For the record - I love this baby so much.
So, so, so much. She's amazing, and cute, and just lights up every minute of every day.
But, the only thing I can think to talk about, even though I try and try to come up with something else, is boobs. And nipples. And more boobs and nipples. Pretty much my life revolves around attaching this baby to my boobs. And nipples.
Never in my life have I had my boobs out so much. Not even in college. And trust me, that's hard to beat. (kidding) Seriously though, I don't think Playboy bunnies have their boobs out this much, and even when they do, they're not freshly scabbed. (Sexy, I know. No one said feeding another human with your own body was going to be pain free. And if they did they lied. Or they have magic boobs of steel, and titanium, and that stuff they tried to use to fix the oil leak under water that didn't work, but did work for milk leaks.) (Ever wake up in a pool of your own milk? It's more fun than it sounds.) (Why? Because you know your baby is not just sucking air, that you are actually feeding her, which is such a comfort, you know, since ALL THE PRESSURE IS ON YOU)
Eating is so exhausting.
But anyway, sorry. This isn't a breastfeeding post. This is labor and delivery Part 2! YAY!
So we sit in the car through a contraction and then try to walk as fast as we can to the Hospital doors before another one hits. It's like being in an air raid and waiting for a shower of bombs to drop before running to the next dugout. That's how I think about labor. Like being in some sort of blitzkrieg with your uterus. One second it's all calm and lovely, the next it's finger painting war stripes over it's cheeks and running at you with spears set on fire screaming like a banshee, holding up a severed head of your old professor.
(Yes, I know blitzkrieg and Amazonian natives coming at you are two totally different things. But that's what happens in your uterus. Worlds collide and bond. It's harmony and terror all at the same time.)
Anyway, the super nice security guard at the ER doesn't even ask us what's wrong. He immediately stands up and says, "This way" and leads us to Labor and Delivery. About 30 seconds into his walking tour I politely excuse myself and say, "Sorry. I have to stop for a minute," and bury my head into my boyfriend, because these contractions you cannot walk through. And yes, I said "politely" and I meant it. For some reason I wasn't rude or yelling or anything. Not even at the end. In between later screaming contractions (more on that later) I even apologized to the Doctor and the nurse for being too loud. I didn't cuss and anyone, I didn't get mad or mean, just very concentrate-y, which was the opposite of what I thought I might be. I thought I'd be a demon. Turns out, I'm very nice during birthing. Who knew?!
I mean, at one point I did try to bite the man who impregnated me, but that's only because his hand was Right There. I would have bit a poisonous eel if it had been in front of me, just to get through the next thirty seconds.
So, we made it up to Labor and Delivery and the nurse behind the check-in station also doesn't even ask what's up. She just gets up and says, "Come with me." I didn't think I looked so bad, I thought in between contractions I was phenomenal, but apparently not. Apparently anyone who saw me coming within a thirty foot radius was pretty sure of what was going on. That could just be because I was a pregnant lady walking into the hospital at 1am, it was probably pretty clear I wasn't there for a midnight tour.
She got us in the room, and I gave a pee sample (almost impossible by the way when you can't see anything down there and have to pray you're not going to pee all over your hand AGAIN), and then she immediately checked to see how dilated I was.
Not bad. Not great. She was calm, and took her time hooking me up. But I knew. I KNEW it was not going to be three for hours like she was thinking. She let the doctor know, everyone was very nonchalant. I proceeded to groan and moan and then very quickly the pain went from moaning-pain, to - I kid you not -screaming like some sort of jungle creature at the top of my lungs pain.
I did not think I was a screamer, but it was so uncontrollable I couldn't . . . uhm . . . control it. I screamed so much I was hoarse the whole next day. And then I found out why.
After the nurse took her time hooking me up and what not, about 30 minutes after we got there, I had to push. And I mean I had to push like, my body was pushing and I was trying not to and when I could talk I told my boyfriend to get the nurse because I WAS PUSHING. She came rushing in and checked me and said, "Oh my gosh, you went from 3 to 7 in half an hour. But don't push!"
"Then you have to give me an epidural because I CAN'T help it!"
And I was serious. I did not want an epidural. Not at all. Not even for the pain, what I wanted it for was to make sure I didn't push because I knew it was going to happen with or without the doctor telling me it was ok.
"You told me not to let you have one," my boyfriend very calmly said. "But whatever you need."
"I just don't know if I can stop it."
The nurse leaned over me so I could see her and said, "I can call the guy but it'll take a half an hour for him to get here and you won't need it by then."
Those were the most magical words I could have ever heard. EVER. Suddenly, (as my boyfriend tells it, I don't know since I didn't open my eyes really after this point) the room exploded. The nurse wasn't so nonchalant any more, and the doctor wasn't just hanging out. Things were being wheeled in, outfits were being changed. Apparently 3 to 7 centimeters in a half hour is serious. I COULD HAVE TOLD THEM I WAS SERIOUS.
Serious as a German banshee in the Amazon.
Ok, the rest of it will be later. Now I have to go feed my little lady. Feed her til it hurts.