. This was all fine 100 years ago. It is unacceptable in 2013. Maybe obstetrics should consider giving a “due range” instead of a “due date” if not for employers, but for the mental health of mothers.

I busted my ass this month to make it happen, to get it all done on time. I did. Now, I sit here like a damned fool with a laid out maternity leave plan and a packed bag that remains by the door. And for what?!

I asked to be checked today and the doctor explained it’s part of the hospital’s “Quality Matters” initiative not to induce until 41 weeks unless medically necessary to lower their c-section rate. Oh, you mean the c-section rate that I IN NO WAY CONTRIBUTED TO WITH MY SAFE, MEDICALLY INDUCED VAGINAL DELIVERY!? Yep, that one.

I was home yesterday and again today because I feel like crap and I can’t bring myself to show this crazy to the awesome people I work with. I’ll figure out over the weekend whether I’ll go back into the office.

This is the nitty-gritty stuff no one tells you about before you have a baby. If this psychotic rant helps another mother, maybe it will be worth it. I was praying wouldn’t be an issue this go-around. I was wrong. Oh, so wrong.

I’m here, once again relying on obstetrics and meteorology to decide my fate. There is a storm/low pressure system coming in that I can only hope will induce labor. I heard it might. But again, I’m a hormonal fool and clearly know nothing. I feel very sorry for my family and friends because I’m so awful. If I were them, I wouldn’t call or text me. Sorry. I’m just crazy.  I’d be seriously afraid of me and my madness right now. That old familiar 40 week madness.