The Arrival of Evelyn Louise

February 6, 2015

2015-02-06_0029

 

An introduction…
I’m not sure what I expected this particular post to be. Funny? Emotional? Sentimental? I’m not sure what it ended up being either. A little bit of everything, I think? Just know that if it seems like I’ve summarized the most important, life changing and emotional event of my life – I have. Because I have absolutely no way of putting it into words. But here’s what I was able to tell you…

A warning…
If you’re new to this blog – or the personal posts anyway – this is your formal warning that it’s completely uncensored in both content and language. If you’re sensitive, you might want to pass. I use the f-word freely. If that makes you squirm, you might want to pass. If you’re here because you’re thinking of hiring us to photograph your wedding, please know we do censor our language on wedding days and will not say the f-word in front of your grandma. Otherwise, feel free to read the personal bits to get to know us. I mean, after all, you only want people you actually like around on your wedding day!

A pronunciation…
We get this question a lot (and we don’t mind, I promise) so I figured I’d put it out there – Evie’s name is pronounced Eh-vee. Not EE-vee. We mostly call her Ev, or Evie or Evie Lou or Evie Louski and sometimes just plain Louski.

 

We should begin with the final few weeks of my pregnancy. The ones that I did not blog.

Why, you wonder, would I not blog during this most exciting time. Why would I not detail the rush to complete the final nursery projects, the washing of the tiny outfits, the date nights to savor our last bits of singledom.

Because I was fucking miserable that’s why.

Because I was too giant and too uncomfortable to sit at my computer. (No literally. Couldn’t fit behind my desk.)

Because I developed arthritis in my fingers and torn cartilage in my pubic area and being funny or witty or sentimental were far, far from my mind. (The irony of spending so many years making sure I didn’t accidentally type “pubic” when I meant “public” only to end up blogging about my pubic area…)

So those last few weeks, when you wondered, “How come Maggie isn’t blogging? She must be doing something clever or crafty or fun in preparation for the baby!” I was, in fact, camped out in my old man style recliner, watching Divorce Court and talking to my dog.

I was rolling my eyes at the endless (fucking endless, I tell you) Braxton-Hicks contractions that my dear husband hoped, day in and day out, would be time-able. But you can’t time something that doesn’t end.

I was texting my mom side-by-side comparison photos of my belly from one day to the next, marveling at how low my belly was traveling. I was convinced that if my baby dropped any lower, I was going to have to drag my uterus around behind me on a dog sled until she finally decided to vacate.

2015-02-06_0001

The above photos taken 5 days apart. The second 3 days before the big arrival.

I was getting pedicures with friends and going to trivia nights at local bars because you can’t just talk to a dog all the time.

I was faithfully attending my weekly doctor’s appointments where I was cheerfully told each week that’d I’d made no progress, the clicking and grinding sound coming from my crotch (thanks to that torn pubic cartilage) was still “within the range of normal pregnancy ailments” and that I had gained another 3 pounds. (Three pounds people. In a week. Every week. For the last 4 weeks. Jesus H. Christ.)

And then came my 39 week appointment (actually occurring at 38 weeks 5 days) early the morning of Monday, Nov. 17. Husband and I readied for the appointment, he hopeful as always, me…less so.

“Seems like a good day for a birthday, right?”

“Yup. Any fucking day is a fine day for a birthday.”

“I’m going to put my suitcase in the back of the Jeep just in case.”

“Just in case of what, exactly?”

“Just in case God is indeed merciful. Do you want me to put your bag in the Jeep also?”

“Nope.”

“Alright then.”

We strolled into the doctor’s office and waited for the nurse to call me back.

She did.

She made me get on that damned scale again.

Another 3 pounds. Successfully outweighing my husband at long last. Waited 38 weeks and 5 days for that fine achievement.

Then we waited for the doctor who came in, violated my modesty and concluded that I was, still, not quite 1 centimeter dilated with no other progress or changes to report. Then came the conversation about inducing. We would wait until 1 week past my due date and then get the ball (or baby as it were) rolling.

Fantastic.

Two more weeks – including a holiday – of misery, Divorce Court and one-sided conversations with the dog.

We headed home from the doctor and I whined, complained, cussed and lamented my now impending induction.

I’d said from the very beginning that I didn’t have a birth plan. I was not picky in regards to how the baby got out, as long as it got out in a healthy manner. But – but – I really, really did not want to be induced. I know some women seek to avoid it for health reasons, because they prefer minimal interventions, etc. I, on the other hand, wanted to avoid it because I did not want to know when things were going to go down. I’m a worrier. An anxious, crazy person. The least helpful thing, for me, would be counting down exactly how many episodes of Divorce Court I had left before labor was forced upon me. I would inflict unnecessary pressure and unrealistic expectations on our final day of single-life. It would be a damn disaster. So of course I was not at all happy that induction was looking like the more likely of scenarios.

