Two years ago today, at 11:05pm, my water broke. Nothing about becoming a family had come easily for Jonathan and me, so why should Dane's birth go as planned? Just like us to create a little drama in a drama-free scheduled c-section. :)
It was a Thursday. My c-section was supposed to be Monday morning at 7am. I honestly think he just ran out of room. I gained 27 pounds during my pregnancy, and he was a whopping 8 lbs, 13 oz, and 22.5 inches of that. He was 99th percentile for weight and off the charts for length. Which is funny considering he's a scrawny guy now.
I had a (nearly) uncomplicated pregnancy. A little placenta previa, along with an easily treatable thyroid issue were my only "problems". I felt fantastic for pretty much every second of the 38 weeks and 6 days I was fortunate enough to carry Dane.
And I was 100% certain that I was going to make it to my c-section. I'd had some uncomfortable (but unproductive) contractions starting earlier that week, but no pressure, no dilation, and nothing consistent. In fact, I hadn't even packed my bag. I had all weekend to do that, right? (If you know me, it is absolute insanity that I did not have my bag ready to go from the day I found out I was pregnant.) Earlier in the afternoon, I even thought my water broke, took a trip to the local hospital to find out that it had not, and got home in time for dinner after spending a couple hours being monitored. Jonathan had been on edge all week long, practically begging me to pack my bag. The pseudo-water-break was enough to convince me that I should indeed pack a bag, even if it was just to get him off my back. So we ate dinner in front of the TV for pretty much the last time ever and I packed my bag and showered. I only had one more day of work before welcoming our new baby into the world! Little did I know, I had already worked my last day for many weeks.
I had been in bed for five minutes. I was in that not-quite-asleep-but-definitely-not-completely-conscious state when I felt a pop. I gasped. Jonathan didn't even ask. He just called his parents and told them to get in the car, hopeful that they would be at the hospital by the time Dane was born. (They had an 8 hour trek.) It took us 45 minutes to pack the car and contractions were becoming a little more irritating during the frenzy. We hopped in the car. Just as we got on the highway, I thought, "well, this isn't very fun." It was no longer very funny that we weren't at the hospital yet, which was still two hours away. And when you're measuring time in 2-minute increments, 2 hours is a hell of a long time.
We stopped at a gas station about midway because apparently, even being in labor, pregnant women still have to pee every five minutes. I prayed that my child wouldn't be born in a Quik Trip bathroom stall (even though they are really nice gas stations) as I tried not to attract too much attention from the attendants. This is not easy when you're nine months pregnant, have a HUGE wet spot on the front of your pants and shirt, and your husband is asking for plastic bags in hopes that the car's interior will not be ruined.
Pregnant folks: people who tell you that contractions feel like really strong period cramps are straight full of shit. There is nothing to compare this pain to. Not.one.thing. I do know this: nothing less than every muscle in your entire body is involved. I don't know how women scream. I couldn't speak, hardly even breathe. And there was so much paperwork! Hadn't I pre-registered?? After five hours and 41 minutes of this, I hadn't even dilated one bit and no one in L&D could feel Dane's head. Several nurses remarked "good thing you're planning a c-section, because you'd be having one anyway." I received my epidural a few blessed minutes before Dane was born.
My dad calls a c-section "the airlift." Dane was "airlifted" out at 4:46am on Friday morning, July 16.
I cannot believe he'll be two tomorrow. We've been calling him a two-year old for a couple of months now, but I can't help but wonder where the last year went. In some ways, when he turned one, it felt like one. We had earned that first year, all of us, and I was not sorry to say goodbye to his infancy. But two? Really? I've actually enjoyed the last year and it's gone. I ask him to snuggle now and he shakes his head "no," laughs and says "Mama silly." It's going to seem like no time at all before I ask him to snuggle and he laughs and says "Mom, I'm late for basketball practice."
How is it that someone can make you feel so old and so young all at the same time?
It was a Thursday. My c-section was supposed to be Monday morning at 7am. I honestly think he just ran out of room. I gained 27 pounds during my pregnancy, and he was a whopping 8 lbs, 13 oz, and 22.5 inches of that. He was 99th percentile for weight and off the charts for length. Which is funny considering he's a scrawny guy now.
I had a (nearly) uncomplicated pregnancy. A little placenta previa, along with an easily treatable thyroid issue were my only "problems". I felt fantastic for pretty much every second of the 38 weeks and 6 days I was fortunate enough to carry Dane.
And I was 100% certain that I was going to make it to my c-section. I'd had some uncomfortable (but unproductive) contractions starting earlier that week, but no pressure, no dilation, and nothing consistent. In fact, I hadn't even packed my bag. I had all weekend to do that, right? (If you know me, it is absolute insanity that I did not have my bag ready to go from the day I found out I was pregnant.) Earlier in the afternoon, I even thought my water broke, took a trip to the local hospital to find out that it had not, and got home in time for dinner after spending a couple hours being monitored. Jonathan had been on edge all week long, practically begging me to pack my bag. The pseudo-water-break was enough to convince me that I should indeed pack a bag, even if it was just to get him off my back. So we ate dinner in front of the TV for pretty much the last time ever and I packed my bag and showered. I only had one more day of work before welcoming our new baby into the world! Little did I know, I had already worked my last day for many weeks.
I had been in bed for five minutes. I was in that not-quite-asleep-but-definitely-not-completely-conscious state when I felt a pop. I gasped. Jonathan didn't even ask. He just called his parents and told them to get in the car, hopeful that they would be at the hospital by the time Dane was born. (They had an 8 hour trek.) It took us 45 minutes to pack the car and contractions were becoming a little more irritating during the frenzy. We hopped in the car. Just as we got on the highway, I thought, "well, this isn't very fun." It was no longer very funny that we weren't at the hospital yet, which was still two hours away. And when you're measuring time in 2-minute increments, 2 hours is a hell of a long time.
We stopped at a gas station about midway because apparently, even being in labor, pregnant women still have to pee every five minutes. I prayed that my child wouldn't be born in a Quik Trip bathroom stall (even though they are really nice gas stations) as I tried not to attract too much attention from the attendants. This is not easy when you're nine months pregnant, have a HUGE wet spot on the front of your pants and shirt, and your husband is asking for plastic bags in hopes that the car's interior will not be ruined.
Pregnant folks: people who tell you that contractions feel like really strong period cramps are straight full of shit. There is nothing to compare this pain to. Not.one.thing. I do know this: nothing less than every muscle in your entire body is involved. I don't know how women scream. I couldn't speak, hardly even breathe. And there was so much paperwork! Hadn't I pre-registered?? After five hours and 41 minutes of this, I hadn't even dilated one bit and no one in L&D could feel Dane's head. Several nurses remarked "good thing you're planning a c-section, because you'd be having one anyway." I received my epidural a few blessed minutes before Dane was born.
My dad calls a c-section "the airlift." Dane was "airlifted" out at 4:46am on Friday morning, July 16.
I cannot believe he'll be two tomorrow. We've been calling him a two-year old for a couple of months now, but I can't help but wonder where the last year went. In some ways, when he turned one, it felt like one. We had earned that first year, all of us, and I was not sorry to say goodbye to his infancy. But two? Really? I've actually enjoyed the last year and it's gone. I ask him to snuggle now and he shakes his head "no," laughs and says "Mama silly." It's going to seem like no time at all before I ask him to snuggle and he laughs and says "Mom, I'm late for basketball practice."
How is it that someone can make you feel so old and so young all at the same time?
