My contractions started around midnight on Saturday morning, although at first I wasn’t exactly willing to admit they were contractions because that would mean I was in labor, and that would be huge. J started timing them and when he excitedly showed me his perfect handwritten notations, and explained that the contractions were about 10 to 12 minutes apart, I’d say something like, “No, you know what? I think that last one was it. I think it’s over.”

It wasn’t, however, over. I tried sleeping as the beginning was uncomfortable, but not incredibly painful, and I imagined we had a long day ahead. But sleeping was difficult, as I was anticipating the culmination of a long nine months. The end of pregnancy. Birth. Something totally new. After several restless hours we got up and called the hospital. We talked to the doctor on call and decided to remain at home for awhile and see what happened.

While the real thing was much more intense than all the practice sessions, I was happy we’d attended childbirth classes. I breathed, slowly, in and out, trying to picture myself by the water with a glass of wine - the scene I’d chosen when prompted by our instructor during our “deep relaxation” exercises. It turned out that thinking about a glass of wine made me feel like I was going to throw up, so I ditched that imagery, but I kept up with the breathing. It was a distraction method, a way to cope.

When my contractions were 3 to 5 minutes apart and lasting a minute each, we made sure we had everything we needed in the bag we’d packed, got in the car, and headed to the hospital. It was this absolutely beautiful day, about 75 degrees and the sky was a piercing blue. This was not at all what I’d wanted, not at all. I’d pictured being in labor on a rainy day - a Monday preferably - when I could rejoice in the fact that I didn’t have to work, when a day spent in the hospital was perfectly reasonable. But this…a perfect Saturday. It seemed so ridiculous to spend it breathing heavily while sitting on an exercise ball or falling into a deep squat as I felt another contraction coming on in the upstairs hallway, as my husband supported me. What was this? Some kind of joke?

And it turned out that morning’s drive to the hospital was only our first. I was overjoyed when we arrived. Maybe it was the change of scenery, or maybe it was the fact that I tend to like being around trustworthy medical professionals, I don’t know. But after being hooked up to a couple monitoring devices and waiting in the tiny triage room for what seemed like forever, the doctor - one I really liked, thankfully - arrived and announced that I was only two or three centimeters dilated (which prompted a rather loud, “You have GOT to be kidding me”), and it would probably be best for us to head home for a while until I was further along, because hadn’t I said I’d like to wait as long as possible to come to the hospital (yes, I’d said that) and hadn’t I wanted to be at home, rather than cooped up in some room, for the beginning part (yes, I’d said that, too)?

So I got dressed and we picked up our bag and left, and I told myself over and over that my initial instincts were correct. The next few hours passed uneventfully, really, except for the fact that things got more challenging. “Challenging” was a word I’d heard uttered many times in regards to childbirth and I finally got what it really meant. “Challenging,” as in, “If I am not more than 2 or 3 centimeters dilated when we return to the hospital, then, honestly? Let’s just call this whole thing off.” I worked with it the best I could. A long, hot shower. More squats. The exercise ball. The breathing, which was getting louder and louder. J was amazing, helping me any and every way he could. It had only been a few hours, maybe three, since we’d returned home, but I knew it was time to go back, like the doctor said I would, I just knew.

The resident who examined me when we’d, once again, made our way up to the fourth floor triage area, became the first of my many favorite people that day upon announcing that I’d been “doing some hard work” at home and was around 6 centimeters dilated, to which I responded with a resounding “Thank GOD!” but held off on giving him a hug as that would have been somehow too much.

I had been up in the air about an epidural before labor. My attitude was something like, well, if I go in and am close to having the baby, I think I can hold off. I’ve got nothing against pain relief, it just seemed that if I could remain standing up rather than lying in bed, using gravity to my advantage, do it the good old natural way, then why not? That line of thought, which, honestly, seemed very reasonable when childbirth was a theoretical, not actual, part of my life, was abandoned in a heartbeat when I returned to the hospital and discovered I was finally moving along at a decent clip. “I want it,” I explained to the nurse and the resident. “I wasn’t sure before, but now I am. I really, really want tons of drugs, ok?”

