John Paul's Birth Story, Final Installment

How ridiculous...this is like triple overtime and so obnoxious and for anyone out there still reading...sorry.

Not really.

I mean, he hardly sleeps and he nurses like a newly-married woman fresh off her bridal diet and lounging in an all-inclusive resort. We are talking a reckless abandonment when it comes to consumption here.

(And for anyone just tuning in, this one has all the juicy details...but if you're looking for character and plot development, feel free to hop over here, here and here ... oh, sorry, I think I just put myself to sleep.

So back to the epic tome.

5 cm. Fully effaced. Bulging bag of waters (ew ew EW I loathe birth lingo). I was quickly escorted up to the long-sought L&D floor and assigned a glorious birthing suite complete with sunken, jetted tub (which I actually used this time. Sort of.) and a nurse named Heather who fell from Heaven above, glamorous highlights and stylish glasses included. She was quite possibly my favorite person ever (next to Dr. Anesthesia, of course) and was totally covered by our health insurance. (Note to future self: doulas are expensive. Nurses are included.)

Things picked up preeeetty quickly once we hit the labor suite, but I was still totally confused by the normalcy between contractions. I kept asking our doula Jessica (who'd arrived by then, toting her crockpot full of ginger compresses, electric candles and iPad full of T Swift and DMB) what was 'wrong' with this labor...and she kept smiling and saying 'this is what a second labor feels like.'

Word.

Except then something caraaazy happened. I'd like to call it 'transition' to be as medically accurate as possible, but what actually went down was something like ohholyshitholyshitwhatishappeningtomybackCOWNOISESCOWNOISESomgmybackmyspinemypelvis

Something along those lines.

So for the first 90 minutes in Hotel Delivery...totally under 'control.' I was breathing/vocalizing (code for really embarrassing moaning noises) in a controlled fashion and laboring very effectively either leaning over the bed, sitting in the bathroom (ew), and, eventually, standing in the shower completely devoid of all modesty and/or dignity and telling myself over and over again 'wet epidural...the water is a wet epidural'

Well, somewhere between 7 and 8 cm, my body called my BS and little man began his agonizing OP (translation: sunnyside up) descent from stubborn zero station to whereverthehelltheyneedtobetopush.

And that's when things got real.

I mean, I went from mostly calm and naturally-laboring birth diva to drug-seeking inpatient in like 45 seconds. The moment I felt the first twinge of 'back labor' this time around, I think I had a full blown PTSD episode and was suddenly back in September, 2010, 4 hours into the pushing stage and performing a general examination of conscience as I prepared to meet Jesus.

Just a leedle bit dramatic here.

Heather clasped my hands across the bed and, looking straight into my frantic, hunted animal eyes and answered my cry of 'WHAT THE HEEEEEELL IS HAPPENING?!' by calmly informing me that baby was OP.

As my brain cracked open to absorb this new tidbit of info, I suddenly realized that my window for obtaining an epidural would be slamming shut soonish, and so I began sounding the alarm, shouting our code word at the top of my lungs.

"PORTIUNCULA!!!!"

Dave: 'Honey are you sure?'

His perfectly reasonable inquiry, along with those voiced by nurse Heather and Jessica the doula, were sufficient to convince me that there was a coercive and secretive effort afoot to deny me medication and that they were allllll plotting to put me off to the point of no return, after which time no epidural on earth could rescue me.

So I did what any reasonable laboring woman would do, faced with this problem. I slowed my labor down.

That's right, I jedi-mind tricked my body into actually slowing the contractions down to maybe 3 minutes apart as we waited for Dr. Crackdrip to make his grand entrance. All the while, the room was full of incredulity and exclamations like 'wow Jenny, you actually are slowing down your own labor...that is amazing!'

To which I replied

Uuuunnnhhhhh, where are the drugs? Where ARE THEY?!!!! Is the anesthesiologist even on duty right now? Did you call him? YOU DIDN'T CALL HIM YET, DID YOU???? DID YOUUUUUUU???

In other words, I was perfectly pleasant and rational, and it was indeed a well-thought out and informed decision.

Honestly, I would have settled for street-purchased heroin it I'd thought it would arrive sooner.

