The Sun, Part I.

Until you have a child, you never realize just how much revolves around one tiny person.  In fact, even during pregnancy, your life is claimed by something outside of yourself (well, inside technically, but outside of your life experience to that point).  

When I was pregnant, everything revolved around my belly.  How big it was, how high or low, did I mention how big?  Everyone was so fixated on that one thing, and I have to admit, I was too.  I remember longing for my "bump" to appear so I could look pregnant instead of just chubby.  Before I knew it, around month 5, I was having tremendous pains that had me convinced something was terribly wrong with Ayla.   That pain would be called round ligament pain as my body was growing quite literally by the second.  I remember at the end of one weekend noticing how big I had gotten just since that Friday. Every day, it seemed, someone was asking me about how far along I was, how long was left, and boy, I looked like I might pop any day.  

My afternoons were filled with milkshakes and prenatal appointments.  My mornings were gagging on my toothbrush and faithfully taking my prenatal vitamins.  In the beginning, I followed all the rules.  No soda, no lunch meat, no feta, etc...  Once I hit the safe zone of the 2nd trimester, I was over it.  Dr. Pepper was my new obsession, though I limited myself as much as possible (I never had more than a can in a day, and even then, not daily).  I was also in love with milkshakes and the famous Wendy's Frosty.  Several things repulsed me, most of all fish and mushrooms.  Blech!  

Before we found out Ayla's sex, we obsessed about whether we wanted to or not.  Rather, I didn't, but Brandon did.  It was so important to him; he was hoping and wishing for a girl.  It didn't matter so much to me, and at the end of the day, I didn't want to miss one of our few peeks at our baby growing in my Buddha belly.

We did birth classes.  Read the baby books.  We had the baby BBQ in lieu of a shower.  When we got close to the end, I started trying everything I was being told to get things going: old wives' tale of mac 'n cheese with A1 (sounded good to my preggo self, wasn't so hot), walking through the mall (ended up with wicked contractions in Hallmark, the few that I actually ever felt), and as my buddy Stacy said, "bend and thrust."

What ended up happening was not the way I had hoped for it to happen.  You see, my high risk ob-gyn (due to my RSD) knew that I should NOT have a c-section due to the effects it could have on my neuro problems.  He was equally concerned with the size of the baby.  She was measuring ahead and an ultrasound (though the margin of error was a pound + or -) saying that she, at 38 weeks, was measuring in the 8 lb. 6 oz. range.  

If he had been able to, I am sure he would have stripped my membranes (though I didn't want that at all), but he couldn't get to them.

He wanted to schedule an induction, I didn't.

Memorial weekend was full of BBQs and busyness.  On that Monday, we were at B's best friend's parents' house enjoying lots of good food (and a Mt. Dew for me).   I was having contractions while sitting down, so I took that as a good sign.  But I also wasn't feeling Ayla move, and of course this freaked me out due to the comment from ob-gyn that he had a 9-month pregnant woman come in with a dead baby in her womb that she hadn't felt moving.  Sidenote: WTF-who says that??  My placenta was anterior (knowledge thanks to my awesome 3d/4d ultrasound tech/owner who was amazing), so me not feeling her wasn't that unusual.  But Doc told us that if I was having contractions to call him and come into the hospital, as it would be easier to keep them going than to start them from zero.  Well, we called him, packed a bag (just in case, and who ever really knows what to bring-my top items were pillow, blanket, and my own pjs to wear during labor), and headed to the hospital.

When they got me in a room (thanks to my pre-registering during my blood pressure scare early in May), the nurse told me to put a gown on.  I was like, "What for?  I am here so they can monitor the baby."  I wasn't putting that shitty hospital gown on, ever.  The baby was good, and I was having contractions (that I wasn't feeling).  My BP was high, as it had been my last month of pregnancy.  I wanted to go home.  I felt like everything was out of my control, this little baby that my life had been revolving around, was basically going to come into the world on someone else's terms.  

We decided to stay, due to my BP concerns and lack of feeling contractions, which would have possibly progressed my labor too far for me to get an epidural (another must have for RSD patients).  I made them move me to another room because the one I was in had a whiteboard/corkboard that was covered in scribbles, and if I had to give birth in that hospital, I needed to be in another room.  Again, I felt like I was trying to have some sort of control, as very little was in my hands.  Doc suggested Cervadil, which turned out to be a waste of money and time sitting in my cervix overnight.  

A nurse came in the next morning and told me to take a shower so they could come in and break my water.  The part of my birth experience that upsets me most is that B & I both heard Doc say that it would be an OPTION in the morning, not a requirement.  His manner in dealing with me when the nurse called him to tell him about my "refusal" was infuriating.  

I told the nurse that I wanted my epidural before they broke my water.  At this point, I wanted to just have something in my control.  So it was.  Epidural inserted, water broken, and pitocin administered.  The day was spent napping, brushing my teeth, updating Facebook, and texting folks.  Luckily, I had an amazing nurse who had a daughter I used to teach when I was an intern.  She was amazing, and I am glad I got to spend the day with her instead of nurse #1 or Doc.  The last time my wonderful nurse checked me, I was at 10.  She notified Doc, and they agreed to let me rest (I said "I'm so tired!") also get some oxygen for the next little while.  

Around 3:00, I had my feet in stirrups.  Doc didn't arrive for another 15 minutes.  WTF.  The nurse had me doing some practice pushing while she massaged my perineum.  My mom said to her that she should deliver my baby, and I agree she would've done a lovely job.  Doc came in, chomping away at his gum.  He had me push.  Everyone encouraged me (I had an entourage...B, my mom, his mom, my sister, and my future sis-in-law).  My mom kept saying, "Just one more push, just one more push!"  I had to tell her, "I know you're trying to be very helpful, but please stop saying that."

After the longest 30 minutes of my life (along with Doc asking if I wanted to "tear" or "be cut" to which I told him, "Whatever you think."  I wasn't feeling up to making a choice...and already knew what he'd decide), my precious baby was born.  The moment I saw her, I thought, "Is this really my baby?" due to both disbelief and my baby with a very Asian looking face (I'm guessing due to the major swelling I had, she did as well).

She became The Sun the moment she was conceived.  Everything revolved around her then, and it still does now.

To be continued...