(click here to see Part I).

I’d like to dedicate this second installment to my mother and my husband. For putting up with each other. For putting up with me. And for being even more amazing the second time than you were the first time.

Looking back over my life, I have made the stark observation that some of the best things I have ever accomplished were achieved only after doing them horribly wrong the first time. And if you read Part I, I am sure you can see where I am going with this. Let’s just say that if there was a Labor & Delivery Awards Show, I would be taking home the golden uterus statuette for Most Improved Performance.

My body’s total disregard for the definition of due date – as in, the date your body is supposed to actually give you the baby; hence the word due – was no different the second time around than it was the first. And as week 40 came and went, we began going through the paces of ultrasounds and check-ups every other day. I really did have high hopes of getting to go into labor on my own, but with each check-up, my cervex gave us the same answer: Don’t call us, We’ll call you. As it turned out? They never called.

As week 41 turned to week 42, we began talking the I-word (for those of you not up on pregnancy lingo, that would be IN-DUC-TION). And so, after a rant to my midwife about my experience with cervidel (or as I remember it: that heinous stuff that tried to kill me), I was scheduled to be hooked up to a petocin drip first thing on Monday morning. Unless my stubborn-ass body decided to change its mind and actually give me this child of its own free will, this would be my last two days of being pregnant. Use them wisely. (for those of you not up on pregnancy lingo, that would be SLEEP.)

I still had a nagging sadness over the fact that I would never enjoy the opportunity of going into labor on my own, but as I would later realize, I got the next best thing. You see, it took my body FOR-EVER to respond to the petocin. Like clockwork, the nurse would come in every half hour or so to increase the drip and monitor my pain scale. Every second or third visit, I’d tell her that my pain had progressed from 0 to a .667 because of my husband’s inability to occupy himself without annoying me.

We passed 6 hours, waiting for my body to finally realize that it was not going to win this battle. We divvied up my “clear foods” tray (I got the green Jell-O and the popsicle), we watched TV, and Steve did his best to document the occasion in photographs (mostly taking photos of himself). And, slowly, hour after hour, my contractions began to finally arrive with increasing regularity and intensity, until I all of a sudden realized, “Holy Crap, I’m in labor.” It was around this time that I demanded the TV be turned off (sorry, no Food Network this time), Steve was directed to stop taking pictures of himself and my mother effortlessly eased into her role as the breathing Nazi. With my team at my side, we proceeded to spend the next 4 hours showing these people how it is done.

I breathed when I was supposed to breathe, I relaxed when I was supposed to relax, and whined when I felt I was owed it: “5 centimeters?!? That’s it? I can’t go another 5 centimeters! I’ll die!” As you might guess, the midwife was not particularly sympathetic.

Within an hour, we heard it on the fetal monitor like a giant flick on a microphone: My water broke. So that’s what it feels like. Everyone did a little dance – except me, who all of a sudden realized that we had crossed some invisible line in which we went from jogging to running, and that at the rate things had been moving, transition was imminent. Oh God, not transition. I’m not ready for transition. SOMEBODY STOP THE TRANSITION. I’LL DIE!

The pace of things began to escalate, and I remembered that all those hours ago when my pain was at a .667 that I had confirmed that yes, if the situation called for it, I would like to request one of those lovely Fentanyl shots. This was one of those times. But here’s the thing. It just wasn’t as good this time. I got the shot and waited for the magic, but it was marginal, at best. And instead of getting the lovely reprieve I was looking for, I instead found myself focused on the fact that this right here? This was it. Suck it up, cause there’s nothing to save you now.

So we breathed, and we focused, and we made low-pitched moans instead of high pitched whines, and then I started to realize that the only way this relentless loop of life-sucking contractions was going to ever be over was if I got to push this damn baby out. So I began pestering them. Can I push now? Please? How about now? How about now? 10 yet? IT HAS TO BE 10! PLEASE LET IT BE 10!

I don’t remember the exact moment that they let me start pushing, but I will forever remember it as the moment that I was gloriously granted the beginning of the end. Unlike the first time around when I spent 2 1/2 hours of trying to force out a semi-wedged baby, this time I was given the clear-for-landing signal, and 20 minutes later a gooey little 9 pound 6 ounce, vernix-covered Walstonling was laid on my chest. My son.

Within 10 minutes, Celene and Thad showed up with Stella, and Dore couldn’t have been even 5 minutes behind that…everyone standing witness to our new and improved selves.

Here is a short clip of Porter, being processed for intake. (thanks, Thad.)