13

Thirteen has always been a good number for me, though I do remember the age not being fabulous. I certainly don't want to go back there myself.

Thirteen years ago at 7:30 a.m. Beast had just arrived at the hospital where I'd stayed overnight because they'd induced labor. Sparky was a week late. Nothing much was happening, just some cramping (i.e. early labor). We were just starting the Walking of the Corridors.

By noon, things had pretty much stopped. They gave me pitocin sometime about then, after which...oh, yes, things got moving. I remember throwing up and then there's just a weird blur of lying in bed on my left side for hours with Beast sitting right next to me on a chair.

At one point, they gave me a morphine injection to ease the labor pain. Well, surprise: I'm allergic to morphine. Side effects of this include an allergic reaction (difficulty breathing; swelling of your lips, tongue, or face; or hives); slow, weak breathing; cold, clammy skin; severe weakness or dizziness; dry mouth, nausea, vomiting; itching; tremors; panic. I had all of these (there are others that I didn't have, including unconsciousness; that one would have been nice actually).

Oh, and pain relief? None.

Eventually, they gave me a proper epidural and I finally stopped feeling like I was dying. When I started pushing, however, the heart-rate monitor on the baby showed that pushing made the rhythm slow dramatically. Suddenly I'm on my way out of the hospital room and down the hall to the Room Made of Metal. I was mostly worried that some poor expectant parents would show up just then and the woman would freak out when she saw me being dragged through the hallway.

Sparky FINALLY emerged, with help from forceps, at about 10:15 p.m. Had that last tug not worked, Beast told me later, the next step was going to be C-section. I was so out of it that I didn't realize that the baby wasn't crying. I'm pretty sure he flunked his Apgar, though I didn't think to ask about it until he was almost a year old. Beast said he was bluish-white. Eventually they got him cleaned up (and breathing) and brought him over for me to see. My reaction: He's got (my niece's) nose, poor kid. Looks just like her. And I faded back out. Didn't really come back to Earth until about 90 minutes later when Beast told me he was leaving for home.

I freaked. Totally wigged out. "Don't leave me here alone!!" Crying, begging, etc. Finally, the very sensible and kind nurse told him to go home, she'd take care of me. And she did. I finally got to see our little critter around 3 a.m. in an incubator. And you know what? I just really wanted to sleep. Complete lack of affect.

Then there was the infection scare, the circumcision, the Letdown (which, by the way, is never really discussed anywhere, and is nearly as painful as early-stage labor!), trying to figure out breast-feeding (I hate La Leche League people), and then, after four days, Bringing Baby Home.
All parents, what's the first thing that happens when you walk in your house for the first time with your baby? "What the hell? They expect me to know what to do with this thing? Can't believe they let me bring him/her home; it can't be safe. Are they crazy!?"

Now, thirteen years later, I still sort of feel that way a lot of the time, but Sparky really has been one of the easiest children to deal with as a whole. I did know, from quite early, that he was going to be a fine person on his own. And knowing that has made it easier to be his mom.

But this 5-foot-5-inch monster of a pre-frat boy started inside me?? Pretty damn amazing.