My youngest recently celebrated his 6th birthday, a day he has been waiting for since the day after his 5th birthday. Like many parents, I get emotional around the kids’ birthdays. After all, it’s not just a birthday celebration for your kid; it’s also your parental anniversary and a time to reflect on all the years you have screwed them up so far.
I fondly remember Evan’s birthday story. I was due on Halloween, which made me think perhaps I was carrying the Spawn of Satan. I stayed home to hand out candy to neighborhood kids while Jamie took little Reese trick or treating in her cute Minnie Mouse outfit (very different from this year’s villainous Audrey costume from Descendants 3). I remember holding open the storm door with my huge pregnant belly while I passed out handfuls of candy, just so that I would stop eating it myself. After being on my feet all day, I was sure Evan would come, but he didnt. Not even a little knock on the little cervix door. 2 days after his due date, still nothing. I started doing yard work in hopes that the exertion would pop him right out, but even 2 hours of raking leaves did nothing but make my back ache. I tried all the wives tales to get this little fucker out of me: eating pineapple, eating spicy food, foot massages, even tried the very act that got me in this mess in the first place. Nothing. Finally, after 7 days overdue, I saw my OB for a regular check-up. I told her, “Hey, while you’re up there, why don’t you do a little scrapy-scrape of my membrane to get things moving along.” She gave me her digits (haha, see what I did there?), and said I’d be a little sore and crampy for a few hours. I went to my parents’ house to pick Reese up and decided to hang out while rush hour traffic died down. I sat in the kitchen with my dad, watched some tv, and ate a few bags of Flaming Hot Cheetos because they were within arm’s reach. The cramping got worse and I thought, hmm, too many Cheetos? So I laid off on the Cheetos and moved on to Cool Ranch Doritos. After a few hours, the cramps got even worse. I thought to myself, there’s no such thing as too many Doritos, these must be contractions. I began timing them, and sure enough, I started to labor at my parents’ house. I called Jamie and told him to get ready. I believe his comment was, “Okay, well let me finish up at work since it’s raining and traffic will probably be bad.” Hmm, ok, a bit dismissive, but I suppose calm is good.
I tried to get myself in a good head space and mentally prepare for shit hitting the fan. My birth plan was that I was going to try to have the baby naturally, since I had adverse reactions to the epidural with Reese. I asked my sister to be there, not because I love her, but because I love Jamie and needed someone there to protect him from me, especially if I was going to be in so much pain. In the event that I couldn’t handle it, Jamie and I discussed having a “safe phrase” to signal that I wanted the epidural. I told Jamie weeks prior, in all my pride and confidence, that I wouldn’t need a safe phrase because I was a badass. So, in preparation to call my bluff, Jamie wanted it to be hilariously humiliating, and chose the safe phrase to be “Mount Pinatubo,” a volcano in the Philippines. I approved it because I was sure I’d never have to say something so ridiculous.
More time past, and I paced through the kitchen and living room that I grew up in about 1000 times, stopping only for contractions. Nobody was phased. Mom was making dinner quietly, Dad was watching tv and periodically looking at me, wondering if he should be concerned yet, and Reese just followed me around. I ate dinner and took a shower, anxiously waiting for Jamie and my sister to come pick me up at my parents’ house. Finally, impatience settled in and I called Jamie to ask where he was, and his response was, “There is a big sweater sale online for Banana Republic right now. Let me finish my purchase, and then I’ll pick your sister up. She just woke up from a nap and is showering now.” I tried to remain calm, but in my mind I’m thinking, “What the fuck, guys, I’m having a baby. Hurry up and get me! If Mom or Dad deliver this baby, I will be pissed!” After a nice little online shopping session and a relaxing shower, they finally picked me up. I said my goodbyes to Reese and my parents, and I got sad for a second, as this was the last time Reese was going to be my only child. I cried for her in the car.
When we got to Prentice Hospital, the same hospital where I would do my chemo 5 years later, the nurses checked me out and said I was not far along enough to be admitted. They told me to walk around the halls for an hour and then they’d check me again. During that hour, I saw a woman in a wheelchair, screaming in pain, obviously in labor. I told Jamie, “She looks possessed. There’s no way I’m going to be that dramatic.” The hour walk definitely progressed my labor along, and I could hardly handle the contractions any longer. The nurse and nursing student checked me again and said, “I’m sorry, you’re not dilated enough. I think we might have to send you home until you are further along.” I looked at these nice, soft-spoken women, and in the most demonic voice that has ever exited my mouth I yelled, “Are you FUCKING kidding me right now? Page the doctor right now and tell her I am in 10 out of 10 pain and have her admit me. I’m not going anywhere!” After they shat their pants, they paged the doctor, and the doctor approved the admission. And there I was, THAT woman in a wheelchair, possessed in agony, screaming in pain. Funny how that turned out.
They brought me to my labor room, where Jamie and my sister met me. As my labor progressed quickly, I kept saying, “Don’t let me get the epidural, don’t let me do it.” Jamie tried so hard to make me comfortable. He tried to use a head massager to help me relax, and I swatted it out of his hand. He tried to hold me tight, and I yelled at him to talk his damn wool sweater off because looking at him made me sweat. He tried to give me mints, and I’d spit them out. My sister was holding back laughter. When the OB came in, she said this is the last chance to get the epidural. I told Jamie that it felt like I was going to die, and he kept telling me to get the epidural. My sister calmly said, “It’s okay to get the epidural if you need it,” but her face was screaming, “You fucking idiot, what are you waiting for?” I finally agreed to the epidural, and Jamie said with a little smirk, “Ely, I need to hear the safe phrase.” I didn’t want to say it because I was embarrassed. He was like, “Come on Ely, let’s hear it.” He was enjoying the moment way too much. Finally, at the next contraction, I said, “Fine, Mount Pinatubo!” My OB looked at me like, “What’s that now?” Jamie, with a most satisfied smile, said, “Ok, she wants the epidural.”
Jamie and my sister walked out of the room while the epidural was being placed. Exhausted, they looked at each other and said, “What the fuck just happened in there?” And then they started laughing hysterically. My sister said she felt so sorry for Jamie for having to deal with my wrath. When they walked back in, they said I was like a different person, face and body not contorted anymore, all demons exorcised out of me successfully, and I was actually pleasant to be around. We all had a good laugh at my expense, and agreed that there was no way I would have made it without the epidural. When it was go time, Jamie and my sister each grabbed a leg, stared at my vagina, and 3 pushes later, out came my Evan, screaming and angry as hell, much like Mount Pinatubo. It all made sense. And with one touch from Mommy, he was content and comfortable once more. The rest is history.
Everyone has a story, and it should be known and celebrated. This was Evan’s, the first of many. Evan’s first story foreshadowed many details of his personality. Just as he was 7 days overdue, this kid dilly-dallies like nobody’s business and has no urgency in his movement whatsoever. He loves Doritos. He pushes me to my limits. He has a temper that erupts like a volcano. He loves his parents’ touch. And his behavior often makes me want to do drugs (just kidding, unless you consider alcohol a drug). He is perfectly sweet and salty, his courage grows daily, he has a great sense of humor, he’s bright and kind, and he is bound to do great things. Cheers to one of my favorite people, someone who was born to teach me a lot of what life is all about.
The Mundame 