Happy. Serious. Independent. Easy-going.
That's my William.
|(c) Tiny Bubbles Photography|
One year ago, I was going to bed with contractions that had a little more kick to them than the rest of my Braxton-Hicks. I was calling my brother saying, "you're on call. Tonight may be the night." He'd get another call 3 hours later. "Yep, going to need you to come over and watch Henry. It's go-time."
I was waking my husband saying, "You remember that bag I told you to pack before your went to bed? You have to actually pack it now."
My brother and sister-in-law arrived and I remember my brother saying something like, "This isn't at all how I'd imagine it, I thought there'd be running and screaming."
And then we were in the truck on the way to the hospital. The truck that, no exaggerating, has ZERO shock absorption. Have you had a baby? Just imagine a contraction while riding a horse, because that's how it felt. If you haven't had a baby, I have no words to relate the uncomfortableness of that particular situtation. To the truck's credit: I believe it helped me dilate a centimeter or two, so by the time we arrived at the hospital, I was already at 4.
I cried in the hospital parking lot. It was most likely the hormones, but something about I'm not coming out of that building, until this baby is on the outside of my body, just scared me to tears.
Mark napped. There were some mild contractions, some painful contractions, and the time I accidentally pressed the holy sh!t emergency button instead of the nurse call button (which was, on a whole, reassuring because there were a lot of people there rather quickly.)
There was a lot of, "Would you like us to break your water? Would you like an epidural?"
And a lot of, "No seriously it hurts, but not bad enough to need it to stop yet."
There was one contraction that I didn't think I'd make it through. It broke my water and we called the nurse. I was prepared to say, "Okay, I'll take the drugs now." But I was interrupted by another contraction, a contraction that had the added oomph of, okay I need to push.
"Let me just check, you likely didn't progress that quickly," (hand where the sun doesn't shine, it's funny how you seriously don't care whose hands are where at this point) and a, "Oh wow, yep that's a ten!" (To this day I'm choosing to take this as a complimentary rating, as opposed to a measurement.)
And all of sudden... lots of nurses running around... lots of frantic-ness. I vaguely remember hearing someone whisper to someone else-- her doctor just scrubbed in for a c-section.
There was one push. A practice-push if you will, monitored by a doctor not my own. (But she seemed great!)
And then the doctor was there.
"I thought you were in a c-section?"
"They caught me just in time."
"Tell that other woman I'm sorry. Seriously, will you? She's probably so mad at me."
There was another push.
Stirrups out. Husband's face is white.
"One more push and he'll be here."
"I'm sorry, what? Is that even okay? I thought babies weren't supposed to come too quickly, we just started."
A sort of smirk from the doctor. "It really is fine. Just push."
That slimy, alien-octopus feeling.
And then there was William.
Little William under the bright lights of the big world. The star of his show.
I remember being slightly shocked that he was a whole new baby. A whole new person. I held him for a moment and then he went to vitals and clean-up.
Mark looked at me and said, "Babe it happened so fast there was no-where for me to hide." (He prefers to be up near my face during the whole baby-birthing thing.)
"Are you sure you're okay?" the doctor asked.
"I feel fine. I'm just can't believe it's already over."
"Everything looks fine, you should be happy that it went quickly," he replied. But what he really should have said was:
"It's only just begun."
William, I pray for so many things for you. It's a good thing that I pray through my heart because I wish for you more than I have words to express. I look forward to seeing you every day, as you grow into your person. I hope I remember, when you are full grown and towering over me, the smiling little nugget that I will pull out of bed tomorrow on his first birthday.
Happy birthday, William Marlow. One year down, little man. Your adventure has just begun.
|(c) Tiny Bubbles Photography|