Eventually Dr. McDreamy made his way into the room and started explaining the risks and procedures and blahblahblah I very nearly reached around behind my massive self and jammed that needle in my own back.

And then....bliss.

It was quite possibly the world's most perfect epidural. I could move my legs, I could feel my contractions, and when it came time to push, I could do that pretty well too. But I could no longer feel the shovel dragging down the inside of my spinal column.

Thank you Jesus.

Strangely enough, the moment the epidural kicked in, somebody casually informed me that I'd need to clear the 'antibiotic window' of which 2 hours remained before my water broke. Why this information was revealed this late in the game, I couldn't really say, but I was instructed to lie as still as possible to let the antibiotics work their Group-B-Strep fighting magic. In other words, what in the heezy would they have done if I hadn't become crazed and drug seeking?

Pumped the newborn full of penicillin, I suppose. But anywho, my very obedient second born kindly waited until the allotted time had passed and them 'pop' went his little water world, at his own doing, exactly as the 2 hour mark arrived.

After impressing one and all with my 'practice pushes' I was encouraged to go ahead and try the real thing. Fully expecting to take 2 or more hours to get this kiddo out, I allowed myself to be coached along for 20 minutes or so until suddenly,

"Okay STOP. Just hold it right there."

Um, excuse me?

"Jenny just stop for a second, just relax."

Not pushing here.

Nurse Heather looked up and announces to the room 'It's true, she's not pushing! This kiddo is pushing him or herself out!'

Weird.

A flurry of activity and one very funny page later ('Attention L&D break room can we get a doc or resident or anyone to room 201 stat'...pause...audible omgs coming over intercom)

 Nurse Heather assessed the situation, marshaled her troops and announced to her fellow nurses:

"Get ready to catch, girls"

Oh my.

At the very last moment possible, two doctors or residents or simply people in blue scrubs wearing gloves (who I'd never seen before or since) skidded into the room, latex snapping around their wrists juuuuust in time to catch.

I think they handed him to Dave, or at least presented his business parts for inspection, which immediately set off a rare public display of emotion as my usually stoic husband choked out 'It's a ... boy!' (He had been so sure of a girl all along, I think the drama of another teeny weenie heightened the moment's intensity for him.

As we both cried and marveled over our tiny son, my crack team of medical experts proceeded to pummel, inject and generally violate my nether regions whilst I, blissfully unawares thanks to a potent cocktail of hormones and narcotics, cuddled this sweet and perfectly round-headed little man to my chest.

He didn't cry, much to the dismay of one pediatric nurse in particular. She kept rubbing his back while he laid on my chest, wide-eyed and peering around the room. He squeaked a few times and blinked at us all and slowly turned pink, but my boy was not about to publicly display his emotions for the room, back thumping notwithstanding.

He latched on immediately, kind of without my even offering (little ballsy there, fella), and he nursed for 70 straight minutes. Seriously. They came back like 3 separate times to try to get his vitals, but were turned away each time by his voracious appetite.

And for the past 8 days, I can't say much has changed.

Except my heart is gradually enlarging. And my body weight is melting away under the assault of his eager little mouth. And I may never sleep again.

But we're doing oh so well. Two sweet little boys. 19 months apart.

Craziness, be ours.

John Paul's Birth Story, Installment 3

Okay, let's just get this thing done, shall we? It's like the perfect ending to a 41-week pregnancy...and perhaps the lengthiest non-celebrity birth story currently gracing the internets.

So acupressure. It works.

I waddled from my relaxation/mental anguish sesh freshly contracting, but still wary of these relatively 'painless' Braxton Hicks which had been taunting me for weeks on end. I didn't remember having them with Joey's pregnancy, but they were frequent visitors this time around, and they never failed to raise and then dash my hopes in a vicious cycle that always began with me on the elliptical machine for an inappropriate amount of time and ended with a nightly wallowing session at Mickey D's, my head buried in a vanilla soft serve cone, weeping softly.

I was not going to be deterred so easily this time though. Upon arriving home, I insisted on marching briskly around the backyard while Dave grilled dinner, afraid that if I did sit down/stop moving for any amount of time, the magic muscle spasms would dissipate and I would be pregnant forever. Like an elephant or a manatee.

