So, as stated in my previous post, I found out I was pregnant on New Years Eve 2011. My husband and I were married for 4 years at this point, and were trying to get pregnant for 3 and a half years. Why, you ask? Well, we needed to put another human being on this planet with a strange sense of humor and an affinity for cursing. Fuckin’ a right!
Anyway, after numerous doctor visits where I was asked to “wait another six months,” I finally had enough and forced my doctor to give me a referral to infertility. This was not a walk in the park. I went through the most painful goddamn procedure on the planet, otherwise known as a hysterosalpingogram (HSG). They basically shoot dye up into my baby maker to make sure everything is clear and open. I get the all clear. The Infertility Clinic then put me on Clomid. Apparently, the success rate per cycle of Clomid is 10%, so it made my ovaries BAD ASS. I took a pregnancy test on New Years Eve, and got a really faint positive line. If you’ve ever taken a pregnancy test before, you should know that even a faint line means you are, to quote Juno, “Fo’ shiz, up the spout.” I thought my eyes were playing tricks on me, so I showed my husband, who also said he saw a line, and much happiness ensued. Or he told me to take another couple of tests over the next two days to make sure I was pregnant, and get the blood test, too. You don’t know my husband. He did the latter. Regardless, I knew I couldn’t drink, which is a fucking tragedy on New Years Eve. I mean, I went to Washington State University. Students there fucking RIOTED when the university announced they were going to enforce the state law and not allow people under the age of 21 to possess alcohol on campus. That’s how seriously we take our drinking. And you can read about said riots here.
So…we’re pregnant. I didn’t really get a lot of nausea. Nothing really seemed appetizing to eat, but I almost threw up once. Any nausea I had was managed with ginger candies, which, by the way, are crazy delicious. Other than a little pain in my tail bone, I sailed through my pregnancy like a graceful ballet dancer. No. I lied. I sailed through my pregnancy, but more like the hippo ballet dancers from Fantasia. I felt HUGE. But I had a very uncomplicated pregnancy, so I can’t complain too much. Here’s me at 33 weeks and 2 days:
My husband sucks at taking pictures of me, so I had to resort to the bathroom mirror like a common Facebook whore. At least I didn’t do the duck lips.
Moving on. I got a lot bigger than that by the end of my pregnancy. So I reached full term, and no baby. I’m starting to wonder if I’m going to be pregnant forever. I loved getting the pedicures because I could no longer reach my toes, but the pregnant waddle was starting to get a little old. Finally, on September 9th, six days after my due date, my husband and I sit down for an awesome dinner of lasagna. We’re watching Wedding Crashers, so naturally, I’m laughing my ass off because that movie is hilarious. Mid-laugh, I feel a gush. I should note that throughout my pregnancy, I would sneeze and pee, so I had taken to wearing Poise pads (I know, attractive, right?). No couches were harmed in the making of this baby. I went, “Oh!” and my wonderful husband says, “Did you pee your pants again?” Asshat. But I love my asshat. I said, “I either peed my pants or my water just broke,” and ran to the bathroom. Additional gushes, and I scream, “Yep! My water broke! We need to get ready for the hospital, but first we need to put the laundry away!” Because I’m a little OCD about how clean my house is. And I like shit put where it belongs. I proceed to announce that my water broke on Facebook (because we all know that if it’s not on Facebook, it didn’t really happen), put the laundry away, and take a shower because I am somehow worried about being stinky while I’m in labor. Stupid me…if only I knew what was going to come out of me, I never would have worried about it.
We head to the hospital. I am admitted. I’m only 1 cm dilated and 50% effaced, so still a LONG way to go. I tested positive for Group B Strep, so they had to run antibiotics on me, and to ensure that they had enough time, I told them to go ahead and start the pitocin. About an hour into it, I already want drugs. I’d love to say that I had a natural birth, and that I always wanted one, but who am I kidding? I don’t like being in pain. They have an effective way to manage pain during labor, so fuck yes, I want the goddamn epidural! The first one they placed migrated, so they had to place a second epidural, and I was in a blissful, pain-free place. I keep asking the midwife how far along I am and how much longer they think Jonathan’s going to take. I realize now that I was asking a super tricky question for them, but they kept telling me in a few hours, and once we got to 26 hours of labor, I thought I’d be in labor for the rest of my life.
Finally, we get to about 33 1/2 hours, and the midwife comes in to check me. It’s 5 in the morning. I’m tired, my husband is passed out, my mom’s being her Korean self getting in the way of the nurses, and my dad is hiding out in the lobby because there are certain things he just doesn’t think he should see concerning his daughter. I ask if she’s doing an exam, and she says, “I think it’s time to push!” I’m thinking, “What a relief because this bag of pain-free juice just ran out, and I’m tired of laying on this bed.” I’m yelling at Paul to wake up, and my mom finally gets him to wake up. I say, “Are you ready to have a baby?” He says, “Wait a second, I need to pee.” Of course he does. He comes back from the bathroom thinking he’s going to get to just sit at the head of the bed until I tell him, “No, you need to hold my leg.” In the meantime, my mom is pacing around the foot of the bed in a “u” with her arms behind her back like a Korean general. She wanted to see EVERYTHING. Whatever, I don’t care who’s staring at my hooha now anyway. I pushed for 20 minutes, and about halfway through that, the epidural wore off enough to where I could feel everything. At 5:54 a.m., my little Jonathan was born. They put him on my chest right away, and I said, “Hi, baby, I’m your mommy!” Sweet moment, right? I thought so. The first thing I noticed was how BIG he was, and how much fat he already had on him. He had perfect chubby cheeks, and the sweetest smelling breath on the planet. This boy was 8 pounds and 10 ounces, and 22 inches long, and I somehow didn’t tear, so someone was watching out for me there. Here’s a picture taken minutes after he was born (ignore the fact that I look like hell, and my boobs that are bigger than my son’s head, but be thankful they’re at least covered):
Recovery went well. I felt back to normal before I even left the hospital because I’m a fucking BAMF. Until I got mastitis. Twice. Once bad enough that I was admitted. Needless to say, breastfeeding didn’t work out, but that’s okay. Sometimes things don’t work out the way you plan, and you have to move along.
So that’s my birth story. I still smile thinking of that day. Enough of the sappy shit, though, and on to the “fun” of parenting!