About 2 weeks after Porter was born, and while still riding my post-partum hormonal high, I finally sat down to write about my childbirth experiences – both of them. But alas, the sleep deprivation began, and instead of writing flowery prose about contractions and cervical dilation, I became an obsessed lunatic in meticulously documenting each moment of missed sleep, and sibling adjustment, and the irradic emotional peaks and valleys, and did I mention the missed sleep? I have been staring at a partially written draft ever since. And although there is a ton going on for us right now, I am not quite in a place where I am ready to blog about it, so I figured it would be a good time for me to finish my childbirth masterpieces once and for all.

Firstly, I would like to make a dedication:

I dedicate this first childbirth post to my Aunt Tess, who has told me the story of the day I was born at least 600 times. For never being deterred by the fact that, each and every time, I would roll my eyes as though she was crazy. For being redeemed in knowing that now, I finally get it.

Part I: And upon the world, there was gifted a Stella.

One of the most memorable lessons learned with Stella’s delivery: In a death match between a pregnant woman and her contractions, the contractions will always win.

At 42 weeks and one day, my body had NO intention of getting off the pregnancy train. And so it was ultimately decided amongst Steve, myself and the doctor that we would finally give in and initiate the early stages of induction. As disappointed as I was to not get to go into labor on my own, I knew it was time to get this show on the road. Mom had been camped at our house since a week before my due date, I was swollen like a Macy’s Day Parade float and I was starting to get the distinct feeling that if we didn’t do something soon, this baby would be receiving it’s high school diploma in utero. And so it was set: that evening we would all load up and head down to the hospital to have my pre-induction hormones administered. However, through a mix-up in communication with my doctor, we had no idea that when we strolled into the hospital on the evening of December 8th, we were actually checking in. As in, for good. So there we were – me with nothing but my purse; Steve and Mom without dinner; all of us completely without a clue. This. Was. It.

After hooking me up to the contraction-o-meter and the fetal heart monitor, they got me situated for what turned out to be one of the most overwhelming, exhausting, exciting and memorable nights of my life. The nurse gave me one last check – just to make sure I hadn’t magically started to dialate over the last 4 hours, then administered the hormones. From there, I went from zero to Capital-L-A-B-O-R in about an hour. As that distinct feeling of someone trying to bore out of my body through my lower back began to set in, I was alone in my hospital room. Just me, my purse and Emeril. (As it turned out, Emeril and the rest of my Food Network friends would hold constant vigil on the muted tv throughout the remainder of the night’s activities.) By the time Mom and Steve got back from rousting themselves up some dinner, I had begun my slow migration towards hugging the bedrail.

As Steve attempted to massage my back, Mom focused on getting me on task. Breathing? What breathing? Don’t you know that the act of breathing interferes with my ability to use every muscle in my body to apply equal and opposite pressure against these hideous contractions? Fine, I’ll breathe. Why are my extremities going numb? Hyperventilating? See, I told you this wasn’t a good idea.

It was right about the time that I was ready to snap the bedrail off it’s frame entirely, that the new nurse on shift pointed out the inefficiency in my current strategy. Apparently, in the battle of me against the contraction, I was clearly losing – explaining why, after hours and hours of labor I had barely progressed past a 2. She suggested something to help me relax a little. I opened my eyes long enough to indicate that YES, A THOUSAND TIMES, YES, GIVE ME SOME DRUGS, I WANT TO BE WHOLE AGAIN. It was also right about this time that I began begging to get in the bathtub. Somewhere in the recesses of my brain the voices were telling me that everything would be fluffy bunnies and butterflies if I could just submerge myself in a giant tub of water.

As the magical and beautiful fentanyl shot washed over my body, I was actually able to move from my fetal position and, with a couple short pauses for me to crumple to the ground while waiting through a contraction, I managed to maneuver myself into the bathtub. For me, time was not measured in minutes, but in centimeters. However, for Mom and Steve it was measured in hours – as in, the 6 that had passed since I first went into labor at 9:00 pm. They took turns downing cups of coffee, trying to brace themselves for the fact that, at the pace I was progressing, I was going to be in labor for the next 4 days. And yet somehow, while slouched down in the bathtub with Mom, The Breathing Nazi, 2 inches from my face, and Steve shoulder-to-shoulder to her left diligently repeating, “you’re doing great, you can do this,” I lurched and sputtered my way through transition.

It is fairly typical to think of the laboring wife as the one grabbing their husband by the scruff of his collar and yelling, “You did this to me! Do you realize I’m never having sex with you again? This is ALL YOUR FAULT!” That just goes to show you that television writers have obviously NEVER GIVEN BIRTH. Do you know how much precious energy it takes to do something like that? I couldn’t have mustered that kind of energy if I had wanted to. Instead, I began to whimper. Even today, I can vividly remember the feeling that I had had enough. Someone had better get me that epidural. STAT! And yet the nurse insisted on checking me one more time before they contacted the doctor. No dice. “Sorry honey, you’re at 10. Time to start pushing.”

I took about 10 seconds to consider this thought (it was about all the time I could dedicate, as contractions were on a relentless, continuous loop). Pushing meant I was getting close to the end, right? But pushing? That means more energy. And these contractions? Yeah, getting a little old. And you basically just told me I am not getting anymore drugs. You’ll have to excuse me while I scream into my pillow for a moment here.

And so I pushed. And I pushed, and I pushed and I pushed. For 2 hours I pushed. But unlike the previous 8 hours, I was now upright and aware and realizing that finally, Finally, FINALLY! I was FINALLY having this baby! In between taking every single breath in tandem with me, Mom was snapping photos and giving me updates: I can see it’s head! It has so much hair! One more push! You are almost there! Now one more! Oh My God! Natalie! Natalie! You did it! You did it! You did it!

I had always imagined that the moment the baby came out there would be a unanimous exclamation of “It’s a Boy!” or “It’s a Girl!” But along with the other million things about this process that I had misjudged, this was just another to add to the list. As it turned out, the cord was wrapped pretty tightly around Stella’s neck, and in the pushes between getting her head and her body out, the cord actually broke. (As I learned, not a good thing.) This, combined with the fact that she was positioned face down, indicating to the doctor that she had actually been wedged in the birth canal. Everyone was so busy tending to oxygen and blankets that no one remembered to tell me that right then, at 7:53 in the morning, nearly 11 action-packed hours after Emeril and I gave each other that knowing glance, we became the parents of a brand new, beautiful baby girl.

“It’s a girl!”