The nurse did me a kind service by reassuring me that there was absolutely nothing wrong with my decision. “You’re tired. You’ve been up all night. Let’s say this takes four more hours. Can you do this without pain relief for four more hours?” I managed a smile and hesitated not a moment before saying “No. No, I can’t.”

Because getting pain relief takes a little while once you request it, I was closer to 7 or 8 centimeters when the anesthesiologists administered my epidural. Once it took effect, things got fun, I’m not kidding, and stayed that way. J, in relating the story later, told everyone I got really “chatty.” True. I suddenly wanted to talk birth statistics with the doctor and nurses who were hanging out in my room, and tell the anesthesiologists, “Hey, how fun is YOUR job? People have got to love you.” Lying there in the dim light of the birthing room, as the long, long day turned into night, we finally discussed your name.

It didn’t take long at all before I was ready to push, and at that point I felt ready to do some hard work again, ready for the last stage of labor. When the doctor examined me, however, she found that you were facing up - towards my bellybutton - not down. This is not an ideal position for delivery, but certainly not a deal breaker. The pushing stage just might take longer, she explained. Still, I understood at that point that there was a chance things might not go exactly as planned.

Pushing was hard. I asked J, who acted as counterpart to the nurse during the entire process, for a constant supply of ice chips because my throat got so dry. But at least I finally felt that I was playing an active role, and knowing that the harder I pushed, the sooner I got to meet you was all the encouragement I needed, although everyone in the room provided so much more.

The problem was, no matter how hard I pushed, you remained content where you were, your little heartbeat constant and steady. You were happy and in no danger, but not on your way out. You were situated up under my pubic bone, the doctor said. It had been three hours since I began pushing, and I was doing a great job, they assured me when I asked if there was anything else I could do, but you had barely moved at all. We’d tried pushing on my side, and all on all fours, without any luck. A C-section seemed the best option at this point, my doctor explained.

Leading up to my due date I told a few people that my biggest, perhaps only, childbirth fear was the loss of control - that I’d be at the mercy of the doctor, and if the doctor decided on a surgical birth, I’d have no way to dispute that, even if I didn’t think it was necessary. But as I was discovering with everything that day, what I felt prior to those very first contractions and the beginning of this whole affair was nothing like what I felt during it. First of all, my doctor and nurses were incredible, providing me with such support that I trusted them without question. And as though they sensed my previous concerns, they told me, as they explained the reasons for the C-section, that I had done everything possible to avoid one.

Plus, as I mentioned before, everything had changed when I’d received that life-saving drug earlier in labor, and I was still in an excellent mood. “Ok!” I said. I felt clear-headed and confident. “It’s a little disappointing, but I totally understand.”

The surgery was by no means an emergency, as you seemed content no matter how the labor progressed, so the team began preparations in a relaxed manner. A new anesthesiologist with a head scarf adorned with smiley faces and bright colors - a Grateful Dead-esque accessory - arrived to top off my epidural. I’d feel more numb, he told me, and my heart might race for a few minutes. Feeling completely awesome, it turned out, was another side effect. They could have announced they were going to saw off one of my legs while they were at it and I’m pretty sure I would have responded, “You know what? Whatever you think is best. GO FOR IT.”

They took J aside to prep him. At this point everyone was wearing those paper hats that surgeons wear, just like on TV. I had one, too. “Should I put this hat on?” I asked. “How about I put this hat on?!?” I mean, were we having a party, or what?

The next move was a major transition. I was moved from my bed to a table and wheeled from the dark quiet of my delivery room to a bustling, bright operating room where everyone got ready for the task at hand. I remember thinking that everyone was in such a good mood, chatting about their weekends, for instance, and I felt so totally comfortable with these people. The anesthesiologist, who remained close at hand during the surgery, flipped a switch on a stereo and Bob Marley filled the room. Soon J was sitting by my side in scrubs and a face mask.

