I wish I'd thought to take the time to record in words every blessed detail of every moment of that day much sooner, because while the magic and wonder and gratitude I feel are as poignant as ever, the little intricacies have faded over the past eighteen months. So now, a year and a half later, I'm going to root around in my memory, and jog loose and dust off every beautiful detail I can, and attempt to find the words that might just begin to capture the emotion and experience of the day she made me a mama.
I can remember an evening about a month before my due date; I was at the restaurant, and I grabbed a new carton of half and half out of the cooler. As I glanced at the expiration date, I felt my heart catch in my throat, and couldn't stifle a nervous laugh. The date read May 11, and the only thought that raced through my head, making the floor seem to tilt dangerously to one side and the lights dim for a moment, was that I would become a mother before the half and half would expire.
The days flew past, and my due date approached rapidly. I began each morning wondering whether today would be the day. I paid close attention to every Braxton-Hicks contraction, and every uncomfortable twinge, and every unfamiliar pang. I struggled to distinguish between normal third trimester aches and pains, and crampiness, and contractions. When my due date arrived without any signs of labor, one of the other doctors in my Obstetrician's practice scheduled me for an induction the following Sunday, at forty-one weeks, May 9th, Mother's Day, at seven a.m.
I desperately wanted our little one to come on her terms, I wanted to trust my body to do what women's bodies have accomplished without synthetic hormones for most of humanity, nothing about an induction resonated with my soul. I tried to reassure myself that labor would come on it's own before Sunday, and tried to encourage my body to go along with my plan. I went for long walks up steep hills, I ate pineapple, and lord knows every single bone jarring ride I took in Jon's truck should have been bumpy enough to catapult me directly into active labor.
I remember that Friday, May 7th, was a gorgeous, warm, sunny day. The most beautiful day we'd seen so far that spring. Jon called me from work to let me know that according to his father "It looked like a perfect day to have a baby." I wholeheartedly agreed, apparently our little sweetie didn't. Later that afternoon I called my OB and asked him if I absolutely had to be induced at forty-one weeks, or if I could wait longer, give our peanut the time she needed. He reassured me that I could forgo the induction as long as I came in to the hospital on Saturday morning for a Non-Stress Test and an Ultrasound to ensure that the baby wasn't in any distress.
First thing Saturday morning, Jon and I went in for our routine tests and passed with flying colors. We canceled the induction, and I felt like I had been let off the hook, like a weight had been taken off my chest and I finally had room to breathe. The peace of mind lasted all of what felt like fifteen seconds, because by that evening I had reason to believe that I might be slooowly leaking amniotic fluid. I waited until morning to call the physician on call, and talked to the doctor who had initially scheduled my induction. He told me to come in immediately.
In my heart I knew this was it. I had Jon bring my bags. I was anxious, and nervous, emotional, and terrified and excited. Part of me wanted to dig in my heels, run back in the house and lock the doors, scream "Waaaaiittt!! I'm not ready yet!" But ready or not, I went to the hospital and they tested for amniotic fluid, and the doctor looked up at me from his little glass microscope slide and said "It's fluid alright, let's get her admitted and get her started on pitocin. See, you canceled your induction and you're here anyway." And this is where it all becomes a little fuzzy.
I'm not sure how I walked from triage to my L&D room, I'm not convinced that I didn't in fact float there, or perhaps no one wants to tell me I actually passed out cold and had to be carried there. Once I was nestled in my bed in the room where I would deliver our baby girl, the nurse asked me if I was feeling alright because my blood pressure dropped, and my coloring looked a little pale. I confessed that I was just the tiniest bit terrified. I'm not sure what had me more nervous, the anticipation of the pain, or the fact that my life was about to be turned upside down in a way I couldn't fathom. We made the excited phone calls and sent out the mass texts letting our friends and family know that we were at the hospital and today would be the day.
