The time I had a baby 20 minutes after getting to the hospital

Until 7 weeks ago, I thought those stories of women giving birth on the side of the road on their way to the hospital were kind of eyeroll-worthy. Come on, ladies: it takes goddamn FOREVER to have a baby. Unless they live a day’s drive away from the hospital, how long did these idiots wait to get into the car to make their way to the land of epidurals and medical professionals that they couldn’t make it?!

And then I came within 20 minutes of that happening to me.

Seriously, guys. I was one minor traffic jam away from giving birth in a dirty Prius on Beverly Boulevard.

And now I can tell you definitively that the problem these poor side-of-the-road mothers faced wasn’t that they were too dumb to get their pregnant asses out the door in a timely fashion, but rather that they simply didn’t understand that some babies have no interest in following protocol. Because no one really expects to go from “hmm, is that a contraction?” to “HOLY MOTHER OF GOD THIS KID IS COMING OUT OF ME LIKE RIGHT NOW” in just a few short hours. No one!

Ironically, I actually spent a great deal of my pregnancy worrying about getting to the hospital, but I was more concerned about enduring too many contractions in the car than actually giving birth on the road. Midway through the pregnancy, I moved from the westside of LA to the suburbs about 25 miles away, and I elected to keep my doctor rather than pick someone new in the middle of the game. Thanks to the horrors of LA traffic, this meant that it would take me anywhere from 45 to 90 minutes to reach the hospital, and with each passing week I got more and more nervous about being subjected to a tortuous hours-long journey to the hospital while I timed contractions and counted down the minutes till I could get an epidural. I vowed early on that I would make sure to leave for the hospital at the first inklings of true labor in order to minimize that issue.

But alas, like those side-of-the-roaders, I made the mistake of assuming that labor takes a long time, even the second time around, and neglected to consider that a “leave for the hospital early on in the labor process” plan is irrelevant when you don’t know how long labor is actually going to take. So when I started feeling contractions around midnight on March 19th, I didn’t immediately leap into action. I told my husband to get a few hours of sleep while he had the chance, called my mom to warn her that we’d be dropping Bubba off sometime in the morning, and took my sweet time getting myself ready. I packed my bag. I took a shower. I made sure to take one last selfie to document my belly at its peak:

The timestamp on that photo is 2:32 am. By that time, the contractions were getting pretty painful and I realized I was inching closer to realizing my fear of having to withstand a bunch of heinous pain on the car ride, so I woke up my husband and told him it was go time. “We’ll have a baby by noon!” I told him psuedo-cheerfully as I tried not to pain-vomit on his face, still naively thinking I had hours of labor ahead of me. At 3:15, we dropped Bubba off at Grandma’s, at which point I further demonstrated my idiotic lack of urgency by spending ten minutes cuddling with Bubba and getting him settled in. Sure, the contractions were getting closer and closer together and I felt like I just might die from the horrendous pain, but I still thought we had plenty of time because LABOR TAKES FOREVER EVEN WHEN IT’S “FAST,” RIGHT?!

Three hours or so after feeling the first contraction, we were on our way to the hospital. Thankfully, since it was the middle of the night and not rush hour, we made it to the hospital in record time and my husband only had to listen to me threaten to smash my face into the dashboard for thirty minutes or so (have I mentioned that labor is painful?). I walked through the hospital doors at 3:57am and immediately told everyone in my path that I wanted an epidural, including several people who I do not think actually worked for the hospital in any capacity whatsoever. I was in a lot of pain and each contraction felt exponentially worse than the last, but as the nurse walked me into a room, I breathed a huge sigh of a relief, knowing I wouldn’t be in pain much longer because surely one of those 100 people I’d begged for an epidural would deliver!

As soon as we arrived in the room, the nurse examined me and announced that I was dilated to 6 centimeters, and this is when things went a bit off the rails. A resident joined the crew and assured me that the doctor was on her way and that she would call the anesthesiologist as soon as I was fully examined and checked in, but not two minutes later, I was screaming — like, bloody murder, no shame, no dignity, all out SCREAMING — that I was in pain and needed drugs. And then two minutes later, the same thing. And one minute after that. And again. And again. And in between each contraction, I was telling the nurse, “it’s so much pressure! SO. MUCH. PRESSURE.”

