It. A joint. JOINT.

I found a joint.

Seriously, I found a doobie in the drawer of my hospital bedside table. No joke.

I laughed so hard my contractions intensified.

This doobie, I thought, was a good omen. This delivery would be a party!

I called my friend to share the awesome news that I had scored a joint and her husband, an infection control nurse, answered the phone. I asked him if there’d be any infection risk with regard to this joint. He said no, not really, just don’t smoke it.

I didn’t. But by 5 pm that day, I was really wishing I hadn’t notified my nurse (who was horrified and downplayed the “incident”) that it was there.

While the topic of drugs was in the air, so to speak, I pondered the epidural. Did I want one? It might be nice to try that out. Never done it; could be good.

I asked.

They said no.

What the hell? I finally ask for one and the one time I ask, I can’t have one.

I can’t have one cause all the surgeons are out of town. Just in case I have to have a C-section (cause epidurals often lead to C-sections), they refused to do any interventions at all.

Nothing. No cervix stretching. No induction. No lotions, potions or motions.

Nada.

It was 8 am.

I expected you out by noon. Your brothers had been punctual about leaving my womb within eight to ten hours of arriving at the hospital. You… not so much.

Ten hours later, I was thoroughly, thoroughly annoyed. I had moderate to strong contractions every five minutes. I had to stop and breathe through them. I could manage, but it had been about 24 hours of this.

I was tired. My IV itched. I was bored. The only excitement I’d had was an X-ray. Yes, they x-rayed me to make extra, extra sure you were head down. It was highly unusual, but seeing as how there weren’t any qualified surgeons around, it was understandable.

Daddy had gone to work for a few hours during the day to organize work for a week or two, but he, too, was bored. At 5 pm, he left to eat and make sure your brothers were behaving for Grandma and Grandpa, and then finally came back around 8 pm.

In the meantime, I called my friend and told her the deal. No drugs. No interventions. I was just to wait and relax.

“Bullshit!” she said, “Make them fly you to Edmonton! A place with epidurals and surgical teams! Demand they fly you there. You can do that you know.”

I didn’t.

I was on the high road. “Well,” I told her, “at least this way I can say I delivered three boys without any interventions or drugs. I can say I did it naturally.”

“Whatever!” she said, laughing.

What. Ever.

I was uncomfortable and I was PISSED OFF.

I was so certain you’d come right out; I was embarrassed to be wrong. I felt like the lovely woman who I’d chosen in lieu of Dr. BM was unhappy with me, her resident annoyed.

They patted my hand and told me it was OK. He comes out when he comes out.

I stewed on that a while.

We knew you were a boy. Not one, but two ultrasounds had confirmed it. Your dad still periodically insisted that it could be girl, and “we’d know when the baby was born.” Intuition had told me that the ultrasound tech was right this time. (Ezra was mistaken for a girl in his first and only ultrasound photo and your dad reminds me of this error all of the time.)

When Ben came back, he helped me shower, gave me a massage, and tucked me into bed for the night.

“You’re leaving?” I asked.

“You bet! I’m going to home and get some sleep. You’re going to be fine! They’ll call me as soon as things get moving,” he replied.

Right.

RIGHT.

On the one hand, I was fine with this. All he could do at this point was…well, nothing. I was too annoyed to handle any hand-holding. While a tad weepy, I prefer to weep alone.

He’d bathed me, massaged me, comforted me (as much as was possible), and the man was tired. He did not want a repeat of cot-sleeping (as happened with Ezra’s birth), and would like to go home, watch CNN, and have a beer. They’d call him when he was required.

It was 9 pm.

At 10:30 (after unsuccessfully trying to rest, ha ha ha) I got out of bed to pee, and felt a bit odd. I’d finished up my trip to the toilet but the trip had hit a not unexpected bump. That is, in the most gross terms: the fluid wipe was a bit too slippery to be just pee.

At this point, my “night” maternity nurse was on duty. I liked her. Jen was her name. She was new to the biz (but not too new). The “day” nurse had messed up my IV and was a tad to condescending to be truly helpful. I have no recollection of what her name was.

Anyway, I buzzed for Jen.

“Well,” she said, “What’s going on?”

“Ummm,” I replied, “I think my water broke.” I sat on the edge of the bed, breathing through a contraction.

“Ok, let’s see,” she said, doubtfully. No one was confident I would deliver this kid within the next 8 hours. But, she pulled an amniotic fluid test swab and wiped away anyway. It went black.

