The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly
Ame woke me up on Sunday at 5:30 a.m. to let me know that she had had more than a few contractions since 3:30 that morning. Since she and Cat had spent the better part of the previous day cleaning and rearranging the apartment, she had a hunch that this was it. Her throne was ready for the baby, so the baby was ready for the throne.
We stayed in bed for a couple more hours, working through -- as Ame would discover a little while later -- the minor contractions. Eventually we got up and showered; the hot water really helped her work through the contractions. Ame then spent a good percentage of the next few hours leaning over the edge of the couch with my thumbs dug firmly into her lower back to ease the pain. Knowing that you're supposed to call the doctor when contractions are a minute long or longer and five minutes between, I tried keeping track of these. There wasn't, however, much of anything that was regular about these contractions. Expecting to look at my watch and announce, "One and a half minutes long, seven minutes between," I felt like I had no idea what was going on when it didn't work out that way, but Ame assured me that we were in the beginning stages and that things really wouldn't be regulating yet.
Then Ame's water broke, around 12:30 p.m. This led us to the bathroom (linoleum floors are a plus) for some considerably stronger contractions. The labor was now progressing rather rapidly, so we decided to fill the birthing pool (a large tub, more or less) with 'hot' water from the faucet, which turned out to be just a shade above lukewarm. This really wasn't too terribly surprising, though, when you consider that fact that, when taking a shower, we have to repeatedly turn the cold water down to keep the shower hot enough if anybody else in our building is running water too.
Thinking that Addie was going to be coming soon, we called the doula and the midwife (who was a Mennonite), ready to have the baby at home. Once the pool was filled, Ame decided that the time was right to get in, more than happy to have the opportunity to get off her feet. And since the temperature wasn't quite right, Cat helped by boiling water in our large soup pot (and our small pot, and our sauce pot, and our skillet) and adding it the pool, which warmed the pool considerably.
The midwife showed up around 2:30 and checked to find that Ame was just about fully dilated. Baby was getting ready to make her way down. The contractions, obviously, continued. And boy did they continue. I pulled up a chair alongside the tub and was, as some may say, man-handled. I am proud to say that I was quite the help to Ame during the contractions, even if my help consisted of little more than to be a body to hold onto.
The contractions came and went, and the baby was slowly making her entrance to the world. Slowly. I am convinced that each hour passed more slowly than any hour has ever passed before. Addie was approaching the world as a procrastinator, which is completely, utterly, absolutely, unequivocally unlike either of her parents. Eventually, however -- and it seemed like a miracle at the time -- the baby's fuzzy head began to crown, meaning that we could reach down and feel it. Ame's reaction to this was, to put it simply, beautiful and priceless.
A few pushes later, which were accompanied by the requisite "I don't want to do this anymore," Addison Blythe Hunter entered the world, bright-eyed and beautiful. Even the midwife remarked on how her eyes were wide open and looking around, and this coming from a woman who has delivered a couple thousand babies. Ame held her close, still in the water, until the umbilical cord stopped pulsing and it was time to cut it. That was where I stepped in. The midwife clamped the cord and handed me the scissors, and in a few short snips (which were tougher than I expected), Addie was finally no longer connected to her mother's body.
It was then time for Ame to get out of the water, which meant that I was to be handed the baby. It was suggested that I take my shirt off to bond with the baby and keep her warm (by holding her skin-to-skin), and I obliged. Then the midwife performed the obligatory weighing of the baby, which was an event in and of itself.
The thing about Mennonites is that they must buy things to last. I'm not sure what I imagined when I pictured them weighing the baby, but this wasn't it. The midwife wrapped the baby up in a piece of faded gingham cloth and suspended the contraption from a handheld spring scale not unlike this one. The image of a woman in bonnet and conservative, modest dress suspending a baby-in-blanket package from an old scale -- which measured nothing more exact than pounds, halves, and quarters -- was one that I will probably not soon forget, and one that Cat, the designated picture-taker, wishes that she had captured on film.
Concerned about the possibility of being pooped on (I still had my shirt off), I asked after a few minutes if we should go ahead and put a diaper on her, just to play it safe. I was told no, almost as if I were ridiculous for asking such a thing. Based upon the answer I was given, I would have ventured a guess that the baby wouldn't actually go to the bathroom until next March. But, low and behold, just a few minutes later I was being peed on.