At the mention of all the pressure, the nurse decided to take another gander at my progress and was surprised to discover that said “pressure” was in fact my baby being born. Like, RIGHT THEN.

Even though I had just been at 6cm 10 minutes prior.

And my doctor hadn’t arrived.

And I hadn’t even filled out the check-in paperwork.

And there was obviously no time for drugs.

And it really did hurt a lot.

I will never forget the look on the poor resident’s face when the nurse told her there would be no time to get me the drugs I was begging for; the sweet women had been making a valiant effort to get the anesthesiologist to hurry up and appeared to be as terrified as I was to learn that not only would she be delivering this baby herself since my doctor still hadn’t arrived, but that she’d be doing it while I screamed in her face about how badly it hurt.

And just like that, with me in denial and screaming for drugs till the very end, I officially became a mom of two. Graffin Thomas Wachter busted out of my loins at 4:17am on March 19, still in the amniotic sac, 6 pounds 2 ounces, 19.5 inches long, and super cute (in a scrunched up smushed-face newborn kind of way):

I had never given so much as a passing thought to the possibility of a drug-free birth, and I truly cannot overstate how painful it was and how I will never, ever, ever do that again. But I must say that I feel pretty bad-ass for having done it, no matter how unintentional. And it goes without saying that it was absolutely worth every second of torture:

But seriously: never again!

I Mama Too?

When I found out I was pregnant, I swear I knew immediately that it was a boy. I don’t know why…I just felt it. I called the baby “he” throughout the pregnancy, and when we went for our 20-week ultrasound and the doctor confirmed my assumption, I felt no surprise whatsoever — tell me something I don’t already know, doc!

I was happy to be having a boy and wasn’t the least bit disappointed that I wasn’t having a daughter, but I will admit that I felt like having a girl would have been a little easier. I’m from a family of all girls and felt like I knew what to expect from them (both good and bad!). Boys, on the other hand, were an unknown commodity to me. What do they play with? Are they really as rough-and-tumble as I’m imagining? How do I deal with that whole “penis” thing?

(If you’re curious, the answers to the above questions are: 1) totally awesome stuff, 2) even worse, and 3) just get used to saying the word “penis” more times than you ever thought possible.)

My biggest concern, though, was the closeness factor. I could easily envision a little girl snuggling up with her mama, wanting to hold hands with me all the time, and pretending to dress up in my (hideous) clothes, but I just couldn’t see it with a boy. I wasn’t worried that my son wouldn’t love me and I definitely wasn’t worried about me adoring him, but I had it in my head that little boys simply aren’t as close with their moms as a little girl might be.

Two years later, I can confirm that I could NOT have been more wrong!

My son is my biggest fan.

Seriously, guys: he’s obsessed. So many hugs. So many kisses. He says “I love you” unprompted, and it’s just as adorable as you would think. And no one compares to me: anytime poor Daddy tries to help by fetching Bubba from his crib in the morning, I giggle from the other room as I hear Bubba’s obvious disappointment that it wasn’t I who came to his aid. He even likes to wear my things, just as I imagined a daughter might:

Whatever I’m doing, he wants to do. “I watch!” he’ll proclaim as he pulls up a stool:

My favorite, though, is when he ever-so-hopefully asks “I Mama too?” In toddler-speak, this roughly translates to “can my mom please do this with me?” and I hear it daily: he wants me to go down the slide next to him at the park, to sit next to him on the couch, to share his dinner — and the answer, of course, is always a resounding yes.

Will this last forever? Probably not, and that would be kinda creepy at a certain point anyway. Someday he’ll realize I’m lame (and he’ll be right, of course). For now, though, I will relish every chance I get to tag along when I hear “I Mama too?”

The Twins!

While driving home from school one afternoon in October of 1988, my mom told my big sister and I that she had a surprise for us when we got home.

“Is it candy?!” My sister inquired excitedly.

I agree that that would have been a most excellent surprise, but her guess proved to be way off the mark: the big news was that my mom was having a baby!

