From the very beginning, my due date was a thing of mystery.
At my first OB appointment, I went in thinking
that I should be due January 9th. But they took one look at my
ultrasound and said, “Nope, you’re due the 18th.” I was pretty
confused at how I could be so off, and I immediately told myself they were
wrong (because I’m just a know it all like that).
As the months continued though, they consistently said she
was measuring right on track for the date they had first given me. Maybe a few
days ahead of their schedule, but they dismissed that and stuck to their date.
I could just tell that she wasn’t going to wait til the 18th.
So as January approached, I made sure that I would be ready whether she came
two weeks late at the end of the month, or two weeks early at the beginning of
the month.
On Sunday the 7th we had been invited to my
parents’ house for dinner because my Texan Uncle and his new bride were in town
to celebrate my Grandma’s birthday. As we started the short drive
towards their house, we stopped at the newest reno home Christian’s parents had just
purchased. I walked around the dark, musty dump-of-a-house having flashbacks to
being super pregnant with Peter while first walking through our own fixer upper.
I can’t tell you how grateful I was that we were going to be able to take
our baby girl home to that same house - now completed - and be a family in our own place. I
can’t tell you how glad I was that we wouldn’t have the stress of a year’s
worth of work hanging over our heads this time. I can’t tell you how moving
it was to me that Christian would actually get to be there in the early months
of this little girl’s life.
With those thoughts still swimming around my head, we loaded
back into our car and continued towards my parents’ house.
I felt a contraction. Before we could reach the next
major intersection, I felt another. And then another. I glanced at Christian, “This
could be it.”
It was only 4 o’ clock in the afternoon, and after saying
our hello’s, I told my mom about the contractions that were still coming.
“We better order that pizza!” my Grandma said nervously, “You
might have to go have a baby tonight!”
This amused me because the night I went into labor with
Peter, Christian’s Grammy had told me to hurry up and finish making the pizza
I was cooking for dinner because she didn’t want me to “have a baby in the
kitchen!” Pizza and babies were becoming a thing.
“No,” I laughed as I returned to the present, “I want to
have her tomorrow! Then her birthday would be one eight one eight! (1-8-18).”
But the contractions didn’t let up, and my mom handed me a
piece of paper and a pen. “So you can keep track,” she explained.
Every four minutes they came. The pizza was ordered and
while my dad was off getting it, I bounced on my mom’s exercise ball. Or at
least, I attempted to. I ended up having to take turns with my four-year-old
sister and Peter.
We ate and celebrated my Grandma’s birthday, and all the
while my mom and Christian were studying my face. Finally, I looked at them; “STOP TRYING TO READ ME.” I knew that out of all the people in the world,
they were the ones who would be able to see my pain the easiest, and I just
wasn’t ready to have this baby yet. They laughed with guilty faces, but
continued monitoring me and communicating with each other with silent nods and
pointing at invisible watches… at least, that’s how it seemed to me in my state of paranoia.
By the time we got home from the celebration, it was about
8pm and I told Christian we should probably finish packing. “JUST in case,” I
said. I hurried around the house throwing last minute things into our bags and
packing Peter’s backpack and making sure I hadn’t forgot anything.Christian hurried around the house doing nothing and looking concerned. Suddenly, a
contraction came that I couldn’t talk through. I was doubled over and breathing
hard. Another one followed. And another one.
“Call… your… mom!” I panted.
Peter was still up, and I wanted to get him in bed before my
mother-in-law got here or he would be too excited to go to sleep.
I carried him into his room and paused at the side of the
crib. The tears were coming in hot as I held him close to me. The last time he
would be my only baby. The last time it would be just him and I. His world was
about to change. I worried that it would be hard for him. I worried about him
missing me while I was at the hospital. But I kissed him and blessed him and
cried a little bit more and laid him down to sleep.
Christian’s mom was in the kitchen when I finally came out.
I stood at the kitchen island doing squats between contractions and
explained to her how I was hesitant to go in right away. I knew what heavy
labor felt like, and I just didn’t think I was there QUITE yet. Basically, I was second guessing myself.
“Why don’t we try to get a little sleep?” I said to
Christian. I made sure his mom was set up for the night before crawling into
bed myself. I was still fully dressed because I doubted we would make it the
whole night. As I started to get comfortable, the contractions that had lasted
for six hours now ceased. Stopped. They were gone.
