Birthdays Past Part 1

With Baby Girl's birthday fast approaching, I have been reminiscing about the boys' birthdays.  We're still on track to have her c-section on Thursday, and I thought I would take a few moments to remember the day that my Dane was born and I became a mother.  And to answer the "Why am I scheduling a c-section" question.  So I apologize in advance to both of my male readers.  This will be (non-graphic) chic reading.

In December of 2003, Dane's due date on December 15 was fast approaching.  I was very pregnant and very miserable.  I remember the comments that every pregnant woman hears in the last month of her pregnancy:  the endless questions about how I was feeling, how much longer did I have, and of course, all of the tips on "how to go into labor".  I tried all (okay most) of them.  I ate Mexican food.  I ate Dominos pizza.  I walked miles.  I even went to Brandon's gym and hopped on the treadmill.  Picture a 9 months pregnant woman wearing scrubs (it was all that fit) on a treadmill in a very "muscle" gym.  This was not the YMCA.  I was the only woman there, and I was the only one not sweating it out on the free weights.  The men all stared at me as if the baby would actually fall out onto the treadmill.  Very nervous weightlifters.

My doctor was not the least bit encouraging.  Appointment after appointment revealed that Dane was no closer to swimming toward the light than he had been the week before.  I was gi-normous, so an ultrasound was scheduled at my 39-week appointment to see just how big this baby was.

I was pretty excited.  I had convinced myself that if the baby was big enough, surely my doctor would take pity on me and send me to the hospital to be induced.  I packed my bag before my ultrasound, and I said to myself "If they tell me this baby is 8 pounds, I am not going home."

That day, at 39 weeks, Dane's weight was estimated at not 8, but 9 pounds, and my doctor refused to induce me before my due date one week later.  I did not go to the hospital that day, but Brandon took his crazed and tearful wife to the Cheesecake Factory instead.  (I don't know how I gained 40 pounds with that pregnancy).

One week later, on my due date on December 15, 2003, I went in for my induction.  Still no indications that this baby was actually planning on making his appearance any time soon. 

Because I have blocked most of that day from my memory, here is the short version of the 12 hours between 7am and 7pm:  Pitocin was started, non-stop contractions in sued, and after 12 hours of these contractions, I was a whopping 1 centimeter dilated.  Um, has anyone seen the size of my childrens' heads?  1 centimeter was just not going to cut it.  And they wouldn't give me an epidural because I was not "progressing".  

This was not my plan at all.  My birth plan included getting the epidural at some point 2 weeks before my due date and not feeling a thing.  At all.  Instead, I felt everything.  I would squeeze Brandon's hand through some of the earlier contractions, not realizing that, silly me, he was trying to read his book.  After the first hour, he turns to me, as I am experiencing NONSTOP contractions and says, "Um, I don't think I can do this all day."

I'm sorry, honey.  Is all my labor BOTHERING YOU??

12 hours after the induction started, it was clear that Dane had absolutely no intention of being born that day.  Still not swimming towards the light.  A c-section was mentioned, and I may have said something along the lines of "I don't care if you have to pull him out of my nostrils at this point, JUST GET HIM OUT."

Earth Mama I am not.

As I'm lying there in the operating room for the c-section, experiencing the weirdest feelings on my abdomen I have ever felt, I finally hear the crying of my precious baby.  He was born a pink and screaming 8 pounds 7 ounces (not the 9 pounder the doctor expected), with the giant head he still sports today.  

Then I hear the most surprising comment from my doctor as he is closing up shop:  "You have a very shallow pelvis.  This baby never would have delivered."  Apparently, Dane's head never even "dropped", because his huge melon would not fit in my "shallow pelvis".

For those of you that know me, you understand why this comment is surprising.  When I look in the mirror, I do not see a woman with a "shallow pelvis".  I have always been a girl built for famine, not speed.  I will never wither away from starvation.  However, I will never go on a safari with my sister, because if push comes to shove, I know who the hungry lion is coming after.  And it ain't Lindy.

But apparently, the hips I see in the mirror are not birthing hips, they are cheeseburger hips.  The doctor told me at a later appointment, that "unless I start having 5 pound babies, I will always have to have a c-section."  So that settles that.  Brandon and I are not destined to have 5 pound babies.

Dane proved himself to be a very sweet, easy going baby.  He went "by the book", and was very happy and a great eater and sleeper.

He was very alert and interactive as an infant, and we enjoyed him so much.  Here is a picture of Dane, very confused by his father's "Mud Gumbys" t-shirt, when he was about a week old:

We were all a little confused about that shirt, Dane.

And a few months later, Dane proved himself to be built for famine, also.

He has a mouth in there somewhere (as evidenced by the obvious signs of nutrition exhibited in the arm rolls.)  It's just buried somewhere between the super-chubby cheeks.

Now this little baby is about to be a Big Brother, second time around.  

He's a good one.  I think we'll keep him.