They started pitocin at two p.m. and the contractions came immediately. Initially they were just like bad period cramps, and Jon would look at the printout dangling from one of the machines to see how big a mountain that contraction had been. I remember that they broke my water. The nurse asked me to rate my pain and I'm pretty sure I said it was a five, little did I know.
At some point my sister arrived, and brought her laptop. I remember her setting it up and connecting it to the internet, giving it to me to pass the time. I remember starting at it blankly, completely unable to comprehend what I could possibly be doing with the computer. I also remember Jon and Ariana trying to make something happen with music, to fix something with the computer, something wasn't working, that's all I can recall about that fiasco. I remember that I brought Norah Jones, and Diana Krall, and Billy Holiday CDs, I only recall hearing Norah Jones, barely.
The contractions became stronger, longer, and more painful. The mountains on the printout were much larger, with jagged pointed plateaus, and the breaks between them weren't even remotely long enough. I remember sitting on a birthing ball for a while, and standing along side the bed figuring gravity must be able to help things along.
At one point the I.V. tube administering the pitocin accidentally got a kink in it, causing the machine shreak. The nurse wasn't in the room so we took matters into our own hands and pushed a button or two until it got quiet. Whatever we did accidentally stopped the flow of pitocin, and for those few blessed minutes before the nurse came in and realized what had happened, I got the most amazing, and much needed, break from the constant onslaught of contractions. I remember getting sick to my stomach more than a handful of times. I remember that when the clock said five p.m. they checked my progress and I was five c.m. The nurse asked me to rate my pain again, and I told her I wanted to revise my previous assessment to a two, and that now it was a six, little did I know.
Jon got hungry, and went to Cosmo's for a cheesesteak. It felt like he was gone for ten minutes, my sister tells me he was gone quite a bit longer than that. I'm sure he relished the much needed break from the constant onslaught of contractions too.
I remember changing positions to kneel tall on the bed, facing the elevated head of the bed, resting my upper body on the top of the mattress. I remember that position being so so painful, especially in my back, and my nurse encouraging me to hold out for a couple more contractions because the change in position would help the baby move down. I remember Ariana putting pressure on my lower back, and showing Jon how to do the same.
Jon was so encouraging and supportive, like a cheerleader, talking me through every contraction, telling me how amazing I was doing, reminding me to breathe, assuring me that the contraction was almost over. He would keep an eye on the printout and alert me the minute the mountain appeared to be starting it's descent. I remember at a certain point between contractions, trying to tell Jon politely that although he was trying his hardest to be super helpful, I couldn't handle trying to comprehend the words coming from his mouth and deal with the pain of a contraction at the same time. The next contraction he started cheering me on again, I'm pretty sure I snarled, and the nurse leaned in to him and said "Jon, honey, I think it would be best if you stopped talking during contractions." I think his feelings were hurt.
The contractions got even longer, and stronger, and much more painful. I remember pleading that I just wanted a break and whimpering to Ariana that I couldn't do this, and her telling me sternly that I absolutely could. The nurse encouraged me to try to empty my bladder, she said something like "A full bladder is a closed door" whatever that means. At that point, the only thing worse than a contraction, was peeing, and throwing up, and contracting at the same time. She checked my progress again, nine c.m. She had me rate my pain and if this wasn't a nine and a half I might just die before I delivered. She had me lay in bed on my left side, and told me to let her know when I felt the need to push.
It seemed like the blink of an eye, like only three contractions had passed, and I was telling her that I had to push. She checked me and confirmed that I was ten c.m. It was about seven p.m. and her shift was ending. She stayed with me a little longer but ended up having to leave before I delivered, and I am so upset to confess that I don't remember my her name, because I LOVED her. I still wish I could write her a thank you card for her kindness and sweetness and support. She left me in the hands of another sweet nurse who helped through the rest of the delivery.
Jon held my left leg, I don't remember who held my right. With each contraction I pushed as hard as I could. In between each contraction I pleaded with my little one, telling her that she just had to come out right now. It felt like I only pushed through three or four contractions but Jon tells me it was more than that. Thanks to the reflection in the TV opposite my bed, I witnessed my little one as she emerged, all eight pounds, seven ounces of her.
