What Better way to start off my blog than by talking about the one thing people get sick of hearing me talk about the most? Birth! I’m one of those people who finds watching things give birth totally fascinating. And I forget that some people get uncomfortable when you describe your placenta to them and then physically reenact pushing a person out of your lady business, grunting and all. With that said, sit back and enjoy The Birth of Kylie…
From as far back as I can remember, I have always wanted to be a mommy. I was obsessed with babies as a kid. I even used to nurse my baby dolls in my armpit when I was really little. So after five long months of marriage, my husband, Ben and I started trying for our first baby. If I’m being honest, Ben didn’t have to try all that hard. One month later, I was officially knocked up! I always imagined pregnancy would be this magical experience. That I would be one of those adorable pregnant chicks with the little basketball tummy, who still wear their pre-pregnancy jeans with a rubber band around the button. Boy, was I mistaken. I spent six months just trying to hold down food, yet every time I would go in for my prenatal appointments, I gained like 80 lbs. I was afraid that when I finally went into labor, that the fire department would have to knock a wall out of my house and hoist me out with a sling attached to a crane like an injured manatee, or something. The doctor would tell me “You should probably go see the nutritionist.” Yeah, well you should probably go fuck yourself. I can’t eat anything. It all smells gross, has a weird texture or I’ve already puked it up at least once, which really turns you off of that food for a very long time. I started eating things based on how easy they were to barf back up later. Sidenote, the worst foods to puke up are burritos (the tortilla congeals everything into one giant softball size blob that wants to all come up at once [the toilet water actually splashed my shirt.]) and barbecue chicken out of your nose in a parking lot.
Fast-forwarding to the action, Ben had been trying to politely decline my sexual advances for most of the third trimester because having a baby right there kinda icked him out. But it wasn’t until four days before I had Kylie, when I lost half of my mucus plug (at the time I thought it was the whole thing. Turns out that sucker is so freaking big. Like, oh my God, SO big.) that he finally put his foot down and said NO MORE! Fine. Whatever. Jerk.
I waited about 12 hours after my labor started to head to the hospital. I was in a lot of pain and figured things must be moving along. I was only one centimeter dilated. Lame. By the time I got to three centimeters, it felt like someone was burying and ax into my pelvis and leaving it there for two minutes, then taking it out, only to do it again three minutes later. Over and over again. The pain was beyond what I had ever imagined. Indescribably bad. I finally got the drugs. Why not? I was pretty sure I wasn’t going to live through this anyways. I would have agreed to a quadruple amputation if it meant stopping the pain. I later found out that Kylie was facing the wrong direction, which was why it hurt so bad so soon.
After pushing for three hours, they finally decided to bring in the forceps master to aid my doctor in yanking that baby out. She was stuck. Apparently you can’t be good with forceps AND manners because this dude walks in and dives into my vadge, knuckles deep without so much as looking my in the eye. No formal introduction, or even a casual nod in my direction to say “Hey, sup? Don’t mind me, I’m just gonna make myself at home here.” At this point I didn’t really care. I already had a clown car of pediatricians in my room wandering about. I would have been fine with the janitor checking my cervix at this point. I was really out of it. I was so exhausted that I was sound asleep between contractions, which were about two minutes apart.
I’m gonna let you in on something; having forceps in your lady junk is worse than you would imagine. They should just call them what they are; Metal salad spoons. It wouldn’t have been more painful if a Bengal tiger had chewed the baby out of me. But finally, she popped out! They laid her on my belly and this is what I said verbatim “Ohhhh, she has my lips! Did I poop?” Then exhaustion punched me square in the face and I felt like If I didn’t eat and sleep simultaneously, I would die. But I had to wait for them to stitch my lady bits back up so they at least resembled female reproductive parts again. That’s when I noticed that Kylie was born with this flappy little booger-mole on her face and all I could think was “Ew, she’d flawed. Take it back. I didn’t work that hard to have a baby that isn’t perfect.” It’s funny how hormones can make you crazy like that. I slept for like two hours, and when I woke up, I was so freaking excited about finally having my baby! She was perfect, booger-mole and all! (Ps, the booger-mole dried up and fell off after a few days.) Ben, on the other hand, slept like the dead for like twelve hours. He was white as a ghost and silent the whole time I was pushing. He looked like a wreck. I think giving birth was harder on him than it was on me.
So that’s it. The story of Kylie’s birth. Oh, and in case you’re wondering, the answer is no. I didn’t poop. Thank God.