Since she needed to be cleaned up, I went ahead and laid Addie down to wipe her off and put a diaper on her. The midwife took this opportunity to measure her length, and upon concluding that the baby was 20 inches long -- combined with the knowledge that she was 8 pounds, 10 ounces -- promptly labeled her a "chunker."
The rest of the evening was little more than a blur, which was not entirely surprising given the events that had just transpired. But somewhere in the mix the placenta was delivered, the birth tub was drained, and the apartment was generally cleaned and straightened up. Ame did her part to nurse Addie, and after everyone left Cat was kind enough to bake us some scones; neither of us had really eaten since around noon.
Eventually we were able to settle down and get to bed, but getting to sleep wasn't quite so easy, for a few reasons. First, despite how exhausted we both were, we were still each experiencing an adrenaline rush, and were at the same time completely worn out and wide awake. Second, the baby was fussy when not being held, and Mommy and Daddy were more than happy to hold her for just a minute longer. Third, Addie was still getting the hang of being self-sufficient, such as breathing on her own, and neither of us felt comfortable falling asleep without the absolute assurance that she was going to be okay. It's amazing how much you can love and care about something that's so small.
That is, in a rather large nutshell, our birth story. Ame may be embarrassed by this, but I am so proud of her and amazed at how well she did. She even remarked recently that, a little more than 24 hours after such an experience, she may be willing to do this again some time.
So there you have it. And if you're the picture-loving type, prepare to be bombarded.
(Note: As for the title, it is a reference to the movie by the same name, which really has nothing to do with anything except for some vague similarities. I figure it works something like this: "the good" would, quite obviously, be Addie; "the bad" would be labor pains; and "the ugly" would be, without equal, the placenta. Really, it was the best that I could come up with. I thought the story of Addie's birth deserved a better title than "The Birth" or something like that.)
We stayed in bed for a couple more hours, working through -- as Ame would discover a little while later -- the minor contractions. Eventually we got up and showered; the hot water really helped her work through the contractions. Ame then spent a good percentage of the next few hours leaning over the edge of the couch with my thumbs dug firmly into her lower back to ease the pain. Knowing that you're supposed to call the doctor when contractions are a minute long or longer and five minutes between, I tried keeping track of these. There wasn't, however, much of anything that was regular about these contractions. Expecting to look at my watch and announce, "One and a half minutes long, seven minutes between," I felt like I had no idea what was going on when it didn't work out that way, but Ame assured me that we were in the beginning stages and that things really wouldn't be regulating yet.
Then Ame's water broke, around 12:30 p.m. This led us to the bathroom (linoleum floors are a plus) for some considerably stronger contractions. The labor was now progressing rather rapidly, so we decided to fill the birthing pool (a large tub, more or less) with 'hot' water from the faucet, which turned out to be just a shade above lukewarm. This really wasn't too terribly surprising, though, when you consider that fact that, when taking a shower, we have to repeatedly turn the cold water down to keep the shower hot enough if anybody else in our building is running water too.
Thinking that Addie was going to be coming soon, we called the doula and the midwife (who was a Mennonite), ready to have the baby at home. Once the pool was filled, Ame decided that the time was right to get in, more than happy to have the opportunity to get off her feet. And since the temperature wasn't quite right, Cat helped by boiling water in our large soup pot (and our small pot, and our sauce pot, and our skillet) and adding it the pool, which warmed the pool considerably.
The midwife showed up around 2:30 and checked to find that Ame was just about fully dilated. Baby was getting ready to make her way down. The contractions, obviously, continued. And boy did they continue. I pulled up a chair alongside the tub and was, as some may say, man-handled. I am proud to say that I was quite the help to Ame during the contractions, even if my help consisted of little more than to be a body to hold onto.
The contractions came and went, and the baby was slowly making her entrance to the world. Slowly. I am convinced that each hour passed more slowly than any hour has ever passed before. Addie was approaching the world as a procrastinator, which is completely, utterly, absolutely, unequivocally unlike either of her parents. Eventually, however -- and it seemed like a miracle at the time -- the baby's fuzzy head began to crown, meaning that we could reach down and feel it. Ame's reaction to this was, to put it simply, beautiful and priceless.
