Ambercutie is our one and only girl. I'm glad she is a girlie-girl. How ironic would it be to have my only girl be a tomboy? She is the second oldest and came to be sort of by accident (almost all of our kids are sort of by accident). It depends on what you mean by "planning." Were we "planning" on having another kid? Yes. Did I want to become pregnant with that kid while my first was only eight months old and still nursing? No. I told myself I never wanted to do THAT again. Leech #1 (baby inside) gets fed first, then Leech #2 (baby outside) gets fed, then dear old mom is last. Talk about STARVING. I needed those Krispy Kremes in order to not feel hunger pains for about... two minutes. I really just wanted an IV line. I could wheel it around and feel the fat and calories course through my veins. I could also get the dishes done at the same time. It is so time consuming to eat constantly. Then there's the peeing and sleeping. How was I supposed to raise a toddler in the middle of the full time job that is pregnancy?
As it turns out, I love having kids a year and a half apart. They were into the same stuff (potty training, Barney, etc.). They were the best of friends until about first grade when Critter learned that girls are yucky.
I had much more nausea with the girl. I had vomiting even. With Critter, I had occasional nausea that went away with food. With "Amberpukie," I was sick all the time, food or not. Besides that delight, the pregnancy went well.
I was a week and a half overdue with my first, so I expected the same this time around (so naive). I was already overdue, when a novice nurse examined me and told me I was five centimeters dilated. Holy cow! I told my husband we were going to the hospital tonight. We called the grandparents. Woo hoo! That night, nothing. Next morning, nothing. We were scratching our heads. At my next week's appointment, my doctor examined me and told me I was three centimeters. She apologized for the error. I told her to give me the two centimeters back and all would be forgiven. She said, "you are a good candidate for induction." No thanks. I've been down the pitocin road, and it is NOT for me (a story for another time).
Anyhoo, I got to be two weeks overdue. What the heck was she doing in there? The little diva didn't want to come out until she had pretty long nails and curly hair? I thought, seriously, she has to come out eventually. As all preggos know, we say it, but we don't believe it.
As with my first pregnancy, I began having bad Braxton Hicks about two weeks before the birth. What I mean by bad is that these contractions are no different from real ones. I have had five babies, and I mean I can never tell when real labor begins! The only way I know is that the real contractions get so bad that I have to catch my breath. This false labor can go on all night and the contractions do get closer together, so I can't use "they go away" or "they don't get closer together" as guidelines. The "fake" contractions just don't take my breath away.
I had these fake contractions for several hours, and they were five minutes apart. We decided to head to the hospital, where it was determined I was five centimeters dilated (for real this time). As soon as we walked in the hospital door, the contractions stopped. What kind of cruel game? I expressed my laborly doubt to my nurse, but she said, "honey, you're having this baby tonight." I was admitted, but I felt no more pains. Hubby and I fell asleep and woke up the next morning babyless. The doc came in and said they could induce me or I could go home. I said, "See you later today." Being dilated to five, I knew it wouldn't be long. The nurses looked at me like I was a slime covered alien. What? Why would I want to sit around the hospital all day? Unless they can hook me up to a Krispy Kreme bag...
The next morning I woke up at about 5 AM to annoying pains. I went back to sleep and woke up again to these pesky pains knocking on my peaceful sleeping door. Something about "Wake up. It's time to push out a big fat Irish baby head." I got up, woke Steve up, called the grandparents, called my sister to come and watch Critter, grabbed the bags, and got in the car. The pain was still manageable when I called my ob, who didn't believe me when I was in labor with my first and didn't believe me this time. "Angel, you sound so calm for someone in labor." I'm sorry; I'm not a screamer. I save that for the tween years.
At the hospital, the ladies at the admittance counter looked at me skeptically. I'm sure they were whispering to each other that I'd be going back home in about an hour, because how can a woman supposedly already dilated to five, two weeks overdue, about to GIVE BIRTH stand there quietly like that? Does everyone have to be the stereotypical raving bitchy woman in labor? I like to keep things fresh. Mix it up a little bit.
The nurse told me I was seven centimeters. I told her to call my doctor. Where was my doctor? This was my second baby, and my first labor was quick. She asked me if I wanted an epidural. This time I looked at her like she was an alien covered in slime. I'm seven centimeters, lady. By the time you hook me up the kid will be crowning. I wasn't a fan of this nurse. She was staring at me during contractions, as if she were the zoologist and I was the gorilla rearing up the baby tiger as my own. No. 1, don't stare. No. 2, don't stare at a woman in labor. Did she have a death wish? Seriously, she was causing me to break my mental imagery. I was in Maui, and Critter was building a sandcastle; then this nurse comes over to our beach blanket and asks, "how do you do it?" Well, I'm going to be "doing it" all by myself if you don't get my doctor in here.
By this time, I was in transition. I was swaying my hips holding onto the table with the telephone on it. I focused on those black and white numbers until they swirled before my eyes. The pound sign was especially comforting (I don't know if that is a little Freudian violence?).
Soon, I told the nurse I was ready to push. She examined me and said I was nine and a half. "Almost there," she said. If I had the strength I would have pushed her. She went out into the hall to get the intern on call. Apparently, my doc was told I would be a while, so she went ahead with an elective surgery (tube tying) with another patient who had just given birth.
While the nurse was gone, I hopped up onto the bed and started pushing. To hell with nine and a half. I needed to push. The nurse and intern came in a few minutes later, all befuddled. The nurse said, "Well, I guess if you feel you need to push, go ahead." If my eyes weren't shut tight in pain, I may have rolled them. the teenager, I mean intern, started to examine me when he saw my daughter crowning. I swear, he literally just put his hands out like he was going to catch a football.
And so, Ambercutie, in diva fashion, decided that after making everyone wait for two weeks, she didn't want to wait another hour or so for the real doctor to bring her in the world. She wanted out now. Even if now meant she would be born in poo. Yes, meconium, people. That really freaks nurses out. Suction! That's what happens when you outrun your uterus lease, babies.
**I didn't have the episiotomy with her (not that there would have been time). The tear was small, and I could tell no difference in pain or healing time between the tear and the cut I had with my first labor.
Ambercutie: born October 9, 2000 at 9:46 AM (labor lasted about five hours)
8 pounds and 13 ounces, 21 inches long
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