I did laps around my mother in law on the back patio, asking her about her flight and apologizing profusely for the absence of a second grandchild upon whom to dote. Since she is the epitome of good-natured midwestern charm, she simply smiled and told me that this baby was coming in God's time, and not a moment sooner.

I must hide my feelings towards her at that moment in the darkness of my heart. (Especially in light of the 30 meals she cooked (mostly from scratch) and stocked into my freezer before the end of her stay. Mom: holy. Jenny: not so much)

We eventually sat down to dinner, I on my birth ball and everyone else civilized-like, in chairs. Obviously my contractions subsided the moment I lowered my heft, and I wept bitter tears into my grilled pineapple.

We finished dinner, slammed Joey in bed and imposed on mom's good and exhausted nature to babysit while we made an ice cream run. Once in the car, I confided to Dave that the contractions had stopped and that I would be needing to 'eat my feelings,' hence the urgent need for frozen dairy.

We ate our fatty mcfatterson custard sundaes on a bench near the river by our gym. And then we walked. Up and down the river, through the gym parking lot, and right smack into our fav kid's club nanny and the most frequent commentator on the state of my cervix.

As Jody fired questions as to interior baby's whereabouts, I hung my head in shame. No, still no baby...and no I hadn't been to the gym that day. I just couldn't face another round of dilation jeopardy. Lucky me, we still got to exchange gynecological pleasantries, and this time with both our husbands present. At 9 pm. With ice cream on my maternity tank.

At this point the contractions had returned, but I was cynically hardening my heart against them. We got home, jumped in bed, and I promptly began to time the little devils on my phone.

10 minutes apart. 7 minutes apart. 14 minutes apart. 8 minutes apart.

wtf.

around 11:30 or so I decided that 'laboring' in the bathroom with my birth ball would probably be more effective than lying in bed cursing at my cell phone, so I grabbed a favorite novel and holed up for the next hour or so while Dave packed our bag (which had already been packed for a month.)

By 1 am it was clear that we were dealing with real live labor, though I still felt so 'fine' in between contractions that I was highly skeptical. Joey's labor started with a bang (well, a gush. Ew.) and went 90 miles an hour the whole time. This was just too ... manageable.

After a relatively pleasant 25 minute car trip with only 2 (dammit) real contractions throughout, (and two different airings of my favorite overplayed song of the moment on 2 different radio stations)
 we arrived at the hospital and informed the intake nurse that we were in labor. She eyed my calm and collected appearance and raised an eyebrow as she pushed the intake form across the desk, no doubt looking forward to sending another rookie back into the night.

I obligingly donned my mid-calf length (is this some hot new trend in medical couture?) gown and promptly had a painful-ish contraction that required somewhat more attention than I'd been giving them so far, causing nurse doubtful to double take. But again, no sooner had it passed then I felt 'fine' again...at least as fine as 200 lbs in an assless paisley gown at 2 in the a.m. can feel.

I let her check me and steeled myself for the worst. But she surprised us both, proclaiming me fully effaced and a solid 5 cm.

Calling over her shoulder that she'd get our room ready, she left stunned us in the triage area gaping like idiots and repeating her numerical data in astonishment. How could I be a 5? That was the point at which I'd screamed our drug-seeking code word during Joey's birth, and a good 12 hours into hard labor at that.

Second born children. That's all I can say.

And that's all I can say for tonight as well, as I am quite literally lying on my side nursing a ravenous wolverine cub while typing.

Martyred for your reading pleasure,

John Paul's Birth Story, Installment 2

Click here for the enthralling first part of the story.

After sleeping not at all for the past several very pleasant days, I've realized that either I write this damn thing out now or later, but that I'll never be 'well rested' enough to feel like doing it, so I might as well do it.

Capiche?

Good, Uncle Jessie.

Now where was I?

Ah yes, Ling's Hairstyles. Mere minutes after my dear mother-in-law's plane touched down, I'd flung Joey in her general direction and fled to the enticing massage cave in search of salvation in hte form of contraction-coaxing acupressure.

I was not to be disappointed.