Black is good. Or bad, depending on how you look at it.

“Oh,” she said. “Your water did break! I guess you’re having a baby tonight!”

Really? No shit.

That’s all I could think in that moment. Well, that and, “Can someone PLEASE call my husband?”

When my water breaks, my labour speeds up, intensifying rapidly. While I had just, just trickled out fluid, I knew it was going to get ugly, and get ugly fast and if my beer-drinking, rest-needing husband didn’t get there pronto, there’d be hell to pay.

Now, you might be thinking there’d be hell to pay anyways, but the sad truth is that the more pain I’m in, the more fastidiously polite I am. While I do scream and sob, I am ALWAYS, ALWAYS kind and courteous to everyone in the room with me. Fastidiously.

Dr. New Doctor was called, and brought along her resident. Nice young woman. Practicing. My confidence was not at an all-time high.

I had no reason to doubt that Dr. New Doctor would not be good, but would she be good at making sure the student doc wouldn’t eff up? Practice makes perfect! Ugh. I was NOT looking forward to this.

They checked my dilation and I was at 6 cm. They were non-plussed, and figured this would still take decades. “Oh no,” said I, “read the notes. I’m about to crack open like a raw egg under a toddler’s foot.” I wish I’d said that. I said something much less evocative.

Ben bounded into the room about 5 minutes later, showing his surprise and saying, “Wow, I’d just finished my beer. I was dozing!” I was much too grateful he was there to say what I’m thinking now, which is, “Yes, you poor, poor man. Such a hard day! You were dozing? Oh, no. Poor you, you had to wake up for the birth of your third child. Poor fucking you.”

In case you hadn’t picked up on it that was sarcasm.

The contractions were intensifying so they moved me to the delivery room, fluffy pink robe and ugly blue slippers included. If I remember correctly, I also made your Dad bring the massage oil bar, just in case.

The good ol’ William J Cadzow Hospital delivery room. It hadn’t changed much. Well, there was one minor difference but we’ll get to that in a minute.

I had them wheel out the Entenox (nitrous oxide or laughing gas), which is about as hard as the drugs get with me. I don’t really even count as pain control, as it doesn’t really control pain, instead making it seem dimmer and further away. It helped me stay alert, breathe deeply, and keep happy when I could hardly stand the pain.

This delivery was noteworthy for two things: the constant heavy gushes of amniotic fluid and the distance of the toilet from the bed. The two together, if you can imagine, were problematic.

Don’t ask me why, but they had blocked off the toilet actually IN the delivery room, and would walk me into the baby room, past the supplies area, and into the bathroom every time I asked to use the toilet. (I suspect for infection control reasons.)

It is a lengthy traipse for a mostly dilated, 41-weeks pregnant, labouring woman.

Now, if I remember correctly, it was this way with Ezra’s delivery, too. But that time, I didn’t need to get up often and so I just raised my eyebrows about it. WHATEVA.

This time, I was periodically gushing fluid and it made travel difficult. I was climbing a steep mountainous trail and I was not a goat of the mountain variety.

I had help. Jen and Ben helped. (Hey, that rhymes!)

I hate help.

So when not on the mountainous path to the bathroom filled with supplies (yes, they were using it for additional storage, some of which needed to be moved out of my way), I writhed around on the delivery table getting checked, writhed around on the yoga ball sucking nitrous, and writhed around standing, my arms draped around Ben’s neck.

Fun stuff.

At one o’clock in the morning, the doctors came to check on me. They were there anyways, they said, for a patient in emergency.

I was 8 cm.

They decided to go check on some other patients and said they’d be back.

In the meantime, I writhed my way to the bathroom again with Jen, who asked too many questions. Do you want a pillow? Do you want some ice? Do you want some toast? Do you want some pressure to your back?

Aaaaarrrrggghhh.

Rookie mistake. Never ask a person in that much pain questions. Just bring them what you think they might need. They will take it, or not. That is all. Never ask questions because they’re under too much stress to be able to consider the question. They don’t know what they need. They just need.

Also in the room, and THRILLED to be there, was one of other moms I’d see at Andrew’s skating lessons twice a week. I worked a volunteer night with her at the Legion steak night a month before. We’d  served salad and washed dishes together, chatting about our kids, our lives.

