Once upon a pregnancy, there was an old lady of "advanced maternal age" who found herself unexpectedly, well, pregnant.
Basically a medical miracle- Considering she's a "subscribe and save" member for Gold Bond Lotion.
Think Sarah and Abraham.
Elizabeth and Zechariah.
Joanna and Chip.
Withered but blooming.
Well, I wish Joanna looked withered. Just once. Ever.
But nope. She's the ageless Pocahontas.
*gag*
So, back to my story.
We will pick up in April when I had been pregnant for 900 months.
At least it felt like that.
My waddle was on point.
Cankles for days.
And I was a complete swamp monster. Meaner than a snake.
(This is when the audience should chime in, "Not true! You were radiant and glowing and remarkably sweet." Lies. All of them.)
My only maternal instinct was to murder anyone who touched me.
Which in print, sounds less maternal than in my head.
We were basically at the "plan your day around finding bathrooms" stage.
It's as sexy as it sounds. Truly.
(PSA: Lowe's bathrooms are surprisingly not revolting. You're welcome.)
Of course, not one single thing still fit.
Save for dresses disguised as tents.
Around that dark time someone offered to loan me a "prenatal cradle."
Think female jock strap.
And yep, that's a real thing.
My dignity declined the cradle. But, it was hanging on by a thread. My dignity, that is.
Meanwhile, my doula Mom kept urging me to "do squats and start running to get this baby out."
*Sigh*
With this advice you would think she had a death wish.
And then, desperation hit.
So, I tested my friend's theory that you can't possibly overdose on Primrose Oil. (She's right.)
I walked 12 miles in 2 hours up hill and down.
(Old Town Annapolis, I owe you.)
And *ahem* did some squats.
It worked.
SO. After an interminable two months of fake contractions masquerading as real contractions, to the hospital we drove.
I chugged a Frosted Key Lime from Chick Fil-A en route.
This deliciousness was the last thing my baby ate before her first breath. I mention this for posterity.
(And so you can "treat yo'self" if you haven't yet. *limited time availability*)
Time stood still as we waited FOR.EVER. to be triaged under the churlish glare of Kayleigh, the Labor and Delivery intake nurse who seemed terribly inconvenienced that I was in labor.
"Soooooooo sorry, Kayleigh to keep you from your Insta stories with my pesky need to give birth."
*eye roll*
Eventually, we were admitted.
Albeit reluctantly.
Apparently, rooms were at a premium and 5 cm dilated is really only halfway there.
BUT, I'd recently read this super profound insight: "She believed she could so she did"
So, I did get myself a room with an attached supply closet and a legit epidural.
Who says social media memes don't change lives?! *wink*
Funnily enough- the supply closet ended up being a revolving door of hospital personnel.
Like "Hi there. * breathe through contraction* What brings you in my room tonight?
Bed pans?
Guaze?
Voyeurism?"
Let's not forget Jason. Always an integral part to my birth stories.
Well, he struck hospital gold: New dads eat free All. Night. Long!
If you know J, then you know eating is breathing to him.
And so he did. On the house.
Meanwhile, as Jason inhaled complimentary Chick Fil A sandwiches in the cafeteria, I enjoyed a cocktail provided by my favorite anesthesiologist.
Favorite because he lamented the "very thinness" of my back.
Apparently, it's trickier to insert an epidural when you don't have a lot of back fat.
Dr. Epidural, you make a laboring girl swoon.
Paralysis be darned. (When the only "very thin" thing about me was my patience)
A Netflix comedy special was the perfect distraction. (Nate Bergatze. Y'all will thank me later)
Laugh that baby down the birth canal!
And it worked.
Fabiola, who was, as her name suggests, fabulous became my 13th assigned nurse of the night.
13th.
Musical nurses, ya know, just to keep things interesting during a very dull time.
Right around 2:45 am, fabulous Fabiola calmly suggested in her lilting accented English that "we have the baby now."
Just. Like. That.
Which was fine by me. I was ready three months ago.
And so I did. (Because I believed I could. Obvi.)
It was all very Zen(ish). And I wasn't even diffusing any oils.
Don't misunderstand. It was *still* childbirth.
But, I didn't almost die like last time.
The bar was low.
Actually, the craziest thing that happened was the discharge nurse's blessing to resume cardio workouts 3 days post partum.
Three. Days. Post. Partum.
Riiiiiiiiiighhhhhhhhhht.
Just as soon as get out of this flattering hospital gown and into my Lululemon.
I'll just adjust my ice pack and Pelaton through virtual Paris.
Now to the sentimental part.
Olivette Jacqueline is the most deliciously, darling, gorgeous baby ever.
(I may also have declared this about each of my previous three children.)
We are utterly besotted. Transfixed. And in the words of Beyonce, "crazy in love."
(Never a wrong time to quote a Destiny's Child)
I don't like to throw around the "B" word.
However. Olivette is an overwhelming, unmerited blessing from the Lord.
We weren't sure at first. What with the first 47 minutes of angry screaming.
But, now we are.
And that is the end of my story.
But just the beginning of hers.
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