Everything I’d learned about C-sections previously and found at all scary just didn’t matter. My hands were secured to the table, at least I think they were, and I was totally naked, I suppose, beyond the sheet they’d set up so we’d be blissfully unaware of the actual surgical procedure going on. But I was completely alert, and I wasn’t nervous in the slightest. J and I talked carelessly, I don’t even remember what about, but I do remember thinking that it was as though we were out having a beer or two. I realized at the time that he was probably trying hard to keep me talking so I’d be distracted from the fact that I was being operated on, and that he was doing such a good job that I was actually into the conversation. And on some other level, some level beyond the drug-induced high and the celebratory atmosphere in the operating room, I was totally aware that I could not love a person more.

I had no idea they’d even begun the procedure. Then we heard a baby cry. We stopped speaking mid-sentence and looked at each other with eyes wide, mouths agape, and the sudden understanding that that was our baby. While you were being quickly examined by the pediatrician on call that night, one of the nurses came by to tell us how cute you were. “Chipmunk cheeks,” somebody said.

We waited, but not long, and suddenly, nearly 24 hours after we’d begun, you were in your father’s arms, blinking in the bright light. I knew then that any preconceived notions I’d had about childbirth didn’t matter at all, nor did the logistics or medical certainties. Because whatever it took to bring you into this world would have ended up being perfect. As “One Love” played and the dutiful doctors finished their work, we said hello, the three of us.

Yesterday, our second day home from the hospital, I sent my husband and father to the drugstore to pick up a product called Soothies - gel pads for nursing mothers that relieve sore nipples.

The fun has begun.

Born 11:49 PM, September 20, 2008
7lbs, 11oz
19.75 inches long

Much more to come but, for now, everyone is doing wonderfully. We are having so much fun with our new baby, who is, to sum it up in one word, amazing.

Yesterday was my 39 week doctor’s appointment and it went uneventfully, as all of my appointments have. Well, I mean, there was that one. About a month ago. When I gained four pounds in the span of one week, and sat there, looking incredulously at the doctor asking “But how…how could this happen,” and she smiled, and told me “Hey, it happens,” and that it was probably fluid buildup and I didn’t need to worry at all, and I suppressed yet another one of those pregnancy thoughts that I’ve been having over the last nine months, that go something like “Yeah, ha! It’s no big deal! FOR YOU IT ISN’T.”

(I ended up losing that four pounds, thus confirming the fluid buildup theory and therefore remaining sane.)

I saw the midwife I’d seen in the first 28 weeks of my pregnancy yesterday, who I love, and who was the fourth practitioner to tell me I’m probably going to have a big baby, and when we got in the car to leave it was all I really wanted to talk about - this big baby situation. I could have talked about it all day, except that J kept reminding me I was having this totally normal, healthy, wonderful pregnancy, and I needed to calm down, which is when I explained to him - calmly - that if he were going to have a baby come out of his vagina, he might be very interested in the fact that a good number of medical experts are using the word “big” to describe it, too.

Honestly, though? While my life at present, and the pregnancy in general, have been full of periods of my asking J, obsessively, truly annoying and unnecessary questions like, “But do you think I’m eating enough fruit?” the gig as a whole has been so easy and yes - truly - fun for me that I’ve got no right, no right in the world, to complain, or question or worry.

Except for the one right, the right of every woman who is pregnant for the first time, who is trying to navigate this totally mysterious and unknown bodily state, which cannot be explained by all the books in the world, certainly not by the Internet and not even by the doctors. You just have to learn.

Which brings me to 39 weeks. 39 weeks, and the three or four weeks before this, all leading to the end, have been distinguished by a general sense of calm as I’m winding down and realizing that I sort of, finally, get this. Where I’m actually welcoming the various aches and pains because I understand they’re bringing me closer to labor. Where I’ve decided not to look things up in books or ask anyone what’s “normal.” Where I finally (and for the love of God, I apologize for using a term like this, a term I’d normally leave to the yoga instructors and meditation experts) trust my body.

I feel calm about the upcoming waiting game, even. Calm knowing that I cannot know when this baby will choose to make her entrance and that it could be any minute now. It could be a week, it could be…weeks.

But despite this calm (because, come on, I’m nine-plus months pregnant, you didn’t think it was all roses, did you?) I am carrying around a lot of weight and there are practical issues that sometimes get in the way of an all-around pleasant demeanor.