Actually, she was having two babies, but we didn’t know that yet. That news came as another surprise a couple of months later, when my mom came home from the doctor with a funny-looking ultrasound photo and my other big sister asked what the hell was wrong with our baby, since it looked like the poor thing had a giant misshapen head.

Once we all got over the initial shock (my poor mom apparently laughed in the doctor’s face when he told her she was marinating not one but two fetuses), the excitement set in. I was the baby of the family, and I couldn’t believe my luck: not only would I finally get to be a big sister, but I was going to have two little sisters to play with! And even though my mom decided to let their sex be a surprise, I just knew they would be girls. Throughout my mom’s entire pregnancy, I never once envisioned a brother — I guess the fact that the first four of us were girls led me to believe that a brother wasn’t even a possibility.

And I was right! (Sorry, Dad.)

From the day they were born, I’ve been their #1 fan. As a six-year-old, I was just beside myself with amazement at their tiny size, their cute little smiles, and their twinliness (there really is something special about seeing twins together). I’ve shared this before, but it’s worth a repeat appearance today — behold the “thank you” note I made my mom for giving me my wonderful little sisters:

Just look at them — how could I not be enamored? I took my role as big sister very seriously. I was incredibly protective of them, even going so far as to force them to do “kidnapping drills” with me when they were toddlers, wherein I did some tests and timed whether it would be faster for me to pick them both up and run away from the kidnapper or to hold their hands and have them run alongside me — they were so damn cute I was convinced they were prime targets for kidnappers; I also apparently assumed that I would be with them at the time of this hypothetical kidnap attempt and thus available to aid them in their escape.

(If you’re wondering, two-year-olds run pretty slow; I determined that if a kidnapping situation were to arise, I was going to have to pick them up and make a run for it.)

When I had to go along with them to the doctor to get some routine vaccinations, I cried so hard in anticipation of their pain that my mom had to send me out to wait in the hallway. Another time, my mom had to scold them for doing something naughty and toddler-y, and again I sobbed — how dare she cause tears to come out of those adorable little twinny eyes! And when one twin completed her potty training faster than the other and was permitted to wear big-girl panties while the other twin was still in diapers, I had a serious and tear-filled discussion with my long-suffering mother about how the diapered twin was sure to develop self-esteem problems as a result of the inequality.

(Jamie, is it true? Were you permanently scarred by those three days that Hayley got to wear panties and you didn’t??? I knew it, your life totally sucks and it’s all because Mom wouldn’t listen to me about the underwear disparity! I TRIED!!!!)

Today, those cute little babies are 24 years old, and I’m still their #1 fan. They’re smart, funny, successful, unique (yes, even though they’re twins), and, since they look like me, totally gorgeous. From the moment my mom told me I was going to be a big sister, I knew I was in for something special — but I never could have guessed just how much I would love them.

Happy birthday to my favorite twins. Your present is that I won’t make you run kidnapping drills with me next time I see you.

(Almost) Wordless Wednesday: EXCITEMENT!

Bubba is an excitable little fellow. He’s been known to get pumped up about all manner of life’s simple pleasures, including…

Playing in the dirt:

Climbing onto a chair he’s never sat on before:

Looking at photos of dump trucks:

Spotting a helicopter:

Swinging:

Wearing sunglasses indoors:

And taking a doll for a wild ride with his cousin’s toy stroller:

Life is just full of excitement, isn’t it?

(Almost) Wordless Wednesday: The Best 3 Days of Bubba’s Life

Bubba has had quite an exciting few days. Granted, it doesn’t take much to excite a toddler…

First, on Sunday, we went to a birthday party for my niece held at The Little Gym. If you’re unfamiliar, The Little Gym is basically just a giant room with a bunch of mats and stuff for kids to climb around on. Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t describe that very well. What I meant to say was that it is TODDLER HEAVEN:

He loved it so much I couldn’t even get a good picture of him, because he was moving around too fast — with the exception of the two photos above, every shot I took that day came out like this:

So he was already having a pretty good weekend. But then on Monday we upped the ante by going to a Memorial Day festival at the beach…and due to holiday parking issues, we had to park off-site and take a shuttle bus down to the beach. Did you know that toddlers LOVE busses? Apparently, they do, because Bubba was just beside himself with excitement:

I think he could have stared out that window and watched the cars in the neighboring lanes for an hour.

