One thing nice about having an inducement date: with the nursery out of the way and a concrete end to the pregnancy in sight, we could sit back and relax for a few days.
But if it happened that way, we wouldn’t have much of a story, would we?
So I wasn’t all that surprised when I came home from work Sunday morning to the news that my wife was in labor.
I wasn’t surprised, but I still didn’t believe her.
Through three pregnancies I’ve developed an irrational belief that Lisa is incapable of knowing when she’s in labor. At least I’m consistent; I don’t believe her when she says she’s pregnant either.
So we sat there and timed her contractions, and sure enough: every fifteen minutes Parker came one step closer to entering the world.
Lisa then did the only sensible thing: she sent me to bed, and she went out and got a manicure and pedicure.
At four o’clock I met up with her at my parent’s house, where my niece Stacey was celebrating her 4th birthday.
Although March 6th is a historically significant date - it’s the date the Alamo fell, and yes, I’m a big enough dork for that to matter - no one wanted Parker to share his birthday. My wife and father share a birthday, as do my sister and my wife’s brother, and her childhood friend and mine.
Enough was enough.
But it wasn’t looking good. At 5:30 one of my nieces ran in with big news: Lisa’s water had broke.
At a child’s birthday party.
Lisa moments after her water broke; yet another pic my wife will hold against me. :)
Of course, this wasn’t a movie. Nobody started boiling water and shredding sheets. Instead, after consulting her doctor Lisa again did the sensible thing: after cutting my hair, we went shopping.
With some gifts in hand to give our girls after the birth, we returned to the party to say our goodbyes and hit the road.
At 8:15, on a gorgeous 48 degree evening that resembled a brisk May night more than early March, we arrived at the hospital.
Almost exactly ninety minutes later, with Lisa stuck at 3 cm dilated (despite being almost completely effaced) the doc started pictocin, a contraction-inducing IV drug that Lisa dubbed “the devil’s serum” two births back.
Whatever its faults, it works. Lisa’s contractions began coming a minutes apart, with only enough time between each to catch her breath.
At 11 o’clock Lisa caved and asked for an epidural. Why this should even be an issue to women escapes me, but trust me on this: for a woman, being able to say they had a medication-free birth is the equivalent to a guy saying he used to do porn.
It is, at its core, a female dick-measuring contest.
By the time the epidural was in place and they were starting the medication it was almost midnight. With Lisa still at only 6cm, I took the opportunity to jot outside and have a cigarette.
While I was out there I called both our mother’s and told them to start heading out the door - both were supposed to be there for the delivery, just as my mother-in-law had been in the room twice before.
In all, maybe ten minutes passed.
When I got back to the labor and delivery floor the nurse flagged me down: the baby was coming.
It’s like the old adage while waiting at a restaurant; the minute you light a cigarette, dinner will arrive.
What followed is horribly embarrassing to my wife, again for reasons I can’t fathom. Should I ever find a child pushing out my genitalia, I would do far worse.
Still, with the epidural still - and never to be - working, my wife was rather vocal, and with a Hollywood flavor: in a nod to every pregnancy scene ever written, she stated she hated me. She also tried to quote The Exorcist, but failed: “It burns” came out “It’s burning, it’s burning!”
I could see Parker crowning but everything was on hold until the doc arrived. In the meantime a nurse tried some tough love with my wife, telling her the epidural wouldn’t have taken away all the pain - she lasted all of ten more seconds in the room before Lisa drove her off.
And then the doctor arrived, a petite athletic Filipino woman caught off guard by the speed of Lisa’s progress and about to deliver my son wearing a “Real Chili” T-shirt.
Two pushes later, my son was born.
He’s the smallest of all my kids, coming in at 7 pounds, 10 oz and 20.5 inches with a beautiful, perfectly round head and almost none of the typical ‘leftovers’ from the womb.
Even though he was early he came out with wickedly chapped hands and feet, the latter being big floppy appendages that can bend all the way back to his knees, to the amusement of visitors of all ages.
In my opinion, his, ahem, male parts are also capable of reaching his knees, but that may just be a father’s hope for his son (and the fact that like his father he is all torso and no legs).
I was the first person to ever place a diaper on him, and to my sorrow it was not the last.
He has my youngest sisters ears (they curve inwards in the middle, resembling a letter “E”), a cleft in his chin like me, a nose that’s wide on the bottom like mine but seems inclined to grow into my wife’s perfect button nose.
He came out alert and has remained so, with a pretty docile disposition that changes to that of a tiger when he’s wet or in need of human contact (which is pretty often).
Although I regret that they didn't have the opportunity to see the birth, I appreciate the fact that my wife and I were able to experience our son's birth with only each other for support.
Parker soaked my wife, a curtain, and my jacket with urine before he was 48 hours old, first christening his Mom sixteen hours after his birth.
He has yet to urinate on his Daddy.
In short, he is perfect.
