Hello Bobby

They say you know that baby is bound to arrive any day when you feel a strong nesting impulse kick in. Perhaps because I neglected the urge to bake nut rolls, cook piles of freezer bound goulash, and clean the house from top to bottom this week, I had no sense of when baby #2 would actually make his appearance.

The efforts I did make were less focused on the place we live, but on the people who live it. I made sure Mommy and Daddy got enough sleep. And I took a stab at transitioning big sister from a toddler to a little girl. We tried out her big girl bed, we've been attempting the potty, and I've been bartering away the bottle. She's learned the words patient, and frustration, and gentle, gentle, GENTLE! But unfortunately, she's still sleeping in baby's crib, drinking milk out of baby's bottle, and cramping the space in baby's diaper drawer with her own.

Regardless, when you surprised us by coming into the world yesterday, we were ready for you. 100%. Our loving embrace couldn't have been more eager to snuggle you away from the cold Chicago winter. And along with the camera, which was packed in my hospital bag for the past couple days, I brought a placeholder bedtime book to help reinterpret your birth story.

Good Afternoon Bobby
Loosely based on Goodnight Moon 

In Mommy and Daddy's blue room.
At 1:30 AM, Mommy broke her tummy's water balloon.
And she woke up Daddy to go vroom vroom!
And your sister was sleeping, sound in her bed.
And Mimi was on her way to watch her in our stead.

At the hospital, I was introduced to the delivery room
Where there was a nurse named Martha
And a Dr. named Schied.
And sweet thoughts of your welcome to the world cries.
I laid there waiting for the regular pains to commence.
Schied said we'd be there all day, so they gave me 'pid' to hop the fence.
And then they came. Oh, how they came fast.
And Mommy called for them to bring her relief at last.
Dr. Johnson took his merry old time. But at last he made it.
A prod and pinch later, labor became easy with his cool kit.
I still shivered. I still grasped the bed in pain.
But in comparison to your sister, I stayed perfectly sane.
Before long, it was time to push.
Dr. Halperin told me to do it from my tush.

You were born at lunchtime. 12:41 PM to be exact.

Weighing a whopping 6 pounds, 7 ounces.

Measuring 20.5 inches long.

The sun is coming out. It's a chilly, Chicago day.
So I won't say goodnight, I'll say hello if I may.
Hello Mommy.

Hello Daddy.

Hello Drs. and Nurses.

Hello food. And warm bed.

Hello to TWO Opas.

Hello Mimi and Nana.

Hello Eva.

And Mary.

Hello possibilities, hopes and dreams.
Hello World.
Meet my little Bobby.

I couldn't love you anymore, sweet little boy.

Lo /  Mommy.

The Night You Were Born

When my sister and I were young, we shared a room. We had matching twin beds, matching night stands, matching sheets, and matching bed times. But occasionally, we tried to outstay our 9:00 PM curfew by throwing ourselves what we called a 'Library Party.' It was a secret, exclusive affair, hosted by my sister on her bed under the big Noah's Ark painting. After our parents tucked us in and turned off the lights, our flash lights would go on, our books would come off our shelves, and my stuffed animals and I would climb onto Erin's bed. She would start reading me book after book with big plans to make this an all-night affair. For a half an hour or so, I would revel in our rebellion, but shortly after my innate need for sleep would lull me back to my own side of the room.

As perhaps fate would have it, I never managed to pull an all-nighter. In high school, if my work wasn't done by 9:00 PM, I would wake up early in the morning and finish it. In college, I couldn't understand why or how the architects and engineers could stay up all night to finish their projects. I was never around for the really juicy stories from the party that took place on the other side of midnight. And no amount of work, stress, or anxiety has fended off sleep for me recently.

However, on Wednesday night, I pulled my first real all-nighter - a crowning achievement. And with it, I developed my first Library Party book to read to Mary. 

On The Night You Were Born 

Adapted from the original, dedicated to my Mary Clare 

On the night you were born, I made homemade pizza for your Grandma, Daddy and me. 

Then we drove to the hospital, went straight back to Labor and Delivery, and checked in. 

On the night you were born, they gave me this medicine called Cervidil, which was supposed to just soften my cervix overnight. Mommy thought it was going to be a painless process, that I would get a good night sleep in the hospital, wake up refreshed, have a cup of tea, and then get the show on the road the next morning. 

On the night you were born, I was wrong. So wrong. 

On the night you were born, the Cervidil pushed me right into active labor while I cursed the choice of pizza for dinner and my one Tum allotment. 

On the night you were born, I scrapped by birthing plan and demanded an epidural. 

On the night you were born, I was denied, because the Cervidil and the anesthesia didn't complement each other. 

On the night you were born, I didn't sleep a wink. I drifted in and out of consciousness. In and out, then deeper in and less out of pain. 

On the night you were born, your Daddy held Mommy's hand and did all that he could to make me feel better. 

On the night you were born, there was a sweet nurse named Gia who helped your Mom get through some of the tougher pains too. 

On the night you were born, they pulled out the Cervadil and low and behold, I was already 6 centimeters dilated. I got raving reviews from my nurses and they finally paged the anesthesiologist. 

On the night you were born, the anesthesiologist took his grand old time, as Mommy curled up in more and more pain. 