And it got even better when we arrived at the beach, since he got to partake in his all-time favorite activity: THROWING SAND EVERYWHERE!!!

Finally, just when he thought life couldn’t get any better, I blew his mind yesterday by doing a google image search for “dump trucks” and then handing him the iPad to scroll through. I might as well have given him an actual dump truck, judging by his level of excitement. Maybe for Christmas this year I’ll just show him pictures of toys instead of giving him actual presents:

 

I hope your week is going as well as Bubba’s — but I doubt it!

(Almost) Wordless Wednesday: Backyard Bliss!

Thanks to a hand-me-down water/sand table, some thrift store trucks, and a couple of two dollar rubber balls from Target, our backyard now has more to offer dear Bubba than lemons and a deflated basketball.

(Please look closely and note that he is trying to place the small trucks on the seat of the big truck…to take them for a ride, I guess?)

But despite all these fun new distractions, he always returns to his one true love:

What a Difference a Year Makes: Happy Easter!

I love looking back and comparing what Bubba was up to (and what hideous clothes I was wearing) one year ago, and holidays are the perfect opportunity for such a comparison. I did so for Thanksgiving and Christmas, and if we had any life at all, I’m sure I would have done one for other holidays, too (do other adult humans really do stuff on July 4th or New Years or St. Patrick’s Day? YOU DO?! Why didn’t you invite me?!?!?).

Sunday was Easter, of course, so it’s time for a year-to-year comparison!

Last year, Bubba was barely four months old and still not interested in sleeping much at night. I was tired (and apparently wearing some sort of pink leopard-print frock?! I can’t see the whole thing, unfortunately/fortunately):

Bubba wasn’t at all interested in the Easter Bunny or egg hunts or the majesty that is carrot cake, but he was interested in my teeth:

(Probably because he had none and wouldn’t get any for another five months!)

And his cousins were certainly excited to see him, but I can’t say that the feeling was mutual:

This year, Bubba still had no clue what the hell was going on — eggs are outside on the grass and in the bushes? And they’re PURPLE?! — but he was amenable to the proceedings:

(Please note his felt “basket,” which was procured from the $1 section of Target one day prior to these festivities.)

He particularly enjoyed shaking and prying open the plastic eggs and discovering they were filled with jelly beans, which I of course informed him were ca-ca and not to be eaten (because I’m a Mean Mama and because, come on now, a 16-month-old does not need to eat candy):

Instead of sucking down bottles of liquid gold (AKA formula) like last year, he double-fisted dinner rolls and smeared potato salad all over his cute little face:

And even drank water out of a real cup:

(And by “drank,” we all know I really mean “poured on his shirt.”)

Finally, I’d like to point out that unlike last year when I wore what I can only assume is some sort of pink and red leotard (based on the above photo, anyway), this year I busted out some high fashion. That’s right, folks: I was indeed wearing THE FANCY PANTS! I didn’t get a good full-body shot (something to do with being too busy chasing a toddler around and trying to prevent said toddler from licking too much glitter off of the fancily dyed eggs), but you can see them here, in all their glory:

(In case you’re curious, the shoes are from Target, and I dug the sweater out of a bag of clothes the twins were getting rid of. Haute couture!)

I hope you all had as delightful a holiday as we did! Now, I guess next year I have to actually do the whole Easter Bunny thing and put candy and stuff in that basket?

Daycare is Magic!

After all the stressing, bitching, and moaning I did during the research and planning stages of getting dear Bubba off to daycare like a normal child, I must confess that I am finding it slightly embarrassing to admit just how fabulous it has turned out to be.

Wait, something I worried about wound up to be a non-issue and a total waste of my precious (and far too limited) brain space? Shocking, I know!

Shut up with your I-told-you-so’s, all of you.