Since my amniotic fluid had been leaking, they had to examine her before giving her to me, and I remember Jon being next to the little bassinet with the doctor examining her. I was glad he was with her, and I couldn't wait to hold her. They finally passed her to me and I couldn't hold back tears, she was so perfect, so beautiful. She had dark hair like her dad, and dark brown eyes that looked eggplant purple from certain angles. I don't remember her crying much, Jon and I both made up for that. It was impossible to take my eyes off her, and I feel like she really never took her eyes off us.
I will never forget nursing her for the first time, and that she latched on immediately and would have nursed forever. It was surreal to think that she had grown inside me, that she came out whole and complete and perfect with hair and fingernails and personality. I remember thinking that she definitely looked like a girl, that there was no way anyone could mistake this newborn beauty for a boy. The nurse fashioned a hat with a bow.
My heart ached when she cried through her first bath, and I felt the beginnings of a fierce maternal instinct kick in; wanting wildly to rescue her and make everything ok for her.
I was too shaky to walk to the Mom and Baby room so I cradled her proudly as they wheeled us over, and we had a few sacred moments alone, just the two of us, while Jon went to find our visitors. We were put in a corner room with wrap around windows that displayed a panoramic view of the Scranton skyline. Ariana brought me a hoagie and girl scout cookies; food never tasted so good. It was around ten thirty when everyone left, and then it was just me, Jon, and our brand new little angel.
I remember being very emotional the day we were discharged, feeling like if I could just stay in that room forever the timer would never start, that she would stay new and tiny forever. I could never have known how much joy watching her learn and grow would bring. I'm still being amazed daily by the way every new stage brings its own beauty and wonder. She was perfect on that Mother's Day she was first laid in my arms, and she's still perfect today as she sounds out new words and dances to music, and one is not better than the other, just different, both magical.
I can reflect so fondly and emotionally on the day she made me a mama, and look forward to watching her life unfold, because her story isn't over it's still being written and I am so lucky, blessed beyond words, to be the one holding her hand along her journey.
I can remember an evening about a month before my due date; I was at the restaurant, and I grabbed a new carton of half and half out of the cooler. As I glanced at the expiration date, I felt my heart catch in my throat, and couldn't stifle a nervous laugh. The date read May 11, and the only thought that raced through my head, making the floor seem to tilt dangerously to one side and the lights dim for a moment, was that I would become a mother before the half and half would expire.
The days flew past, and my due date approached rapidly. I began each morning wondering whether today would be the day. I paid close attention to every Braxton-Hicks contraction, and every uncomfortable twinge, and every unfamiliar pang. I struggled to distinguish between normal third trimester aches and pains, and crampiness, and contractions. When my due date arrived without any signs of labor, one of the other doctors in my Obstetrician's practice scheduled me for an induction the following Sunday, at forty-one weeks, May 9th, Mother's Day, at seven a.m.
I desperately wanted our little one to come on her terms, I wanted to trust my body to do what women's bodies have accomplished without synthetic hormones for most of humanity, nothing about an induction resonated with my soul. I tried to reassure myself that labor would come on it's own before Sunday, and tried to encourage my body to go along with my plan. I went for long walks up steep hills, I ate pineapple, and lord knows every single bone jarring ride I took in Jon's truck should have been bumpy enough to catapult me directly into active labor.
I remember that Friday, May 7th, was a gorgeous, warm, sunny day. The most beautiful day we'd seen so far that spring. Jon called me from work to let me know that according to his father "It looked like a perfect day to have a baby." I wholeheartedly agreed, apparently our little sweetie didn't. Later that afternoon I called my OB and asked him if I absolutely had to be induced at forty-one weeks, or if I could wait longer, give our peanut the time she needed. He reassured me that I could forgo the induction as long as I came in to the hospital on Saturday morning for a Non-Stress Test and an Ultrasound to ensure that the baby wasn't in any distress.
