James Patrick Carlson is Born! Part One

It's a good thing I make no promises regarding this blog, because I've had a nice long sabbatical, here. Of course, I'm not sure if it counts as a sabbatical if it includes screaming children, sleep deprivation, and a LOT of spit-up-y burp cloths.

*looking up definition*

Well, they don't mention burp cloths, so I guess we'll never know. Maybe the cute baby smiles balance everything out.

In any case, for the sake of following through with what has been promised, here I am, ready to share James's birth story--unfortunately, I'm also perched precariously (time-wise) between an active almost-three-year-old and a *fingers crossed* sleeping infant who may wake at any moment. Goodness. Well, for you birth story junkies, here is the beginning, through the birth of dear little James.

Part One
Our little boy was due on June 1st, 2012. I never once expected him by that date. Cambrie was two weeks late, and even then she had to be induced to get her here. It was a miserable, though technically uneventful, experience, and I did not want to repeat it--sitting in an uncomfortable hospital bed, hooked up to those annoying monitors for almost two days before I was even in active labor... ugh.

I wanted to do everything possible to avoid that this time around, but without actually scheduling an induction. I'm the type of person who generally wants as little done to my body as possible. I'd never broken a bone, had surgery, or, so long as I could remember, even had to go to the doctor's office for anything worse than strep throat. Natural childbirth sounds appealing to me because I like being able to trust my own body, and outside interventions (drugs, IVs, surgeries) make me nervous. That and, based on my previous awful experience, almost anything sounded preferable to induction.

Well, all that said, by the time I was about 38 weeks along, I was pretty miserable anyways. This pregnancy, though still very easy compared to all the amazing mothers who have what are rightfully labelled "difficult" pregnancies, was so much harder than my first. I lost track of how many times I started writing a passive-aggressive vent post directed at some (very sweet and totally innocent) older ladies I knew; they liked to make it sound like there was something wrong with me or the baby when June 1st arrived and I was still a whale-sized, waddling, babyless woman.

At my first OB appointment post-due-date, they did an ultrasound to check the size of the baby and make sure everything was going okay in there. My baby boy scored a perfect 8 out of the 8 things they check, but the amount of amniotic fluid was a little low. I was sent home with instructions to drink as much water as I could and come back to be checked again the next afternoon. Though I must have gotten up at least four times that night to pee (not like I was gonna need my rest anyways...ugh), apparently it wasn't enough. The fluid level had decreased instead of staying steady. Though nothing serious was wrong, a low fluid level was an indication that the baby had been baking a little too long, and they didn't want to risk anything more serious. It was induction time!

I called Patrick and headed home to pack our bags (that's how certain I was the baby would be late--a week after my due date and our bags still weren't packed). I was nervous and unhappy about the need to be induced, but I was also grateful that things were finally moving forward. As I read Cambrie her story for bed that night, my throat tightened so I could barely speak. That was it. That was the end of her time as a solo child. She would no longer be the sole center of our small world. She, who was our everything, couldn't understand how her world was about to change, whether for the better or not.

We also went to the park that morning. Look at that adorable, lip-biting, running smile.

I hugged her as tight as she would let me, then sang her the song of her choice: Beauty and the Beast. She danced on the bed with her stuffed monkey as I sang. Another big hug, a drink of water, good night, I love you, I'll see you soon. Patrick and I hurried out the door with his grandma's reassurances in our ears. Cambrie would be fine. Go on. Good luck.

We checked into the hospital around 8. A hospital gown, an IV port (ugh), and an Ambien later, I was all done up with Cervadil (to encourage dilation) and we tucked in for the night.

By the next morning, I'd dilated to one centimeter. For those unfamiliar with these things, one centimeter is barely anything. Pregnant women walk around dilated to two and three centimeters for weeks before they go into labor. So, not very encouraged that things were going to move more quickly this time around, I consented to the lowest possible dose of pitocin and some sort of catheter thingy that was supposed to put steady pressure on the cervix and help it to dilate. The midwives didn't put me on a higher dose of pitocin because we ALL agreed that we wanted things to start naturally if at all possible.

Still, here I was hooked up to pitocin, fluids, a funny balloon catheter thingy, and those stupid fetal monitoring bands. All day. In a hospital bed. I started having regular but bearable contractions, and that was a little encouraging. Contractions mean progress, right? But they lasted all day, and they weren't in the comfort of my home where I could move around, get comfortable, hop in the tub, etc. Patrick and I were stuck sitting in this hospital room, where I could get up to use the restroom and walk around my bed (or sit on a birthing ball) only as far as those fetal monitoring bands would let me go. We were bored, I was uncomfortable, and we were both anxious.

I'm trying to look pleasant here. You know. For posterity.

At 7 pm, the midwife took out the little catheter thingy and declared that I was now three centimeters dilated. *insert extreme disappointment here*

At that point, since they were short staffed anyways and the next midwife wouldn't be coming in until around 3 am, we decided to get some rest and wait to see what progress was made overnight. That way, when things did get moving, I'd have a little more sleep under my belt. Patrick and I slept as best we could, and when the new midwife came in at 3 am, she woke me up and said, "Let's have this baby." She broke my water and bumped the Pitocin level up slightly. That is when the contractions started getting more intense.

After bravely breathing through the stronger and much more painful contractions for three more hours (with fantastic support from my fabulous husband, but little additional physical progress), my misery and exhaustion got the best of me--I asked for and got an epidural. Again, though I had wanted to avoid it from the beginning, I am very glad I did. I needed the break, since things weren't going to calm down for long once our little boy arrived.

By the time I started feeling the contractions again, I was about nine centimeters along. Shortly after they'd checked me, I felt a new pressure. I asked if it was time to push, and they said it sure was! This was around 9 am, and we were really excited now. With Cambrie I'd pushed for two hours. With James, after barely twenty minutes of pushing, the midwife was telling me he had hair the color of his daddy's. A few minutes later, at 9:22, our 8 pound, 11 ounce boy was born.

And let me tell you, that little boy could scream LOUD.

I wondered if meeting our new little one would be different than seeing Cambrie for the first time, but it was about the same--I held that squirming, screaming little creature on my chest and just sort of discovered him, in a gentle, curious, almost shy new mother way. With neither of them was I hit over the head with desperate or intense, tear-jerking emotion. But when I think about it, I'm not really that sort of person in any aspect of my life. I felt definite possession--that was my little boy--but not a jealous possession. I just... I knew that little boy belonged to Patrick and me, and I knew that in our arms, he was where he belonged.

After our little boy, who we had finally decided was a "James," with a middle name pending, was all cleaned up, we marveled at how much like his daddy he looked. I held him to me and tried nursing (a task which caused months and months of grief with Cambrie). Though it hurt like crazy just as it did at the beginning with her, he latched and nursed like a champ. I was elated.

The next few hours were calm and wonderful. I think of them now like an island in the middle of a rather miserable experience. They are a snapshot of new baby, tiny fingers, soft skin, and morning light. Our favorite past-time was commenting on how much hair he had. We all felt very together, at least as much as we would before Cambrie could join us. We all napped.

This is the point where I realize I've written an obscene amount already, but apologize that the story is only half over. For those who are patient (or crazy) enough to continue, look for Part Two!