We are now three weeks into our new lives as Daycare People, and not only has nothing terrible happened (yet), but quite the contrary: I swear my life has improved a solid 10% since making the childcare switch. Not only are we saving money — we’re paying less now for five full days of daycare than we used to pay for just four days of our beloved but oft-tardy babysitter (I was taking him to my mom’s every Friday to save money) — but in just three weeks those wizards over there have managed to accomplish something I wasn’t able to do in 13 months: Bubba now takes a 1-2 hour nap at the same time every day (even on the weekend!). I truly didn’t think it was possible — I had given up on this dream ages ago; I thought some babies just weren’t big on naps and I had gotten unlucky. Nope, turns out I’m just a terrible mother.

Furthermore, I have noticed a marked improvement in his behavior. Prior to starting daycare, I estimate that he paid attention to my requests/instructions maybe one out of ten times (and never when the instruction was to stop pushing the buttons on the damn cable box). Now, I’d say he obeys me (or at least acknowledges my request before forging ahead with his dastardly plans) at least 25% of the time! THAT’S A 150% IMPROVEMENT (I think; I was only the vice-president of math club in high school and if we’re being perfectly honest, I’m pretty sure I was the sole volunteer)!

Best of all, he really has the BEST time over there. Remember, this place is almost literally in my backyard; if I open my office window while they’re playing outside, I can hear him happily babbling and laughing and shrieking away. Does that make me sound like a stalker? TOO BAD! I’ve considered poking my head over the fence to say hello on my lunch break, but I think that might be taking things a bit too far — it might creep him out a bit, in fact. (I still might do it someday, though.)

And they love him, too — the employees send me photos and texts throughout the day (somehow they quickly ascertained that I’m insane and would benefit from constant reassurance), and his preschool “classmates” have essentially adopted him as a little class pet (he’s the only toddler amongst a gaggle of 4- and 5-year-olds; I basically begged my neighbor to let him join her crew despite his age and I am eternally grateful). This photo was accompanied by the text “tired after a long day of playing with the big kids!”:

I look at this picture every single day and its ability to make me smile has not waned!

So yes, I was wrong to have wasted so much mental energy worrying about daycare (I cried, you guys! Actual tears!). The question now is: do you think I might learn from this experience and take a more relaxed approach to the next parenting challenge that comes my way?

(The answer is no. Don’t be stupid.)

Bearski

Like most babies, my son has about fifteen thousand stuffed animals in his possession (I’m pretty sure we could create a plush reenactment of Noah’s Ark were we so inclined). Most of them are relegated to Bubba’s ever-growing list of “Things That Are Fun To Throw,” but there’s one especially cuddly little teddy bear to whom Bubba has taken a particular shine.

Mr. Bearski, as he’s become known around here (I guess he’s Polish), has become a permanent fixture in Bubba’s arms. He cuddles up with Bearski all night, and in the morning he clings to his ursine friend like a life preserver when I lift him from his crib. Bearski stays by Bubba’s side all throughout the day, enjoying everything the world has to offer alongside his master:

It’s pretty freakin’ cute, obviously. But like so many awesome things in this world, there is an unfortunate downside:

If Bearski is out of his sight for so much as a second, Bubba panics. And his approach to solving the problem is to shriek as loudly as possible, and, failing that, throw himself dramatically to the floor and wail some more. It’s…less than pleasant, and it only appears to be getting worse.

On Saturday night, TFW and I were enjoying a thrilling documentary on the US Presidents (like all the cool kids do on Saturday nights; as a sidenote, were you aware that we have had a lot of really shitty presidents? I’m looking at you, John Tyler) while the baby snoozed away. At about 10pm, our raucous evening was brought to a grinding halt by some ear-piercing shrieks emanating from the baby’s room.

I raced to his aid, assuming — based on the shriek-level — that an abduction was in progress or perhaps a pack of scorpions had completed a four hundred mile road trip from the Arizona desert and were celebrating their coastal arrival by attacking my poor innocent son. Instead, I found Bubba sitting up in his crib, half-asleep (eyes still closed!) and flailing his arms around like a madman. Before I could even reach into the crib to comfort him (and check for scorpions), he found what he was looking for: Bearski. Apparently, that wily critter had escaped from his clutches at some point during the night; Bubba noticed his absence and, as usual, freaked out. Upon locating the wayward bear, Bubba laid right back down and was fast asleep again by the time I tiptoed back out the door.