Awesome. A woman I know socially was about to see my vagina. (But I couldn’t remember her name, which is absolutely typical of me. Nicole? Maybe.)

But, it was my third time on the table so I actually didn’t mind that much. I’m sure she’d seen quite a few vaginas. She was happy to be there and happy to greet you and I loved that. It is yet another reason why it’s great to live in a small town.

Anyway, I had just made it to the bathroom, stepping in (as Jen stepped out to give me a modicum of privacy) when a contraction hit and a massive gush of water sploshed onto the floor.

My slippers were by the bed.

I was in agony, clutching the vanity and screaming in pain, unable to stand as my feet couldn’t get a grip on the now slickly lubricated institution tile floor. My arms grasped, legs shook, feet clenched as I tried desperately to keep from going down like stripper on a pole aboard the sinking Titanic.

It wasn’t pretty.

Jen charged in. Holding me under the arms too loosely to be of any help, Jen encouraged me to get out of the bathroom. But I couldn’t move. I couldn’t explain the problem in few enough words. It was too complex. The words wouldn’t come. I could only moan as my uterus clenched along with all the other muscles in my body as they tried to keep me up. I wouldn’t be moved.

I was overwhelmed in the truest sense of the word; physically, mentally, and emotionally bankrupt           

Jen tried again to encourage me out of the bathroom and her futile tugs under my arms got a little firmer.

She still didn’t get it.

THE FLOOR WAS LUBRICATED WITH PROTEIN ENRICHED FLUID. It was like sliding around on a waxed marble staircase covered in Astroglide while barefoot and pregnant.

I had the urge to push.

Your head, the second largest cranium to ever make its way out of my vagina, was insisting its way past my cervix. (First place in that category goes to Andrew who, though a smaller baby, had/s a large, square cranium that dents pillows and blocks out the sun. If you’ve ever seen Mike Myers in So I Married an Axe Murderer, you’ll understand that reference.)

I was coming unhinged. I was incoherently trying to explain, shaking my head as my legs kept buckling.

Jen suddenly turned on me, loudly and firmly pulling me out of the bathroom, insisting that “YOU ARE NOT DELIVERING THIS BABY IN THE BATHROOM.”

Jen had finally put her foot down. She was NOT taking any crap from the pregnant woman and did not, in any way, shape or form, want to be responsible for delivering a baby without a doctor, in the bathroom: the bathroom that must be at least 30 feet from the labour and delivery bed.

During her “fit”, she’d dragged me off the slickest part of the floor, thank God, and I was able to make the mile-long trip back to the bed.

Where the hell was Ben? Sitting back at the bed, resting with his head down.

It was past 1 am. He was tired. (I’m still going for the sympathetic approach to his situation. Can you tell?)

And so, there I was back on the bed, writhing around.

They checked me. 9 and a bit.

My feet were cold. I got bossy and asked for a warmed blanket. I love those things. Best. Ever.

Dr. New Doctor and the Student came back in.

They looked rough. They weren’t as happy and as well-rested as the nurses used to the night shift.

Student checked me. Almost 10 cm.

We all waited.

I waited in agony. Moaning while the others were silent.

It was the quietest labour and delivery room in the country, I bet.

At the time, it was the oddest sensation.

There I was, writhing around in pain, waiting for the last half centimetre to melt away with a student MD at my feet, Dr. New Doctor standing over her shoulder, Jen standing on my left, Ben quietly holding my hand on my right and that woman-I-know-from-skating waiting over by the baby warmer.

Someone would make a comment here and there, but otherwise silence. Those docs looked totally bagged, and totally like they would just rest their heads on my knee and nap until my urge to push became overwhelming.

Creepy.

When Ezra was born, it was morning shift change for the nurses, so when I hit the 10 cm mark, the room was flooded with a chattering flurry of women in scrubs, and then my own awesome doctor arrived, who is probably cheerful even on a bad day. Andrew was born just after lunchtime. Even if they were loagy from lunch, people were bright and awake, chattering up an almost irritating storm of noise.

The atmosphere at 2 am on a Thursday was less than optimistic. Everyone was silent. The silence was deafening.

They were waiting for me so they could go home and sleep.

There was nothing to do, nothing to say. Yet.

The silence was pressure.

I was the entertainer and they were here for a show; a show I had yet to put on.