Last night I decided to go to the grocery store. I love getting out of the house now that I work at home and I was very much looking forward to this grocery store trip, as pathetic as that may sound. Things started off well in the produce section, got a little trickier as I nearly rammed my shopping cart into people in the cramped aisles (qualities I never possessed while not pregnant, such as gracefulness, have eluded me further the bigger I have become) and by the time I realized, while in the dairy aisle, that I had forgotten to pick up salsa, and that salsa was all the way on the other side of the store, and was thinking do we really need salsa for tacos, I was undeniably grumpy. So when I finally found the salsa and saw that the kind I wanted was on the bottom shelf, and that required bending way over which was a) not easy for me physically and b) undoubtedly an unattractive position for a person in my current state, I was thinking, “You know what? WHAT AM I EVEN DOING HERE AND WHY DOES EVERYONE HATE ME?”

Having finished my shopping I was overjoyed to get out of there, but while waiting to pay in the checkout line, both the cashier and bagger began talking to me. I stiffened for a second, as though it might be possible to physically repel their advances with my unwilling body and mind, because couldn’t they see I wanted - needed - to go home? But before I knew it I was smiling and happily telling them that it was a girl and that, yes, it was my first and that I was due in one week, to which they replied “One week!” and wished me the very best of luck.

And just like that, the world was a joyful place again. I’m used to my emotions flip-flopping so much as of late. Setting off for a long walk, for instance, because I feel amazing and hopeful and good and then, half-way through, coming to grips with the fact that my suddenly exhausted body is sometimes difficult to manage, and wondering how much more of this I can take. Luckily, those moments are fleeting and something like my talk with the grocery store employees or relaxing in our cozy house with a good book, because I’m pregnant, and you are certainly allowed to relax, restores my sense of calm.

When I left the store I stepped out into the cool air, loaded my bags into the trunk and upon getting into the driver’s seat realized that J had installed a base for our car seat in the back of my Hyundai and somehow I hadn’t noticed it until now. That, I thought, is where the baby will go. She is coming soon, and I can wait. I will happily continue struggling to bend over, rolling onto all fours when I need to get myself out of bed to waddle to the bathroom three or four times a night and I will go through 3,000 hours of labor and do whatever the doctors tell me to do, so that we can meet her.

“They should put more things in bread bowls.”

“Oh yeah? Like what?”

“Like cereal.”

“No. No way. Worst idea ever.”

Last week J and I attended a two-hour breastfeeding class for couples hosted by Yale. I’d been excited about the prospect of a “couples” breastfeeding class ever since I’d signed up. Would it be hilarious? Awkward? Both?

I couldn’t help myself on the drive over and asked J what he was going to do if someone, like maybe the instructor, actually took her breast out, to which he replied something like “I know. Oh my God,” but of course that’s not at all what happened. Instead we practiced breastfeeding positions, using heavy plastic dolls with wide-open mouths, talked about pumps and watched a video on the subject (which did, by the way, feature tons of actual breasts, but it’s totally different when it’s on TV of course).

Any of that stuff could have been funny and, I mean, it was. But the highlight of the class for me wasn’t when we talked about sore nipples or engorgement or massage to stimulate milk let-down. It was, instead, when all the couples took this multiple choice test near the end of the class, proving what we knew - and didn’t know - about breastfeeding. J and I quietly went through each question, with him taking a very confident lead, and me wondering where in the name of God he’d learned so much about this particular topic all of a sudden. That is until we got to this one question where we didn’t agree on the same answer, got into a kind of heated, whispered debate, and I realized it’s not that J’s been reading up on nursing or anything. It’s just that, as he told me, with a dead serious look in his eyes and his hand out as if to stop me from my amateur guessing games, “Look, I am really good at multiple choice tests. You have no idea.”

I was emailing with my father the other day, telling him that J had convinced me to read “The Power and the Glory” by Graham Greene, and that it was very good, but I kind of missed my mysteries. To which my father replied:

“Love,
Sneak a mystery. You need it.
How many morning sicknesses has Dr J had, or lbs gained during this prefnancy?”