A few pushes later, which were accompanied by the requisite "I don't want to do this anymore," Addison Blythe Hunter entered the world, bright-eyed and beautiful. Even the midwife remarked on how her eyes were wide open and looking around, and this coming from a woman who has delivered a couple thousand babies. Ame held her close, still in the water, until the umbilical cord stopped pulsing and it was time to cut it. That was where I stepped in. The midwife clamped the cord and handed me the scissors, and in a few short snips (which were tougher than I expected), Addie was finally no longer connected to her mother's body.
It was then time for Ame to get out of the water, which meant that I was to be handed the baby. It was suggested that I take my shirt off to bond with the baby and keep her warm (by holding her skin-to-skin), and I obliged. Then the midwife performed the obligatory weighing of the baby, which was an event in and of itself.
The thing about Mennonites is that they must buy things to last. I'm not sure what I imagined when I pictured them weighing the baby, but this wasn't it. The midwife wrapped the baby up in a piece of faded gingham cloth and suspended the contraption from a handheld spring scale not unlike this one. The image of a woman in bonnet and conservative, modest dress suspending a baby-in-blanket package from an old scale -- which measured nothing more exact than pounds, halves, and quarters -- was one that I will probably not soon forget, and one that Cat, the designated picture-taker, wishes that she had captured on film.
Concerned about the possibility of being pooped on (I still had my shirt off), I asked after a few minutes if we should go ahead and put a diaper on her, just to play it safe. I was told no, almost as if I were ridiculous for asking such a thing. Based upon the answer I was given, I would have ventured a guess that the baby wouldn't actually go to the bathroom until next March. But, low and behold, just a few minutes later I was being peed on.
Since she needed to be cleaned up, I went ahead and laid Addie down to wipe her off and put a diaper on her. The midwife took this opportunity to measure her length, and upon concluding that the baby was 20 inches long -- combined with the knowledge that she was 8 pounds, 10 ounces -- promptly labeled her a "chunker."
The rest of the evening was little more than a blur, which was not entirely surprising given the events that had just transpired. But somewhere in the mix the placenta was delivered, the birth tub was drained, and the apartment was generally cleaned and straightened up. Ame did her part to nurse Addie, and after everyone left Cat was kind enough to bake us some scones; neither of us had really eaten since around noon.
Eventually we were able to settle down and get to bed, but getting to sleep wasn't quite so easy, for a few reasons. First, despite how exhausted we both were, we were still each experiencing an adrenaline rush, and were at the same time completely worn out and wide awake. Second, the baby was fussy when not being held, and Mommy and Daddy were more than happy to hold her for just a minute longer. Third, Addie was still getting the hang of being self-sufficient, such as breathing on her own, and neither of us felt comfortable falling asleep without the absolute assurance that she was going to be okay. It's amazing how much you can love and care about something that's so small.
That is, in a rather large nutshell, our birth story. Ame may be embarrassed by this, but I am so proud of her and amazed at how well she did. She even remarked recently that, a little more than 24 hours after such an experience, she may be willing to do this again some time.
So there you have it. And if you're the picture-loving type, prepare to be bombarded.
(Note: As for the title, it is a reference to the movie by the same name, which really has nothing to do with anything except for some vague similarities. I figure it works something like this: "the good" would, quite obviously, be Addie; "the bad" would be labor pains; and "the ugly" would be, without equal, the placenta. Really, it was the best that I could come up with. I thought the story of Addie's birth deserved a better title than "The Birth" or something like that.)
posted by Wes | 7:40 PM
3 Comments:
Wow, what a story, and very well written I might add. Greta and I are very happy for all 3 of you and can't wait to see you guys again. Many blessings and prayers for you all!
Wes, you are a wonderful storyteller! Takes me back about 24 years.. Patt
Wes - you ARE a great story teller, and such a wonder filled story. Addie is beautiful and I am so glad she was born on a Sunday (A child born on the Sabbath day is bonnie & Blythe and good and gay (happy)). I can hardly wait to see her and her parents!
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