First thing Saturday morning, Jon and I went in for our routine tests and passed with flying colors. We canceled the induction, and I felt like I had been let off the hook, like a weight had been taken off my chest and I finally had room to breathe. The peace of mind lasted all of what felt like fifteen seconds, because by that evening I had reason to believe that I might be slooowly leaking amniotic fluid. I waited until morning to call the physician on call, and talked to the doctor who had initially scheduled my induction. He told me to come in immediately.
In my heart I knew this was it. I had Jon bring my bags. I was anxious, and nervous, emotional, and terrified and excited. Part of me wanted to dig in my heels, run back in the house and lock the doors, scream "Waaaaiittt!! I'm not ready yet!" But ready or not, I went to the hospital and they tested for amniotic fluid, and the doctor looked up at me from his little glass microscope slide and said "It's fluid alright, let's get her admitted and get her started on pitocin. See, you canceled your induction and you're here anyway." And this is where it all becomes a little fuzzy.
I'm not sure how I walked from triage to my L&D room, I'm not convinced that I didn't in fact float there, or perhaps no one wants to tell me I actually passed out cold and had to be carried there. Once I was nestled in my bed in the room where I would deliver our baby girl, the nurse asked me if I was feeling alright because my blood pressure dropped, and my coloring looked a little pale. I confessed that I was just the tiniest bit terrified. I'm not sure what had me more nervous, the anticipation of the pain, or the fact that my life was about to be turned upside down in a way I couldn't fathom. We made the excited phone calls and sent out the mass texts letting our friends and family know that we were at the hospital and today would be the day.
They started pitocin at two p.m. and the contractions came immediately. Initially they were just like bad period cramps, and Jon would look at the printout dangling from one of the machines to see how big a mountain that contraction had been. I remember that they broke my water. The nurse asked me to rate my pain and I'm pretty sure I said it was a five, little did I know.
At some point my sister arrived, and brought her laptop. I remember her setting it up and connecting it to the internet, giving it to me to pass the time. I remember starting at it blankly, completely unable to comprehend what I could possibly be doing with the computer. I also remember Jon and Ariana trying to make something happen with music, to fix something with the computer, something wasn't working, that's all I can recall about that fiasco. I remember that I brought Norah Jones, and Diana Krall, and Billy Holiday CDs, I only recall hearing Norah Jones, barely.
The contractions became stronger, longer, and more painful. The mountains on the printout were much larger, with jagged pointed plateaus, and the breaks between them weren't even remotely long enough. I remember sitting on a birthing ball for a while, and standing along side the bed figuring gravity must be able to help things along.
At one point the I.V. tube administering the pitocin accidentally got a kink in it, causing the machine shreak. The nurse wasn't in the room so we took matters into our own hands and pushed a button or two until it got quiet. Whatever we did accidentally stopped the flow of pitocin, and for those few blessed minutes before the nurse came in and realized what had happened, I got the most amazing, and much needed, break from the constant onslaught of contractions. I remember getting sick to my stomach more than a handful of times. I remember that when the clock said five p.m. they checked my progress and I was five c.m. The nurse asked me to rate my pain again, and I told her I wanted to revise my previous assessment to a two, and that now it was a six, little did I know.
Jon got hungry, and went to Cosmo's for a cheesesteak. It felt like he was gone for ten minutes, my sister tells me he was gone quite a bit longer than that. I'm sure he relished the much needed break from the constant onslaught of contractions too.
I remember changing positions to kneel tall on the bed, facing the elevated head of the bed, resting my upper body on the top of the mattress. I remember that position being so so painful, especially in my back, and my nurse encouraging me to hold out for a couple more contractions because the change in position would help the baby move down. I remember Ariana putting pressure on my lower back, and showing Jon how to do the same.