It reminded me terribly of the time I was in the high-school play. In the middle of a dress rehearsal performance, I had spontaneously forgotten my lines. And, despite the fact that I could have sneaked a peak at the lines (hidden on a clipboard in front of me) I refused to out of sheer stubbornness. The silence of 300 students in the gym was as deafening when I was 16 as the silence of six medical staff in L&D when I was 33.

I was there to put on a show.

Finally, the overwhelming urge to push overcame me, and I was ready to rumble. Let the curtains draw, the band start up, I was ready to put on a show.

You, dear third boy, were a quick delivery.

This is both good and bad.

Had my own good doctor been there, he’d have slowed it down a tad. He’d have stretched me out a bit, helped me focus my wild pushing, and otherwise assisted the whole process of getting you out of my vagina in a way that damaged me the least.

That said, as you will recall, I had a student.

She pretty much just sat there and waited for you to plop out.

At the time, I didn’t really mind much. In retrospect, however, I wouldn’t have minded avoiding the second-degree tears into my vaginal muscle. It took a while to heal.

After three sets of pushes, you were out. I had to push hard. I wasn’t expecting to have to push so hard. Ezra took about 20 minutes to get out; Andrew 45 minutes. I figured you’d be out in 10, and you were, but it was a hard-won 10 minutes. At 2:37 am, you arrived, alert and unhappy.

One of the first things I said when you came out was, “Oh! He’s so little!”

The nurse-I-know-from-skating said, “Uhhh, no, he’s a big one.”

Dr. New Doctor concurred, “Oh, yeah, he’s not a small baby!” and they plunked you on the scale.

Nine pounds, two ounces.

NINE POUNDS. That is why I had to push so hard.

You were not tiny. In fact, you hardly fit into your going home outfit; the hat was like a tiny elastic band around an over-blown beach ball: it could only snap or fly off.  The one-piece organic-cotton striped outfit strained at your crotch and rode up your diaper. Thank goodness it was footless or I’d have never got it on you. Your hands were catcher’s mitts, boxing gloves. Big hands. Hands ready to take on two older brothers.

I nursed you in the delivery room. You were already trying to suck on whatever you could find. If the blanket brushed your cheek, you turned to suck on it.

I suspect you came out because you were hungry. You were (and still are) a champion eater.

Your dad had remembered to wear his favourite shirt – “Bank of Dad” – but had forgotten to bring the camera from my hospital room.

Yes. We forgot.

We remembered robes and slippers and shirts with funny slogans but forgot the camera.

After I asked, “Where is the camera?! Take pictures!” – his main job in the delivery room (after hand-holding) is taking pictures of everyone and everything – he jogged down the corridor to find it.

He came back just in time to capture several inappropriately aimed photos of the Student stitching me up, the gore on the delivery table, and the backs of all the nurses. There’s a few of you, and you and daddy, and me, looking like hell.

I'm glad I looked like hell -- it was the middle of night. No one looks good at 3 am unless they're a high-priced call girl out on a "date." As "drug free" deliveries go, we had a good one. The nurse had (sadly) confiscated the doobie; she used rubber gloves, carrying it at a distance, as though the germs might crawl up her arm and bite her in the nose. She didn't appreciate my jokes. Nurses rarely do. I sat and giggled.

After we got back to our room, Daddy called the grandparents and kissed us and went home to sleep. We settled in, you were wide eyed and peaking around. You watched me eat toast with PB & J, the only snack available at 3 am. Jen made it. It was the best toast with peanut butter and jam I’d ever eaten because it was the first I’d eaten with you. Best Food in the World.

We couldn’t sleep. The only thing that seemed possible to do was stare at you. So I stared. You stared back.

You would sleep intermittently, and whenever I’d manage to doze off, you’d wake up.

And that was how it was for the next month.

It confirmed this theory I had about babies born at night versus babies born during the day. Both your brothers were born during the day, and would sleep at night. You were born at night, and would sleep most of the day. After we got home, this became rather hellish.

On the one hand, I was grateful to be able to take care of your brothers and give them all the attention they needed during the day (while you were asleep). But, the night. Oh, nighttime was terrible. I was exhausted and couldn’t sleep during the day as your brothers were awake. By the time bedtime came around, you’d sleep for two hours, then wake up ready for the world. We watched a lot of infomercials. I dozed with you cuddled in my arms on a pillow on my lap. A lot.

Andrew would wake up at 5 am and turn on cartoons before he’d realize we were in Dad’s recliner. He’d be startled. I knew Ezra would hear Andrew and wake up yelling, so I’d have to try and put you down in your crib carefully enough that you wouldn’t wake up. Usually you both woke up, both yelling.

