Charlie's Birth Day, Part I

You think that you’ll always remember the little details of the big events in your life: graduating from college, your wedding day, the death of a loved one, or the birth of your children. I harbored detailed memories of the births of each of my children for years after actually delivering them. I knew how much I weighed when I walked into labor and delivery and announced “we’re here to get a baby”; I remembered which way the bed faced in the room and the view we had out the window; I kept a mental log of how long each stage of labor took for each baby; I knew how many nurses changed shifts before each was born; and I recalled how long I was in the hospital before I was ready to “just get home already.”

Slowly the particulars of each birth have clouded over, until I woke this morning and realized that my mind is taking the details of each and blurring them into an amalgam of one memory. So, now would be a good time to record some of the details of Charlie’s birth (on his birthday) and I’ll do the same for the girls, each in their turn.

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Charlie’s labor and delivery was by far the easiest. I had prepped the Doctor well—reminding him of the complications I had with Makenna and how speedy delivery was with Maya, and calling attention to the fact, yet one more time, that he missed it. He promised to schedule me on a day when he’d be close to the hospital and readily available (although at that point, I was sure I could deliver without him anyway—but I figured a Doctor’s a good thing to have around, just in case you need him, right?). So Steve and I were prepared to enjoy the experience of having our boy, this one last baby, and we arrived at the hospital on time for my induction.

I thought I’d split personalities, pacing the waiting room until a room in labor and delivery opened up. Apparently there was a larger than usual amount of deliveries the night before and they couldn’t guarantee that I’d be induced that day; I may have to reschedule. Of course, I could choose to go home if I wanted to. Seriously? The thought that I may not deliver this baby that very day was completely unbearable to me. “No way lady,” I mumbled to Steve as we walked (waddled) to the waiting room, “I’m having this baby TODAY.” So we waited.

I watched pregnant woman upon pregnant woman be called, gather their things, and disappear down the hall—swaying belly leading the way; we waited still more. I paced back and forth in front of the window to the nurses’ station (just so they wouldn’t forget I was there) with tears in my eyes; we continued to wait. I vainly occupied my mind with cards, books, magazines, even cheesy talk shows; more waiting. Finally, I saw a man wheel a large pregnant woman up to the nurses’ window in classic made-for-TV movie style, and announce that she was in labor—they all rushed her off to an available room (see, I KNEW they had open rooms); yet more waiting.

And then it hit me. There was my plan. I shared it in whispered tones with my husband—completely serious. In the event that they sent me home, we were going to go down to the lobby, snag a wheel chair (I’ll accost an old man for a chair if I have too), and go straight back upstairs and announce my impending delivery. Once they got me into a room—yes, it's true—they’d discover I wasn’t having regular contractions (even though I WAS having contractions), but I’d sweetly say, “Since we’re here, let’s go ahead with that induction. OK?”

Well, it all seemed very rational to my irrational, VERY pregnant mind.

We kept waiting.