Jon was so encouraging and supportive, like a cheerleader, talking me through every contraction, telling me how amazing I was doing, reminding me to breathe, assuring me that the contraction was almost over. He would keep an eye on the printout and alert me the minute the mountain appeared to be starting it's descent. I remember at a certain point between contractions, trying to tell Jon politely that although he was trying his hardest to be super helpful, I couldn't handle trying to comprehend the words coming from his mouth and deal with the pain of a contraction at the same time. The next contraction he started cheering me on again, I'm pretty sure I snarled, and the nurse leaned in to him and said "Jon, honey, I think it would be best if you stopped talking during contractions." I think his feelings were hurt.
The contractions got even longer, and stronger, and much more painful. I remember pleading that I just wanted a break and whimpering to Ariana that I couldn't do this, and her telling me sternly that I absolutely could. The nurse encouraged me to try to empty my bladder, she said something like "A full bladder is a closed door" whatever that means. At that point, the only thing worse than a contraction, was peeing, and throwing up, and contracting at the same time. She checked my progress again, nine c.m. She had me rate my pain and if this wasn't a nine and a half I might just die before I delivered. She had me lay in bed on my left side, and told me to let her know when I felt the need to push.
It seemed like the blink of an eye, like only three contractions had passed, and I was telling her that I had to push. She checked me and confirmed that I was ten c.m. It was about seven p.m. and her shift was ending. She stayed with me a little longer but ended up having to leave before I delivered, and I am so upset to confess that I don't remember my her name, because I LOVED her. I still wish I could write her a thank you card for her kindness and sweetness and support. She left me in the hands of another sweet nurse who helped through the rest of the delivery.
Jon held my left leg, I don't remember who held my right. With each contraction I pushed as hard as I could. In between each contraction I pleaded with my little one, telling her that she just had to come out right now. It felt like I only pushed through three or four contractions but Jon tells me it was more than that. Thanks to the reflection in the TV opposite my bed, I witnessed my little one as she emerged, all eight pounds, seven ounces of her.
Since my amniotic fluid had been leaking, they had to examine her before giving her to me, and I remember Jon being next to the little bassinet with the doctor examining her. I was glad he was with her, and I couldn't wait to hold her. They finally passed her to me and I couldn't hold back tears, she was so perfect, so beautiful. She had dark hair like her dad, and dark brown eyes that looked eggplant purple from certain angles. I don't remember her crying much, Jon and I both made up for that. It was impossible to take my eyes off her, and I feel like she really never took her eyes off us.
I will never forget nursing her for the first time, and that she latched on immediately and would have nursed forever. It was surreal to think that she had grown inside me, that she came out whole and complete and perfect with hair and fingernails and personality. I remember thinking that she definitely looked like a girl, that there was no way anyone could mistake this newborn beauty for a boy. The nurse fashioned a hat with a bow.
My heart ached when she cried through her first bath, and I felt the beginnings of a fierce maternal instinct kick in; wanting wildly to rescue her and make everything ok for her.
I was too shaky to walk to the Mom and Baby room so I cradled her proudly as they wheeled us over, and we had a few sacred moments alone, just the two of us, while Jon went to find our visitors. We were put in a corner room with wrap around windows that displayed a panoramic view of the Scranton skyline. Ariana brought me a hoagie and girl scout cookies; food never tasted so good. It was around ten thirty when everyone left, and then it was just me, Jon, and our brand new little angel.
I remember being very emotional the day we were discharged, feeling like if I could just stay in that room forever the timer would never start, that she would stay new and tiny forever. I could never have known how much joy watching her learn and grow would bring. I'm still being amazed daily by the way every new stage brings its own beauty and wonder. She was perfect on that Mother's Day she was first laid in my arms, and she's still perfect today as she sounds out new words and dances to music, and one is not better than the other, just different, both magical.
I can reflect so fondly and emotionally on the day she made me a mama, and look forward to watching her life unfold, because her story isn't over it's still being written and I am so lucky, blessed beyond words, to be the one holding her hand along her journey.