It was terrible and amazing and disappointing and fantastic all at the same time. I wouldn’t trade it for anything.

Around the time you started sleeping at night, we got a letter from a government office asking us to provide medical confirmation that you were a boy.

The registry person at the hospital had checked the “female” box when she filled out our paperwork so, for a time, you were officially registered as a girl. Sorry about that. I’ll try to hide this from your brothers as long as I possibly can.

When people see how beautiful you are, and then hear your unisex name, they immediately believe that you are female (even if you’re wearing a dump truck on your t-shirt). You are consistently mistaken for a girl by the Health Unit; you’ve also been called Tyler. Once they know you’re boy, some think they must’ve misheard, thinking, “Mandy wouldn’t give a boy a GIRL’S name.” But, oh yes, I would. CAUSE IT ISN’T A GIRL’S NAME. It’s a surname. My great-grandfather’s last name, in fact. I didn’t just pick it out of the latest line-up of “Cool” Names to Give Your Baby nor am I hockey fan (there is currently a hockey player with your first name.) Giving your child a family surname was traditionally a way of honouring (usually) the mother’s family, which is where names like Courtney (traditionally a boy’s name, of which Corey is derivative), originate.

So, you are a boy and you have a boy’s name, which was always a boy’s name and which many boys have. Don’t let any nitwit kid who overheard their ignorant parents tease you.

Your middle name, as you likely already know, is from your Uncle Patrick. Daddy chose it and we both love it. At first, we were going to use Daddy’s middle name, Sebugenyi, but I suspect he wanted something less requiring less lengthy explanation.

The first three days of our time as separate humans began in the hospital room. We got to stay longer as Dr. New Doctor liked to keep women with young children at home in the hospital longer so they could rest. We didn’t rest much, but it was the nearest thing I’d had to a vacation in YEARS. I mean, I read an entire book cover to cover for pleasure. It was amazing.

I read my book as you slept and waited for my next tray of food. When you were awake, I’d cart you down to the lounge where we’d watch General Hospital and try to avoid the elderly woman who’d freak out and start yelling, “Keep that baby away from me!” every time we’d pass too close.

We got to know each other a little and it was awesome.

When your Dad and brothers would visit, Andrew would demand to hold you and Ezra would just kind of stare for a moment and then bugger off, looking for the treats he knew Grandma had left me. He loves the heck out of you now, and is always tugging at you to play, to hug, to bug.

Daddy washed and waxed the van to take us home, pulling up close to the curb to make sure we could get in safe. It was a sunny Sunday, with a cool breeze. When we looked at each other – your Dad and I – and at our hat trick of boys in the back, we knew life was going to be more interesting and more fun than we ever could have imagined. You arrival solidified that.

Stay cool, “baby”, your family loves you more than you will ever be able to realize.

All my love,

Momma

Dear Taylor,

You've been a citizen of the world for a year now. A whole year! I turned your car seat around last weekend, and as I looked in my rear view mirror and saw three faces, the reality that I have three children (boys, no less) dawned on me in a new way.



Had anyone told me when I was 19 years old that I would have three children I would have spat in their faces blushed and then laughed at their naive assumption of my life goals. I wasn’t a kid person. I'm still not. I like to think I understand kid's ages and stages a little more, but I'm still clueless. Most kids don't like me, and frankly, I don't like them. Well, that's not quite the truth. It's not that I don't like them, I just have little interest them, and they can tell I have little interest because I'm terrible at faking it. That, my dear youngest boy, is the awful truth about your mother.



You guys, on the other hand, are another story. I am deeply interested in you (most of the time), and deeply in love with you all. You are all fantastic little people and provide endless reasons for me to shower you with all the love and affection I can possibly muster. Learning how to show little boys love in a way they can understand it has taken me some time; love for you guys is a toss up in the air or a fake punch in the tummy or a pile driver to the face. I'm an academic, little dude. That's not the life training I took (and am still paying for. Note to self: open Taylor's Education Savings Account.) Still, you'll benefit from all the learning I do with the other two experiments in child rearing and I suspect you'll turn out rather well. That is, you'll turn out well if parenting has any effect on a child's outcome whatsoever.