I moaned and tears filled my eyes. Christian had already
told his boss he wouldn’t be able to go work in Indiana the next day because I was going into
labor. My mother-in-law was already here on our couch. I had said my goodbyes
to Peter boy. And ta-da, the contractions were vanished. I told Christian and
said that he might as well tell his mom to go home and sleep in her bed.
I cried myself to sleep that night, woke with a contraction
or two, and cried myself awake the next morning.
“Don’t cry,” my practical and kind husband encouraged, “They’ll
probably start again the moment you get up.”
And they did. Every few minutes they came. The whole
morning. I kept bouncing on the exercise ball and doing squats and walking
up and down the stairs. If today was the day, I was going to make my body as
ready as it could be.
Christian had stayed home from work because he was convinced
our little girl was coming soon, and he busied himself with last minute
projects and playing with Peter and keeping a suspicious eye on me.
My weekly appointment was scheduled for 4:45 that afternoon
and my goal was to keep walking and exercising until that point, and then see
what my OB thought about the continual
contractions. By 3 in the afternoon, they were getting more intense and I could
feel myself bending over, out of breath with each one. At 3:30 we decided I
should call the office and see if they wanted me to come in sooner or wait
until 4:45.
“You’ve been having contractions for about 24 hours now?”
“Well, yes.”
“You should come in.”
I arrived at the office at 4, signed my name in, and sat
down for a moment. The contractions were strong. I heard whispers behind the
secretary’s window. They were whispering about me in disbelief that I waited so
long to call.
I got called back to the room and the nurse looked at me
like I had lost my mind. “When exactly were you planning on coming in?!” she asked. I
shrugged sheepishly. “I knew I had an appointment today so I figured I might as
well wait until then.”
My OB came in, took one
look at me, and told me this baby was coming soon. He was also practically
rolling his eyes out of his head at me, but he knew from Peter’s birth that I have a pretty high pain tolerance linked with a stubborn
desire to wait til the last second before admitting I’m in labor.
“Go to the hospital. Don’t go home and hang out for four
hours. Go to the hospital. I’m telling them you’ll be there in 30 minutes.”
“Can you make it an hour?” I asked and laughed at the sour
look on his face. “No, I know what you’re thinking, but we have to get our
stuff and take our son to my in-laws.”
“Fine, but then go to the hospital! I’ll see you soon!”
I was dilated to a 4 and 70% effaced and super ecstatic
about it. This was it. This was the moment I knew I was really in labor.
I called Christian and then called my mom on speakerphone as
I drove the short drive back to our house. We gathered up the things we had
packed the night before, I insisted on bouncing on the yoga ball a little
longer, and then we paused to take a selfie on our back steps – the last
picture we have as a family of three.
We got to the hospital around 6 I think, spent the first
two hours getting admitted and monitored, and finally were wheeled to the same
room I had had Peter in two years before.
I had an IV put in, but immediately asked if I could not be
hooked up to any fluids or anything at the moment. The nurse looked surprised
and I explained that I wanted to walk the halls. I had had an epidural with
Peter, but it had been a failed epidural and this time I planned to do it
without one. I knew that moving would help me through the contractions and prepare
my body for pushing. She said they’d have to check with my OB.
I sat there bouncing on the yoga ball still hooked up to a bag of fluids when my mom walked in
with the now traditional Oberweis shake Christian loved. She had brought him
one at Peter’s birth too.
I’ve heard of women having a ton of friends and family at
their births and I’ve heard of women only having their husbands at their
births, but for me, I just wanted my mom and husband. It had worked out so well
with Peter’s labor because my mom was able to act more as a doula while
Christian could focus on being my emotional support. Plus, they were able to
switch off and get some rest in the small hours of the morning. I was so glad for
both of them – the two people who knew me best and loved me best. What more
could one ask for?
Despite my doctor telling me to hurry to the hospital, it
seemed that baby girl was in no hurry to come. In fact, my contractions were
slowing down again. Just then, my OB came in,
checked me, and said, “We have a few options. One, I can send you home… but I
don’t like that option.” (He knew that if he sent me home, I’d be back soon or
that I was hesitate to come back and end up having the baby in the car, haha). “Two,
I can break your water and that will really get things going. Or three, you can
stay here and just keep doing what you’re doing.” (Meaning walking and
bouncing.) I looked at Christian and we both knew what we wanted to do. “Break
my water,” I said, “I want to have this baby on one eight one eight.” He
thought that was amusing and it became a bit of a joke over the next few hours,
each time I would pass by the nurse’s station on my walks, they would say “Running
out of time for one eight one eight!”
