"Oh my God. I'm pregnant."
These were not supposed to be words that I uttered until I was at least 28. These were definitely not words that I was supposed to be uttering at the age of 24, 3 months after my wedding, 4 days before getting a boxer and the Monday after consuming enormous quantities of homemade red wine.
Up until this point in my life I was pretty well on the straight and narrow, and things were pretty well planned out. I met the "love of my life", graduated nursing school, got a full time job, bought a car and a house, and got married.
So, you ask, why is having a baby such a big deal? It's not like I was a 16 year old white trash high school student with a meth addiction who was unsure of the paternity of my fetus. I was, however, HAVING AN EFFING BABY. That is serious. That is life altering. People who are not ready to have babies freak the F out when a fetus sneaks into their uterus. I'll tell you that for free.
You probably also want to know how a sensible registered nurse managed to accidentally get pregnant in the first place. Well this one over here decided to start her pills a week late and didn't think it would be a big deal because she was on them for 9 years so they should be good and in her system, right? False. Baby ensued.
I'm just going to get it out in the open and say that I had probably the best pregnancy ever. No morning sickness, craved only fruit, no mood swings (according to my husband, anyway). Pretty straight forward. My highest blood pressure the entire time was 128/78. As a nurse, I can tell you fo sho that 128/78 is an absolutely beautiful blood pressure.
The weight, however, crept slowly from my abdomen to my ass and saddle bag area, which is not something I'm going to get into, however I will tell you this. Three days before my due date I hopped (slash waddled) on the scale at my doctor's office. When I got married I was, at 5'7'', 143lbs. Lean, toned, and feeling great. At 39 weeks and 5 days, I was a whopping 199lbs. It was time to take control of the situation. I looked at my doctor, put my finger in his face and said, "If I hit 200lbs before this baby comes out of me, I will fucking die." Obviously my little bundle of joy heard her momma loud and clear because that night I started having contractions.
Well, more like that night I started having fart jams. Brad and I were watching a movie (it was Friday and he was no longer permitted to drink in the event that I should go into labor and dramatically need to be rushed to the hospital). I had been feeling a little crampy all night, as I normally do after my doctor is pressing savagely on my abdomen to determine where the baby's head is (It's in my uterus, I'm certain), but for a long time I ignored it. After having several cramps that were not being followed by gas, I decided to time them. Sure enough they were 15minutes apart and lasting 10-20 seconds.
At this point I was happy and blissful. There were unicorns galloping around the living room and rainbows in the kitchen. I started packing my bag, on Saturday morning, envisioning myself touching up my mascara as my loving husband brushed my hair in between contractions and my attentive doula massaged my back. What a load of shit.
Fast forward to 7pm Sunday evening. I'm on my hands and knees in triage in the case room. My water had broken at home and my 10 month old boxer puppy promptly ate my amniotic fluid. I'm trying to explain to the nurse that I AM in labor, my water DID break, and I need some fucking gravol or there is going to be an all out exorcism in the case room.
I'm having all back labor and they want me to lie down so they can hook me up and get a tracing of the baby's heart rate. I want to tell them to eat it. For some reason when they swab me it's showing that there is no amniotic fluid in my vadge and so the doctor needs to do an internal exam. Awesome. Just what I want. To get fingered while someone is stabbing me in the lower back. Just before he comes in I vomit. Told ya.
Surprise! My water had broken! On the downside though, I'm only 2 centimeters. Am I being punk'd by my cervix? After 3 solid days of contractions that's the best it could do? I was hoping to be at least a 9, or even better, show the case room nurses my amazing childbearing abilities and be an 11. But 2? Are you kidding me, cervix? I looked at my doula, Erin (who was AMAZING, P.S.), and started to sob. Having a baby was for assholes.
After laboring more in the actual room, the nurses determined that my child had taken a dump in my uterus. At that point, I couldn't blame her. I hated that thing just as much as she did. I had regained composure from my triage breakdown and was on my hands and knees in the shower as Erin and Brad took turns putting the shower head on my lower back. They (my doc and the nurses) decided that I needed pitocin. Whatever. I've been doing this for days. Bring it. Do your worst. I should also point out that up till now I was also adamant about not having an epidural.
I will never forget the moment when I felt the first pitocin induced contraction. I looked up at the nurse and said to her through breaths, "That is so ridiculous. That is a big bag of ridiculousness up there." After I don't know how long on the bag of ridiculous, I could take it no longer. I was sure this was what it must feel like to be stabbed repeatedly in the abdomen. Failure or not, I needed the epidural.
Post epi I finally managed to doze off for a little while. Until, of course, I began to get this sensation that a baby was trying to crawl out of my vagina. This was when I learned that my cervix had finally gotten a grip and it was time to push.
37 minutes later, Avery Alice Marie made her appearance as I lay there yelling, "Did anybody else just see that? Did you guys just see me have that baby?"
At this point we could only be certain of two things. 1) Our life was only beginning, and 2) After a perfect pregnancy followed by pushing for only 37 minutes and leaving with a still intact vagina, our little girl was obviously going to be a hooker. No one gets away that easy.