He’s ten now. That little, ok not so little, bundle of joy who was born at 11:02pm after 36 hours of “mild discomfort” and “light cramping” followed by an emergency caesarean.
I called my husband from the pay phone on the corner since this was before every person on the planet had a cell phone. “Honey, I’m pregnant.” I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. We’d been married for 3 years but still hadn’t really settled down and were most definitely not “trying”. The line went silent for a little while and after I anxiously said his name a few times he replied, “Are you sure?”
Well, two pregnancy tests later for a grand total of three and a trip to the clinic confirmed that not only was I pregnant, I was almost ten weeks pregnant and those severe bouts with heartburn were not going to get better for a very long time.
The next months were one sick day after another while that little boy grew and grew. I couldn’t believe I could be sick so long! And then he wiggled. And jiggled. And stuck his heel through my rib cage before flip-flopping to tap dance on my bladder.
I hadn’t ever felt more out of control of my body and couldn’t wait to see this little person who was busily turning my life upside down. When his due date came and went I wasn’t sure I was going to survive the next days. We tried everything. I mean everything to make him come out. After walking for miles and eating terrible food there was no progress whatsoever. He was happy and content and I was getting bigger by the second.
When they finally induced me, my perfect and carefully thought out “natural birth plan” lay on the night stand, unused and ignored. When my OB/GYN, who was one year out of med school, proceeded to ask the nurse for guidance, we started praying. When they finally wheeled me in for the caesarean, all I could think was I hope he’s ok.
And then, at 11:02 on a Wednesday night in December they held up the chubbiest baby I have ever seen. More than 10 pounds and peeing like a freight train on everyone. We were all giddy with happiness and he was perfect. Fat rolls, big hands, huge feet, big brown eyes, black hair and the chubbiest legs I have ever seen on a newborn.
My husband, who from the beginning was in awe of the whole ordeal got all misty-eyed and lost in the moment. He looked at his baby boy and with awe in his voice said, “Honey, he’s got your thighs!”
I’d never been happier in my life. Or more tired.