These days, I'm trying to be a better parent. Your dad has better kid sense than I do. And, unlike me, he is not easily overwhelmed. When I am overwhelmed, I turn into Mrs. Shouty Shouterson, Chairwoman of the Aggravation Parade. I have taken care of the first two items on my New Year's Resolution Checklist, and now I have to conquer the "Stop Yelling" item. This, sweet boy, might be the toughest of all. It might take a while. Hang in there, though. I am ON it.

At age one, you are one tough cookie. You don’t take any ess ehtch eye tea from your brothers. They have taught you well. You grab what you want when you want it. You hit with abandon. You throw food as far as it will travel after you’ve eaten as much of it as you can fit into your gullet. You share food, offering it soggy and half-chewed to everyone in the room. You get pissed off when Andrew gets sent to his room and bang on his door, angry that he’s there, screaming at the injustice of being down one beloved playmate.

You throw little cars with alarming accuracy. You kiss with your whole mouth wide open so your teeth mark my cheek and your drool runs down to my chin. You love it when I shake my head and then gregariously giggle when I touch my forehead to yours.

You point at things with your middle finger, dripping wet from your mouth. I love this. You are one of us! You’re definitely the spawn of a Batke and a Lwanga if you can do something as rude as flip the bird to indicate the food you want to eat and people think it’s cute.

You have a terrible haircut right now. I can’t manage to properly cut the sides because you twist your head like a dog chasing its tail whenever you can see the scissors coming your way. This means only the top of your head has been shorn; the spots that knot left extra short. It’s charming in an insane sort of way.

You don’t sleep through the night yet. But, as it’s your Dad waking up with you right now, I’m not all that concerned about it. We can tell when you are about to cry because you start furiously sucking your middle and ring fingers, occasionally whimpering. Do you need to fart? Eat? Sometimes they are one in the same problem. And up goes Dad to get you a bottle. Before he had to take overnight duties (cause I’d injured my back), you were almost sleep trained. Your Dad is a complete sucker though, and can’t stand to hear you cry. Not only because he loves you, but also because you’ve perfected the right urgent pitch, and insistent whine that demands immediate attention. Also, you’ve learned not to give up – your parents can be broken.

You are 13 months old and not at all close to walking. This doesn’t surprise me. Your trademark hopping crawl – on your bum with one leg in front to stabilize and one in back to thrust you forward, using your hands to help pull you onward – has been perfected, and gives you an alarming speed. You are also a strapping lad (not hefty but certainly big boned) and this doesn’t lend itself to spryness. That is, I knew you’d have to develop your muscles a little longer before you could support your own weight on your legs. Unfortunately, though, this has made outside play on the cement pad a trial on your knee and you rip through a pair of pants pretty much every time you go out with your Dad. I continually put you back on the lawn but I strongly suspect you are not fond of the texture and would prefer the dig of pebbles on your palm to the gentle irritation of green grass.

This preference says a lot about your personality: obstacles don’t faze you. You are very much your own person, and at the same time, it’s easy to see you as unique mix of your older brothers (when they were your age). Like Andrew, you don’t quickly leave things alone. You return, repeatedly, to see if you can finally get away with doing whatever nefarious deed  you insist on doing, such as throw a toothbrush in the toilet, or break into the recyclables and drink the drizzles of liquid left at the bottom of the beer bottles. Your penchant for this particular cupboard (and beverage choice) has necessitated a safety latch.

Like Ezra, you love to help unload the dishwasher but have not yet caught on to “dirty” versus “clean” and I will often find you unloading all the dirty dishes onto the floor, banging on last night’s spaghetti dishes with an egg-encrusted fork and smiling like an overlooked turkey at Thanksgiving.

Ezra has taught you to yell like a banshee whenever you are mad. Just moments ago, Ezra screamed, “Daddddddy!” with his own brand of angry, shouting insistence. You, too, needed to scream and did your best mimicking cry, “Day-iiiiiii-eeee!”

You are really good at mimicking, and learn quickly. You picked up two baby signs in a single sitting. You still prefer to point at what you want with your middle finger, but you can do a reasonable show of “all done” and “more,” while uttering, “Duh” and “Mo.”

You love to eat sugar wafer cookies and you might be the only human able to eat them without making an enormous mess of crumbs. You love muffins and pizza and rice. You ate too many mashed potatoes and are done with them. Still, you will eat pretty much anything except soft-cooked mixed vegetables. We can sneak them on your spoon once mashed down, but whole veggies are not yet palatable to you.



