James Anthony Comer
Born December 7th, 2007
8 lbs, 5 0z
20.5 inches long
Well, since Doug apparently wasn’t impressed by my itinerary yesterday as it was presented, I shall go into further detail about our day. Or days. It’s been one big blur.
I should state for the record here that there’s no telling how any of this will end up posting, because the WiFi here sucks big ole donkey balls.
But the food is pretty rockin’.
Anyway, so we checked in yesterday morning at 4:30. I was in a bed by 5:00. We started the pitocin at 6:00. Broke my water at 9:00.
Some key points up until this point:
- When a nurse is inserting your IV and the phrases “Uh oh” and “It’s just leakin’ everywhere” are uttered, DON’T LOOK.
- It’s probably gonna suck when that same nurse checks your cervix.
- Breaking the water makes a sound. Think of it as someone snapping a rubber band inside of you. It was BIZARRE.
The epidural came around the same time, and was a blessed thing, but there was a miserable 30 minutes before I felt the blessing. Even more miserable was the anesthesiologist needing to test a nerve. When someone administering anesthesia says, “Slight electric shock,” just be prepared. I think I came out of my skin.
But then the sweet, sweet bliss of the good drugs.
While on the epidural high, you wouldn’t know I was in labor. You’d just think I was a lazy little girl. It was amazing. But, being the wonder-martyr that I am, I let the pain outweigh the medication and was soon feeling HEAVY contractions. A few boluses (the medical term for what addicts would call a “pick me up”) and one GIANT syringe later, I had the pain back to a tolerable level. My cervix was all but gone, and it was time to push.
It was around 4:00.
Now, typically, a mother doesn’t push for longer than an hour. Even my doc admitted (a week ago) that new mothers rarely are asked to push longer than two hours. I believe his exact words were “It’s unheard of”.
Ladies and gentlemen, I was still FREAKING PUSHING AT 6:30. We pushed almost every contraction, which were coming every minute. We did three pushes a contraction. Do that math. Pilates ain’t got nuthin on these birthin’ muscles.
The strangest feeling in the world (other than having your nerve tapped and your water broken) is pushing a baby out. The head is like having a very large (and obviously misplaced) bowel movement. The rest of the baby and the placenta is like passing a very large, wet lasagna noodle. And the minute that the baby is out, it’s like you were never pregnant. Seriously. I would not bullshit you on this. I mean, yes, you’ve got baby weight, but you suddenly have forgotten the last two and a half hours.
I know I’m running on fumes right now (actually, probably past that point), but sleeping just doesn’t seem important now. Last night, they brought him to my room for an early feeding, and the nurse came in and said, “Time to feed!”
And I turned over to her and said, “Feed what?”
She said, “The baby.”
I said, “Yeah, I had a baby today, huh?”
He has his father’s chin, and his grandfather’s cheeks. He is laid back like his mother. He has a massive head of dark hair. We’re not sure where that one came from.
There was a heartbreaking and sobering moment, when we went to count the fingers and toes. While I always said he was riverdancing in my ribs, apparently Tony was a bit too rough on one ankle. We weren’t sure if it was broken when he was born, but he flexes it perfectly. It just lays against his calf. He’s not in any pain, and we go to see a specialist later this week, but it appears to be a club foot. I’m sure it’s easily fixable, and we feel so blessed to have this little (but not so little after you push him out of your nu-nu) miracle with us that we’re not dwelling on it.
And, as Uncle Kevin pointed out today, he is SO in the running to play Tiny Tim in five years.