I relayed the hilarious scene to TFW (complete with reenactment, of course), but he was more concerned than amused. “He’s getting awfully attached to that thing,” he mused.

Always the expert on parenting concerns (as long as the concerns aren’t mine), I reassured him: “oh, don’t worry about it. It’s not like he’ll be taking Bearski off to college with him or anything.”

TFW stared at me and deadpanned, “yeah, I’m sure all kids just grow out of this phase at a certain point, right?”

I opened my mouth to agree with him…until I remembered that at that precise moment, I was cuddled up with my 29-year-old baby blanket, and my husband was being a snarky jackass.

LONG LIVE BEARSKI AND QUILTY!!!!

Top Ten Tuesday: Why Hello, SITS-ers!

Today’s the day!

My blog is being featured over on SITS today, and I haven’t been this excited since the advent of DVR technology (so. many. crime shows!).

If you’re not familiar, SITS is a fantastic resource and community for bloggers. I highly encourage you to check it out (not right now, of course: spend seven or eight hours reading everything I’ve ever written here first). If you’re stopping by from SITS and you’re new to my blog, you can read a bit about me on my creatively-titled About Me page, and you can check out my all-time favorite posts on the Top of the Pops! page (which I had to sub-title “best of” because I wasn’t entirely sure anyone would know what I meant; didn’t stop me from using it, though). To aid you in your quest to get to know me better, I’ve also compiled a little list for you right here…

The top ten things you should know about your new favorite blogger (that’s me…obviously [presumptuous?]):

10) I have a ridiculously adorable one-year-old son named Ryan, who I call Bubba for absolutely no reason (he is not particularly large and I am not from the south; it’s inexplicable). This entire blog is about him (or me being crazy with regard to him), but if you want to read about his entrance into the world, I highly recommend my two-part labor story. I swear it’s worth it, if only for the near-topless photo of a nine-months-pregnant me. HOT.

9) I’m married to a delightful fellow, known herein as TFW. We met many many moons ago in the mosh pit of a punk rock show (true story). Click here for some cute pics of us!

8) I’m a giant worrywart. That’s pretty much the crux of the blog.

7) I was mired in a serious depression for an unfortunately sizable chunk of my life. This is not a focal point of this blog (or even of my life at this point), but it’s solid background info on me so I’m including it nonetheless! You can read a bit more on that here and here.

6) I’m a punk rock gal (although I can rarely be motivated to get off my ass and out to a show these days; seriously, you start playing at 10pm?! I’m tired at the very thought of it), complete with a variety of tattoos — you can see one of them here:

5) I work from home, but not in a cool “let me take my laptop down to Starbucks for an hour and then enjoy a lengthy nap!” kind of way. Nay, my job is pretty much the same as any average office job; I just happen to be at home.

4) I’m a giant nerd. I prefer reading to clubs and I’m pretty much obsessed with my baby blanket (the illustrious and cleverly-named Quilty).

3) Here are some things I adore:

• Reading
• Fountain Dr. Pepper
• True-crime TV shows
• Watching sitcoms over and over and over again (particularly Seinfeld, 30 Rock, and Roseanne)
• The New York Yankees (I even wrote a blog called The Yankees Chick many years ago…)
• Dogs
• Professional wrestling (don’t judge me)
• My Quilty (seriously, stop judging me!)

2) And a couple things I hate:

• Eating vegetables
• Not drinking Dr. Pepper

(I’m easy to please.)

1) I desperately want to be your friend. I’m a terrible Twitter-er (tweeter?), but I’m trying to figure it out (why must it be so fast-paced? Doesn’t anyone else have to work?!) — holler at me and I swear I’ll say something back (probably 8 hours later, but…eventually). Facebook is much more my speed, and we should all be best friends forever over there.

If you’re still with me and I haven’t scared you off yet: enjoy your visit — hopefully you’ll laugh at least once, say “awww” a minimum of three times, and roll your eyes at me precisely seven times. I dream big!