As I sat down to write this post and fill you all in on my handsome cheesedoodle’s arrival into the world, I received word that my friend Melinda, who was due the same day I was, gave birth at home at 2:55 in the morning. This makes me a) praise the Lord for her safety and her new son’s, b) curious for more details, because you KNOW that’s a story and c) praise the Lord for my two very ordinary, routine deliveries.
It’s very hard not to compare two similar experiences, especially when they are less than two years apart, so when I arrived at the hospital on Wednesday morning and walked comfortably to Labor and Delivery I couldn’t help but think “this is much more comfortable than the last time.” Every thing went very smoothly. By 7:30 I had answered all the check-in questions (some twice) and been prepped, and the drip had been started. At 8:30 I was having strong contractions. My doctor broke my water, they gave me an epidural and I settled in for the boring part that had taken so long (this being a relative term, by “so long,” I mean 11 hours) with my mackerdoodle. Three and a half hours later the nurse told Jonathan to go have lunch because I was at seven centimeters. By the time Jonathan got back from lunch I was feeling a lot of pressure, and five hours after having my water broken I was pressing the nurse call button saying, “Um, I think someone should come and check me. I’m feeling like I need to push!”
I was right, and less than 45 minutes later, my son was in the doctor’s hands, crying, and Jonathan was calling friends and family with details.
If it wasn’t for the 20+ weeks of throwing up, and the 12 weeks of being unable to bend over, roll over in bed and see my feet, I’d be signing up to do this avery 18 months or so.