As is my custom, this letter will includes the nitty gritty somewhat embarrassing details of your emergence from my womb and will undoubtedly cause you immense amounts of humiliation when you reach the age of 13. Your mother is also (as you likely already know), along with being hated by children, an oversharer. I get this from my own mother, who once told at least half of her life story to the checkout girl at IGA just cause "you never know where people of been or what they know -- you might have something in common!" God bless my loving mother.

I was in labour with you for two weeks. I. Shit. You. Not.

(Yes, I know, there I go again with the foul language. If ever a story demanded strong language, a labour story is it.)



I started regular contractions at the end of March, about the time I had to go be preschool helper on sledding day. Sledding. I was 9 months pregnant and shoving preschoolers down a sled hill, and contracting. It was, ummm, fun. I told the other mothers, "Any minute now, I'm gonna be in the hospital!” Boy, was I ever deluded.

You took your sweet time.

When I went for my weekly checkup about a week before you were born, I was certain, CERTAIN that I was at least three centimetres dilated. At LEAST.

A centimetre.

One. Single. Centimetre.

“I pushed small children down hills yesterday!”  I told Dr. Bedside Manners, “It MUST be more than that. I’ve been contracting for ages and ages.”

Nope.

I was still pretty upset Dr. BM was leaving on vacation during my due date. This was our last visit before another doctor took over my care. So, if I wanted him to deliver, he’d have to “stretch my cervix” (his words) to get labour going, and maybe – just maybe – he’d be able to deliver you before he had to leave to catch his plane.

Sweet offer, eh? Not often a man offers to stretch your cervix for you.

I contemplated his offer, feet in stirrups, while his fingers were all up in there waiting for the go ahead. If I said yes, you could be born on April Fool’s Day! How funny would that be! I sooo wanted an April Fool’s baby.

I chickened out. I decided to take some mythical high road and let God decide when you came.

Whatever.

A student MD delivered you. But we’ll get to that part in a minute, or six.

Before I left, we hugged. Yes, my doctor is a hugger. He delivered Andrew and Ezra and I was teary eyed, thinking that he wouldn’t be there for my last baby. He was sad, too, but he was still going to Paris. Bastard.

That night, my contractions kept getting stronger so I went to the ER for a quick check. Maybe you were on your way!

Not a single millimetre of change. Still a single freaking centimetre.

While I was there, a student RN was on rotation, so she got to check me. I was feeling generous, and the head nurse was really impressed at my willingness to help her learn. This young woman had short fingers, and could not, to save her own life, find my cervix.  A half hour of coaching later, she had found it.

I was still a single centimetre dilated.

I was secretly hoping all the cervix handling would get labour going and Dr BM would still be in town.

No luck. And we waited. And waited some more.

And more.

Five days later, the contractions finally got to the point where I really had to stop and concentrate to get through them.

Finally, I thought, after a week of waiting, you were FINALLY coming.

“Okay,” I said to Daddy, “this is it! Take the kids to the sitter, notify the Grandparents, we’re going to the hospital.”

We arrived at the hospital the morning of Wednesday April 6^th.

They checked me.

I was three centimetres.

They were going to send me home. But, the head nurse checked Dr. BM’s orders and he’d noted that I was likely “to go fast” once admitted, and, as I had tested positive for Strep B, ought to stay.

I love my doc. Did I call him a bastard? I take it back. He is perfection personified.

I was IN! They couldn’t get rid of me now. It was deliver or induce time. Ha ha!

They wheeled me to a private room. (Room 5!) It was quiet, one other mother had delivered the day before and I ooohhhed and ahhhhed over her baby girl as I waited for Daddy to bring in my robe and slippers and massage cream and books and various other items I deemed absolutely necessary to my comfort.

I was really, really prepared this time. Ezra was early (or right on time depending on how you do the math); Andrew was early (by at least two weeks). You were the only baby I was truly prepared for in the physical sense of preparedness. So, I brought a lot of crap with me to the hospital.

My own private room was awesome. I had a private room with Andrew and Ezra as well, but this room I hadn’t been in before. I unpacked all my crap, poking around in drawers and finding places for all the aforementioned crap. I was moving in.

It’s like my unconscious knew you’d be stubborn about exiting the womb.

I was poking around for a spot for my copy of Elizabeth Gilbert’s Commitment, when I found it.

It...

End Part 1. Part 2 coming soon...