Groundhog’s Day

Twenty-eight years ago I spent the night in labor. I was practicing my Lamaze breathing and running my husband ragged with “move here” and “go there” directives. My own doctor was signed out to his partner. I had never met the partner.

This baby was ill prepared for leaving his nice, warm, comfortable home. What I had assumed for months was his butt poking me in the ribs turned out to be his head that was poking me in the ribs. This isn’t too problematic at the middle point of a pregnancy, but at the end … well, it makes problems.

I had this adorable, almost four-year-old at home. He had asked me how the baby would get out of my tummy. In a moment of panic, I had nearly passed out. But, as luck would have it, I asked another question before I answered the question posed by this innocent toddler. I asked, “What do you want to know, honey?” And honey wanted to know if my tummy would pop open. I answered in the negative and shooed him out of my bedroom. Dodged another one there.

Fast forward to this labor room scene with the baby wedged in there sideways. The doctor I had never before met strolls calmly into the room and announces like he a god from on high, that I will have a Caesarian section.

I was a registered nurse at the time and not particularly in awe of all doctors. I was also in labor and had been for nearly 13 hours. I was not amused at this pronouncement and I calmly – well maybe hysterically – yelled at the man. “Just go get some fucking forceps” I told him. Shouted at him. Screamed at the top of my lungs.

I was wheeled into the delivery room, at the time, there were lots of rooms in an obstetrics departments, and prepped for a normal delivery. The doctor, having seen a raging lunatic just moments before had opted to try it my way first. His first attempt was unsuccessful. His second try was worse. On the third try, and with a special handle on the instrument so as not to crush the skull of the child who needed a map to find his way out and while a nurse pushed on my stomach with her entire 250 pounds of bulk – the baby emerged.

This might seem like all was going fine. But the baby, hereafter known as Joey, wasn’t breathing much or well. His Apgar score was not in the “that’s great” or even the “this is okay” range. The room was fairly quiet and buzzing with industrious activity. Joey was already doing poorly on his first test. An omen? Well, when push comes to shove and the heat is on, Joey always could pull the right answers from thin air. Within five minutes, when he was again rated with the Apgar stuff, his score was now at “that’s great” levels.

And so, the big brother came to visit the new baby and found Matchbox cars waiting that his baby brother had brought for him. What a nice baby. What a bonding experience. What fun to have this whole family together.

The only other difficulties came when I had to spend the next few days apologizing for swearing at a complete stranger and when Attila the Nurse chastised me for picking up my baby. They brought Joey to his Mommy right after his circumcision was completed. He was not a happy baby and was crying or maybe howling. And I picked him up and cooed that mother coo thing. And this horrible nurse took him out of my arms and said, “Mother, you cannot pick him up every time he cries.” And I scooped him back out of the bassinet, glared at the bitch, and explained, “I’m going to pick him up every time he is circumcised.” And I did.

And from these humble beginnings, he has grown into the man I had always hoped he would be. What a treat. Happy Birthday Joe(y).