Just as it had with Peter, my water didn’t break
dramatically like it does in the movies. It just kept leaking out. And as it
grew later into the evening, the funnier the leaking became. At one point, my
mom and I were almost on the floor laughing at Christian’s face in response to
my description of the leaking. It was hilarious. And the more I laughed, the
more it gushed.
Laughing became a theme throughout the night and early morning.
At one point, Christian sat down in a lonely wheelchair and I pushed him down
the halls, laughing hysterically as we went. My mom came up with the brilliant
idea of doing a different type of walk each time we passed the nurse’s station
and said the final walk should be her dragging me down the hall. The nurse’s
kept saying that they wished they could laugh their way through their own
labors.
But lap after lap, laugh after laugh added up and pretty
soon I was only making it a few steps before having to lean against the wall
while moaning out a contraction as Christian or my mom pushed on my lower back.
They checked me and I was at a 7. By this time it was about 5 or 6 in the
morning. I wasn't exactly laughing now. I had been walking or exercising for almost 24 hours now and having
contractions for almost 36. And I was beginning to feel it. I decided to sit
down for a little bit. I still hadn’t had any medication, was now past the
point of epidural, and was surprised that that didn’t scare me more than it did.
At that moment, I was proud of my body and proud of myself for being strong…
if I had known I would be stuck at an 8 for two more hours, I probably would have
said, “Just you wait, you idiot.”
Being stuck at an 8 for two hours was hell. I can’t put it
any nicer than that. I couldn’t lay down because that made the contractions
feel worse. I watched the little lines on my chart rise and fall with each
contraction and dreaded when the next one would start to rise. Finally I asked
if there was something I could take to just take the edge off and help me relax
through the contractions. The new 7 am nurse was just getting there and as I
asked, I cried through my contraction and wept to my mom and Christian that
maybe I wasn’t strong enough after all. I finally opted for a half dose of
stadal… basically a very strong Tylenol. And you know what? It was just what I
needed for my body to relax and for me to make it past being stuck at an 8.
During this time, I kept looking into Christian’s face,
shaking my head, telling him over and over that I couldn’t do it. He stared
back into my terrified face with strength and compassion in his eyes telling me
that I could. At a point when I was yelling through a contraction, I heard him
whispering a prayer in my ear. Tears filling his own eyes. “Please Jesus”
filling his breath.
By 9 am, I was at a 9 and I could feel my body bearing down.
“Get the doctor!!!” I said at about 9:35. “You’re not ready yet,” the nurse
said. “Yes I am!!!” I argued. (I’m such a good patient, can’t you tell? Haha) Fortunately,
somebody told him I thought I was ready and he RUSHED in. He knew from my labor
with Peter that when I’m ready, I’m ready. Almost before he could get in
position, I pushed three times and suddenly my baby girl was here. She was
here. They whisked her over to the weighing table and the nurses kept
exclaiming over her hair. There was so much of it and it was dark. Just like her daddy’s.
Because I hadn’t had the epidural, I was so much more with
it this time. I held her. I nursed her. My
Clara. All 7 lbs 4 oz, 21 ½ inches of her.
Christian held her and I melted at the sight of them
together, knowing how much I valued my own father-daughter relationship with my
daddy, dreaming of what their relationship would be.
My mom came back in and held her first grand-daughter. Her
namesake. Her middle name is Jo. Just
like your middle name, mom.
Clara Jo. Meaning, “it is clear the Lord is gracious.” And
He had been and He was and He is.
My mom had to hurry home, and it was just the three of us. I
asked if I could get up and get dressed and get some food. The nurse looked
surprised, but honestly, I felt SO good. Almost 40 hours of contractions was
finally over. I hadn’t eaten in almost 24 hours.
The cafeteria lady rolled in a tray of food and I sat by the
heat lamp Clara was under watching her while eating my quesadilla. Again, the
nurse looked surprised followed by almost misty-eyed. “In all my years here, I’ve
never seen this,” she said. “I’ve never seen the mother get out of bed and roll her food tray over
to be closer to her baby. What a picture.”
I ate and stared at my baby. And thought about my other
baby. And thought about how much I loved them. And how much I loved their daddy who was head over heels for all of us.
When Peter visited that afternoon, he immediately fell in
love with her. And I’m not just saying that to sound romantic or braggy or
whimsical. He has loved her so sweetly from the very start.
And now, here we are. The four of us. What a blessing.