And the Waiting is the Hardest Part

written February 28, 2007

At one am the day of Connor’s birth, I am restless and thoughtful. Dan has admonished me to get some sleep and while I think that’s an admirable goal (and one I may pursue in an hour or so), what I’m really hoping is that I’ll go into labor here and now and need to run to the hospital. Guess what hasn’t happened? This was the date that Dan, my doctor and I agreed upon to go rescue Connor from my cagey insides if he didn’t show up, given his size and my bone structure. It was this or a three-day ordeal of prostaglandin and pitocin to coax him out and y’all know my ideas about Pit drips. My good friend, Madame M, is frustrated with my lack of patience and my use of a surgical option over an induction. My reasoning is this: If it’s at all likely that I’ll go through a 24-hour wait for the prostaglandin to work, begin the pit drip, lay in a bed for up to 24 hours waiting for the drip to take affect while immobilized by the epidural that is its partner medication, only to find that the baby is too big for my os (not, not ass, os – the space between the bones of the pelvis) and we need a C-section anyway, I’m going to be terribly frustrated. If we dial in a C, I’ll never know whether or not I’ll give birth like Zena the Warrior princess – naturally, after casually cruising in from the heat of battle – but perhaps that’s not the point, really. Needless to say I’m still somewhat pensive about the choice and hoping that nature will intervene. I was told that a jigger of balsamic vinegar would work and have yet to try it, but still am thinking that I’m stuck with my choices.

Two things are a great relief: one, that come hell or high water, I’ll have Connor well and squiggling in my hands by 2pm today, and two, I’ve finished all of my grading up til this point and have the whole Spring Break, plus a couple of days and a weekend, to play with my baby boy guilt free. It may be the last time in a couple of months. I’ve read that working mothers feel constant guilt either to their work or their progeny. I find that I do that already, but it’s to my own research and TV schedule, not my people. It’s a shame, too, perhaps that’s what Dan’s been complaining about all these years. I always kinda thought that guilt is a useless emotion. If one is unhappy about the choices one makes, one can make different choices. If one has no choice, then there is no real reason to feel guilty, right? Dan and I have enough choices to feel guilty about a number of things. Finally having a family at our age isn’t one I’m inclined to consider a luxury or incongruent with a career. Of course, no one would ask a man to give up his career because he began a family – in fact, men tend to work harder and make more money, especially if the child is a boy, to offset the needs of the growing household and many find it more fulfilling to work for a growing family than for a growing bar tab.

Oh, yeah, and I should probably spend some time railing against a women’s medical community that makes us feel guilty whatever our choices, but I don’t really feel up to it. Yeah, I have a friend, Madame K, who delivered her baby in her basement after a long hot soak in a hot tub with a bottle of peppermint Schnappes, but she’s unique. Yes, many of my friends had long and painful inductions that ended in C sections, many others had fine and painless labors, and some got just crucified by the baby gods for no apparent reason, or through carelessness of the hospital staff. My favorite of these recently is the delightful Madame B, who went in for assessment, was given a shot of pit to move things along and then not offered an epidural for five hours later while her body ground itself to hamburger and bruised her daughter’s face badly. Not cool. Not a situation I’m inclined to trust.

Nah, there are some things they do well – they love to do surgery so let them do it. In this day and age of cosmetic surgery, it’s a bit of a cakewalk and I’m not so sure that my reticence is reason enough not to take the less painful shortcut.

I’m going to try to sleep and prep for that baby to arrive. I can almost see his little face and hear him. I always envision him crying, right before being nursed, in a little yellow sleeper. Maybe he’s crying because he’s in a little yellow sleeper. I’ve made some black onesies for him with sayings on them like “bad seed” and “No Sleep Til Brooklyn.” One of my favorites is “Rebel Yell.” I can’t wait to hear Connor’s.