Since my birth stories are in such high demand (they aren’t), I will continue the saga by telling the tale of how Bailey came to be.
We decided to wait until after my 21st birthday to try for our next baby. I wanted to get drunk legally for the first time in my life, so I thought it through, and figured it would be much too challenging to let hot dudes do shots out of my belly button while I’m “with child”, because when I get pregnant my belly button is flush with the rest of my tummy. And, when you factor in that it turns brown and has a perfect wagon wheel pattern in it, it looks just like a cat’s butt hole. And ain’t no one want to do shots out of a cat’s butt hole. At least I hope not. Goddammit, now I’m gonna have to Google that.. Plus drinking while you’re knocked up is frowned upon in most cultures. Although, I often wonder if giving up booze and coffee was even worth it since my kids turned out three quarters retarded anyways.
My 21st birthday was pretty fun. We drove to Portland with some friends, spent all of our money in like ten minutes, then decided to go home, get drunk there and play Mario Kart on the 64 to our heart’s content.
Three days after I conceived Bailey (I shit you not), I woke up and told Ben “I’m either pregnant, or I have Non-Hodgkins Lymphoma.” I was sooooo tired. I am convinced, despite getting knocked up on the first try each time, that I was never meant to be pregnant. My body goes to shit in ways I never knew could happen. With Bailey I was foggy and tired all the time. My brain was exhausted the whole time. On top of that, I had a rapid heart rate and saw nonexistent spiders crawling on the walls out of the corner of my eye. On the plus side, my usual bout of nausea was shortened to a mere four months, as opposed to six months with my other pregnancies. (Can I please just take a moment to be thankful that I will NEVER be pregnant EVER again? Thank you God for Vasectomies! Ok, moment over. But seriously, I still have nightmares that I find out I’m pregnant and It’s HORRIFYING!!!)
Fast forwarding a bit, Bailey was a huge baby. And a total dick. She stayed in the same spot with her back as far right in my uterus as possible and she only moved so that she could wedge her bony, little feet under my ribs. I would push her feet down, and she would shove them back up even harder. Then three weeks before my due date, she dropped. Since I have hyper-extendable joints, my hips were always on the verge of being pushed out of socket, which basically destroyed my sciatic nerve. It was freaking miserable. So, as you can imagine, when they offered to induce me, I was super on board. I got the epidural shortly into my induction, which I now know was a mistake. Having someone shove a giant needle that looks like something manufactured by Acme into your spine is so much worse when you don’t already feel like you’re dying.
Since I pushed for three hours with our first baby, Ben assumed that we would be in for another long stint of pushing this time around, too. So when I told him it was almost time and he should go get Rachel, my sister-in-law (who was filming the birth) he decided to take his time and get a drink of water, go to the bathroom and then let her know that things might be happening soon. Meanwhile, my epidural totally abandoned me in my time of need, so I could feel everything. Including the overwhelming urge to push. My body just started pushing with all it’s might, whether I was ready or not. The problem with that, is that I was all alone in my room. I didn’t know what to do. I started pushing all the red buttons I could find and finally a voice said “Can I help you?”. A few seconds later, my doctor came in and halfway lifted my leg and barely put her hand down there when she said “Whoa!! Here we go!” She started ripping my bed apart and the clown car of pediatricians started piling in my room. Just as she unfolds one of the stirrups, and gets my foot in it, Ben comes moseying around the corner. I had been internally freaking out, thinking he was going to miss the whole thing. There was no holding this baby in. Ben made it to my bedside just in time for me to push two and a half times and pop out our baby girl. No joke, if she hadn’t been attached to the umbilical cord, she would have hit the wall on the other side of the room. She was a healthy, fat, 8lb 12oz baby, and she totally tore my junk up like none other on her way out. They managed to repair my lady parts, but I’ve had to sleep with a pillow between my knees everyday for the last seven years because my hips and lower back are a hot mess. Side note, after they stitched up my junk, restoring it from a “t’isnt” back into a “taint”, I wouldn’t stop bleeding. So the nurse practically shoved her entire arm up to the shoulder in there, grabbed a blood clot and yanked it out. I may be exaggerating a bit, but that’s what it felt like. I left that experience with four thoughts, 1) “Ouch”. 2) “Ew”. 3) “I did not want to know that about myself”. (It’s one thing to push a baby out of there, but having a stranger lady’s hand up past the knuckles in there AFTER you’ve been stitched up is just off putting.) And 4) “I must share this experience with the world so that we may all collectively vomit into our own mouths.” You’re welcome.
Alas, I am nearing the end of my birth stories. I only have one more left; the birth of Ava. I’m sure everyone will be super bummed when I no longer have an excuse to talk about my private parts on a public forum, but what can you do?