As baby number seven’s due date fast approaches, I figured I ought to do a Birth Story Week of all six births so far.
And, finally (for now), here’s birth story number six:
So, by the time baby number six was on the way, I thought I knew everything there was to know. But, of course, that was before I knew Frankie.
In keeping with my policy of not making a fuss, I would be much more likely to attempt to drive myself to the hospital or just make my nine year old deliver the baby than call an ambulance.
I was so convinced of it that I didn’t even really notice through the day as the contractions did slowly start to be the real thing. I do remember sitting there at the school table helping Jack with his math . . . with my eyes closed.
“Are you okay Mom?”
“I’m fine, I’m fine. I just . . . Need. You. To. Finish. Your. School. Week.”
By the time the husband got home from work that evening I was totally in labor, but still somehow wasn’t consciously aware of it. I was making spaghetti for dinner. He thought maybe I should call my doctor and check in.
So I did. As I answered her questions on the phone, I realized that it did kinda seem like I was in labor. So I told her that I just needed to finish up making dinner, then we’d head in. She thought that was pretty hilarious.
She still brings it up sometimes, actually. Apparently it is atypical to finish up making dinner first. But that’s what I did.
And even when we got to the hospital, I didn’t want to go inside yet, because I wanted to be able to walk around without being hooked up to a lot of stuff. So I asked the husband to drop me off out front while he parked the car. But by time he got back to me from the parking lot walking around outside sounded like the worst idea I had ever heard and, frankly, I was surprised he could even suggest such a thing.
So in we went. But even though I knew the contractions were the real thing now, the whole labor was still a bit lackadaisical. We were in the delivery room, I was all hooked up to the stuff, I was having real contractions, but the husband and I were still able to joke around in between them.
We walked some laps around the hospital, where I got to enjoy this photograph over and over again:
“But wait!” you say. “Didn’t you say there was a black and white picture of a baby in some cabbages that bugged you at the hospital in Chicago?” Um, yes I did say that. But according to my husband (and his stupid iPhone photo evidence to prove it), that picture is not in Chicago, nor is it in black and white, and I don’t think those are actually cabbages. Which begs the question why I think I can write these birth stories at all if that’s the kind of accuracy you’re going to get out of me. But hey, it’s the last one (until it isn’t) so let’s just ignore this incident and keep on with it shall we?
My labor and delivery nurse was young and expecting her first baby. She kept coming in to say things like how “cool” she thought it was that we had so many kids. And how she couldn’t believe that we were talking and stuff during labor. She was so cute.
But eventually, after over 50 hours of the dumbest labor ever, Frankie was born. He was 7 lbs 5 oz, my littlest baby.
And he was born before bedtime, so my parents were able to bring all the kids over to meet him that very night.
About 30 seconds after they handed him to me, there was a huge commotion outside my room and everyone went running out there. Apparently the next gal hadn’t quite made it to the room and gave birth halfway in and halfway out of the elevator. While being held up under the arms by her husband. I could hear them shouting, just put her down, put her down!
Which just goes to show that I don’t really have any good birth stories after all. But hey, there’s always this next one.
Stay tuned . . .