On the night you were born, as the doctor with the drugs was trying to work his magic, I felt your little head and told the doctor to stop, 'I have to poop!' 

He said, 'that's not poop, check her.' 

On the night you were born, Dr. Halperin arrived and checked me. She said you're not getting drugs, you're going to have a baby. 

So along with a team of nice nurses, she told Mommy to push, push, PUSH! 

And I did, did, DID! 

Until you popped out and into our world. 

On the day you were born, in Early Riser style you woke up with the Midwestern sun at 7:20 AM. 

That same day, you got measured and weighed, 5 pounds 7 ounces, 20.25 inches, you stamped your tiny foot prints, and you got your first bath. 

You met your grandparents, Aunt Claire and Uncle Trent. 

We ate sushi and toasted you with my favorite champagne. 

You got showered with blessings and well wishes from your family and Mommy and Daddy's friends. 

You marveled us with your big blue eyes, full head of hair, and petite frame. 

And you made Mommy and Daddy cry. 

On the day you were born, you changed my life and filled my heart with a kind of love that is in indescribable - the kind of love that makes any amount of pain, drug-free and all, bearable. 

I would say, 'The End,' but it's just the beginning. 

Lo / Mommy. 

Laboring

At 5:30 PM, my Mom picked us up from Extended Day. At 6:30 we were shoveling plates of linguini with clam sauce in our mouths. And at 6:45, my Mom, still dressed in her power suit, and I were on our way back to my grade school to attend an after school meeting entitled, 'Becoming a Woman.' It was a mandatory mother-daughter session for all fourth graders at my school. The boys had to go to their own version of evening awkwardness in fifth grade - when they were a little more mature.

Mrs. Goetz, our hostess for the night, encouraged everyone to sit in the first three rows of the auditorium. I sat front and center; my Mom was to my right, my best friend Katy was to my left. The screen came down, I heard the projection machine warming up, Mrs. Goetz made some introductory remarks, and with that the audio visual part of the program started. About five minutes into the presentation, an enormous picture of the male anatomy filled the thirty foot screen. I turned to Katy, who had simultaneously turned to look at me, and we both started laughing hysterically while our moms shushed us into some semblance of maturity. The giggles didn't stop though. They were my uncontrollable form of embarrassment / discomfort / shock relief, aided only by the Giant Eagle chocolate chip cookies that Mrs. Goetz was passing around.

Besides opening our eyes to a topic that had previously been avoided in many of our households, the goal seemed to be to ease the minds of the one or two early bloomers in my class, and to let them know where Mrs. Goetz kept her secret stash of tampons. As a much later bloomer, my takeaway was to always look for solace in big cookies and laughter when presented with something as uncomfortable as a mammoth urethra. 

***

On Sunday, while watching in all its graphic glory, an Asian and a hillbilly with the worst stretch marks ever painfully expel babies from their bodies then receive bloody little bundles of joy on their chests, I had a flash back to my introductory course on womanhood. Except this time, there were no cookies and the visuals were so disturbing that I actually ended up closing my eyes through parts of the presentation.

I did find the chance here and there to giggle away the discomfort though. The awkward, note-taking, scientific question-asking partner (not husband, just partner) of the woman who came to class in her pajamas, and whose happy place was Branson, Missouri provided ample opportunity for stress relief. And thankfully Peter's commentary made the giggles turn to full on hysterics by the end of the class.

Honestly, despite the up close and personal shots of babies crowning, it was a very informative class and I feel a lot more confident, knowing what to expect. I also came away with many more valuable lessons than I did in the fourth grade:

1. Labor, and delivery for that matter, is definitely going to suck.  
2. Nurse, it's great that you keep the Popsicles in there, but why are you stocking your unit with my husband's favorite snack instead of mine? 
3. For the first time ever, I think I'm going to have control of the air waves, and show tunes will be blaring as my means of relaxation. H-e-l-l-o Dolly! 
4. I will make sure to go to the bathroom several times at home before going into 'transition' in the hospital. I refuse to be part of the soiling stat that they shared.
5. I'm thinking that I won't want to do all the paper work associated with getting an epidural, so that option might be out. 
6. I by no means want to see the baby actually leaving my body. And for that matter, I want Peter up by head the whole time.
7. It would be great if the doctor cleaned up the baby before putting it on my chest. 
8. I do not want to examine the placenta like it's a Morton's steak. I'm sure it's fine. 
9. I can do this.

When we were driving home through the icy rain, never did the staunch words of Auntie Mame ring more true in my ears. I most definitely needed a little Christmas. And now! So to take my mind off thoughts of the cute little girl bouncing around in my stomach having to come out from her secure hiding place someday, we put on Christmas records and finished decorating our house for the season.

I even got to open my first Christmas present. Straight from Seattle and her book signing tour, our friend, Jess, sent me her very own cookbook, Dishing Up Washington. We used it immediately.

I started feeling a lot better. But that evening, as Peter and I sat under the tree, looking up at the memories captured in our collection of ornaments, the twinkle of the tinsel, and the soft glow of the lights, Peter said, I wish she could see it.
Aw, I do too. 
Which means I'm going to have to push her out. But the pain will be so worth it.

Lo.

Recipes for simple baked chicken, roasted beans, and carrots can be found in Jess Thomson's new cookbook, 'Dishing Up Washington.'