First, however, because this is, after all, my birth story and therefore bound to include at least one or two details so fundamentally ridiculous and/or outlandish as to barely merit belief, let me disclose that this 75 minute session of heaven on earth was tainted with the horrific details of forced government abortion, a casual description of abortion-as-birth-control, and a semi-lively discourse on the merits of living in a communist regime vs. the good 'ol US of A.

I shite you not.

You see Leena, my master massuese, is also a Chinese immigrant who is 20 months fresh to the US and very, very happy to be here. For many reasons, not least of which the grim reality that when she got pregnant for a second time the doctor had to 'take baby out,' since to defy China's One Child Policy meant fines, imprisonment or worse. (Worse particularly for the child in question, who is nearly always forcibly aborted.)

So there I was, 10 flipping months pregnant, desperate to get labor started and at the mercy of a very strong and teeny Asian lady who at one point mounted the back of my recliner to gain access to my shoulder blades and upper back. And who found it opportune to casually engage me in conversation about her personal experiences with abortion.

Horrifying? Yes.

Fascinating? Well, yes, in a way...because while she expressed a certain degree of disappointment with her government's policy and its effects on her own second pregnancy, she was strangely detached from the grim reality of the policy. She readily praised the freedom which we are accorded in this great nation, but she also chided me when it was revealed that I was perhaps going to continue reproducing beyond the current occupant.

"You have one baby, now two...no more, no more. Two enough."

Grim smile.

"We'll see...we're open to more."

"You want more?! How many?"

Shrug. "5 or 6? Who knows...we'll see if this one ever comes out."

"Too many! Too much work! Babies hard work!"

Indeed.

Back and forth we went, her sharing snippets of her reproductive horror story from the Far East and me nodding and sighing in relief as she hit on areas of tension, all the while perfectly aware how.flipping.bizarre. this all was.

In retrospect, having named our son after two great missionary saints - perhaps two of the greatest in the history of Christendom - it makes sense that he would engage in a little evangelization right from the get go. I just kind of expected he would be, you know, born first before he started preaching the Gospel.

God's plans are mysterious though.

TBC...because for the love of all that is good and holy, he is asleep and might remain so for 30 minutes or more...and maybe I can do the same!

Probably not.

But a girl can dream.

John Paul's Birth Story, Installment 1

Because a second-born deserves an epic saga.

Last Wednesday my mother in law arrived in town to help us with life after new baby...the baby, however, was still happily ensconced in utero.  Minor detail.

Determined to get things rolling, and fresh out of ideas after trying massage, chiropractic, evening primrose oil, raspberry leaf tea, acupressure, running, membrane stripping, positive mental imagery, sex, pineapple, chinesefood, redwinemexicanfooddrinkinggallonsofsalsavigorouswalkingelipticalmachineridingswimming...

you get the idea

I decided to play my ace. After having tried ev.er.y.thing short of castor oil to get this baby into an exterior position, I put on my game face and headed to Ying's Hairstyles and Foot Massage.

A hidden gem in glamorous Englewood, Colorado, Yings is my go-to for cheap asian massage (not that kind of massage). $25 bucks gets you a rocking foot massage that basically is a full body massage in a recliner, while soaking one's feet in a bucket of lavender. Primitive? Perhaps. But completely amazing. Add to this the grim reality of pregnancy, week 41, and I was a desperate case indeed.

I waddled into the salon and bee-lined for the massage cave where I collapsed most gracefully into the last recliner in the row, swollen toes pointed heavenward. I was ready. Let's do this, Ying.

(Actually, Ying had a hair appointment, so Leena was my superhero that day.)

to be continued ... a cruel tease I know, but the ravenous beast awaketh...did I mention he had a 2 hour and 41 minute nursing sesh last night around, oh, 2 am...? No?

My bad.

Love love love my fresh baby, but so flipping tired.

Drumroll Please...

Introducing John Paul Francis Uebbing!

Born at 7:30 in the a.m. on Thursday, April 19th weighing in at 8 lbs, 4 oz and stretching 20 inches long, he's our little peanut!

Beautiful, blessed birth and labor experience -- deets to come.

Thank you for all the prayers, support, indulgence of weeks months of whining, etc.

Birth story to comeeeeeee.