I have to admit, for honesty’s sake, that I didn’t even have morning sickness, so that point is not exactly valid, but I get what he’s saying, and although I don’t have much of this “prefnancy” left, I plan to use the excuse to my full advantage, as in, “Listen, I know I am perfectly capable of reaching over to the other side of the bed to get the remote, but I mean, I’m pregnant, and how many morning sicknesses have you had?”

Mark Moran, CEO of findingDulcinea, has asked all of us to stop work today from 8:46 am till 10:29 a.m. today and think about, in his words, “the remarkable manner in which so many people responded to the challenge of their lives, or the certain end of their lives, seven years ago.”

He wrote a great post about his reasons for adopting this policy, and his feelings about September 11, on his blog, which I encourage you all to read.

1. I’m working in a coffee shop today that is playing tons of Pavement, a band I was once rather obsessed with, and I’m wondering when I became so rooted in my daily habits that I only listen to NPR. It’s time to bring back some old favorites like “Wowee Zowee” and “Crooked Rain, Crooked Rain.” Seriously.

2. Speaking of habits, I have GOT to stop it with murder mysteries set in Italy, a rather specific genre I’ve been reading almost exclusively for the past two or three years. I mean, I used to enjoy picking up a piece of classic literature every now and then, after all, I was an English major. But just when I think I it might be a good time to move on, my parents introduce me to a new murder mystery author. I mean, if these writers keep it up with their rapid output, I could theoretically read these things, well, forever.

I’m going to try and start on a Graham Greene novel J recommended, but if you want to get nice and addicted, here are my favorites.

Donna Leon, who writes the Commissario Brunetti mysteries set in Venice.

Andrea Camilleri, who writes about Detective Montalbano. These are set in Sicily.

Michael Dibdin, who died last year, writes the Aurelio Zen mysteries. Zen’s a Venetian, but he’s job takes him all over the country.

I just finished the book “The Innocent” by Magdalen Nabb, who writes a series of mysteries featuring central character Marshal Guarnaccia, set in Florence. A whole new series, and I’ve only read one! Ok. Calm down, calm down.

3. Last month was the most beautiful August I have ever experienced in my life. I normally associate the month with raging humidity and intense lethargy. It’s, you know, disgusting. But this August, unexpectedly - magically! - was characterized by lovely days where the temperature reached no more than 75 or 80 degrees, the sun was shining and there was even a cool breeze. August of 2008, I shall remember you fondly, for I have a feeling you will never be that way again.

4. J and I have switched our weekday morning television viewing throughout the years. We’ve watched “The Today Show” at times, even though I think it can be pretty ridiculous. Take Willard Scott, for instance.

We liked CNN’s “American Morning” until they ditched Soledad O’Brien and Miles O’Brien for, like, absolutely no good reason, and ushered in, God, I don’t even know who they are, these new guys, thus rocking our world. Don’t they get it? Viewers want stability. We heard Miles O’Brien introduced the other day as the “space correspondent.” Really? From major morning show host to “space correspondent?” Poor Miles.

Anyway, we’ve been kind of afloat for a while, but recently started watching “Morning Joe” on MSNBC because they focus on politics and don’t do the inane feature-type stories morning shows flock to for whatever reason. Like, about how eating out at chain restaurants could make you fat because of the huge portions. Yeah, thanks for that. I think we’ll be sticking with MSNBC.

5. I’ve stopped commuting into New York City for the time being, which is good, because I’m nearing the end of my pregnancy, and it was getting tiring and all that, but honestly, the best thing about it is that I can now stay up to watch “The Hills” without worrying if I’m going to get enough hours of sleep before having to get up and catch the train. Priorities.

And that reason is that, especially during times like the present, when I’ve been watching the Republican National Convention and much related coverage for the past week, if I chose to write about what I was feeling, it would just end up being a nonstop stream of obscenities and anger, and hey, you guys don’t need that.

So instead, I thought I’d post the best of what others are saying about the issues at hand when I feel the need to vent. Here’s the always wonderful Jon Stewart on Sarah Palin and her supporters.