We decided to try curbing my attitude with lunch at the Mexican restaurant followed by snacks and Super Mario Bros. on the Wii all afternoon.

Throughout lunch and the afternoon and the evening I tried to convince myself that maybe, just maybe, I would still go into labor on my own. Maybe there was something I could do. But I’m too logical for old wives tales and I was too round for labor-inducing sex (though I admit I considered it and googled the statistics).

So, I ate copious amounts of buffalo chicken dip, kicked ass at Mario Bros., took a bath while consuming half a dozen chocolate chip cookies and half a gallon of milk and then I got into bed with my iphone which I continued using to read tales of women who suddenly delivered their babies after getting reports of no progress from their doctors.

2015-02-06_0002

The last maternity photo! Taken the day before her arrival.

PAUSE

There is no way I am not following that photo with a few reminders that I didn’t look that rough until the very end!
If I don’t, no sane woman will ever get knocked up again!
2015-02-06_00302015-02-06_0031See? Happy and not a hot mess!

Where were we…

It was about 10 pm when I settled into bed with my phone.

I told husband I had pain in my back.

“What kind of pain?”

“I don’t know. Painful pain. But not painful enough to matter.”

I plugged in my phone and called it a night around 11 pm.

Around 11:30 I told husband the painful pain was just a bit more painful and maybe it was coming and going. But maybe not.

“Why don’t I try to time it.”

“Why don’t you shove your timer up your ass.”

“Just let me do it so I can figure out how the timer app works at least.”

Husband had been wanting to time everything. I found timing to be the most annoying thing ever in life: “Start! Wait…no maybe not. Ok stop, it’s over. I think. I mean it’s not as bad as it was but it’s there still. So maybe keep it going? No stop it. I think we should have stopped it earlier.”

You would think timing contractions would be right up the alley of a Type-A freak like myself, but no.

At midnight I told husband the pain was going away and we needed to just go to sleep. He agreed. And he actually fell asleep. Leaving me to lay in bed and silently determine if the back pain was coming and going in any recognizable pattern. Didn’t take long to realize that it was. And that it was now traveling from my back to my belly. Just like the doctor said it would.

Just before 1 a.m. I got out of bed, refusing to acknowledge to myself or anyone else that I was probably in labor. Instead I started straightening up the house. The house, by the way, was already immaculate because I’d been cleaning it incessantly for 4 weeks just in case. I folded up the blankets that had been left out on the couch. I rearranged the remotes neatly. Twice.

And then husband got up.

“What are you doing?”

“Nothing.”

“What? You’re folding blankets at 1 a.m. What’s going on? Still having pains?”

“Shut up and pack the dog’s food and blankets.”

“Ok! Should I start timing?”

<Insert death stare.>

So husband started packing Josie’s food and blankets and I sat down. Because despite my unwillingness to admit it, I sure was having some nasty pains every 5 minutes or so. After a few of the pains, I gave in and asked for the timing app. I timed for a while. It infuriated me. Obviously, this was false labor because over the course of 30 minutes the pains went from 8 minutes apart, to 5 minutes apart, to 3 minutes apart. That’s ridiculous. Too ridiculous to be the real deal.

I tried to convince husband to go back to bed. He would not.

So I made him wash up the dishes from my cookie snack.

By now it was just past 2 a.m. and there was no denying what was going down. Quickly.

The dog woke up.

She sat and she stared at me for a full minute and then she went into major guard dog mode. She followed me. She guarded the entrance to whatever room I was in. Final necessities were packed, bags were loaded into the Jeep and the pain got worse. And more frequent. And longer. Quickly. Much more quickly than I expected.

I decided I would take a bath and then call the doctor (who, based on my total lack of progress, had advised I call when contractions were 2-3 minutes apart). Husband started the bath. I leaned against the wall and tried to breathe slowly and deeply under the watchful eye of Josie Bob.

I told husband I needed to go to the bathroom and after that I would require his help getting myself into the tub. He stepped out of the bathroom and attempted to guide Josie away from the door so he could close it. She didn’t budge.

“Come on Jos, let mama go potty.”

Cue very angry dog growl.

JoBo was not about to be separated from me. Instead she stared at me, intensely, without blinking, while I went potty. Dogs make very intense labor partners, just in case it’s something you’re considering. Blinking is not usually mentioned as a quality you want in a labor coach but trust me on that one.

A few more contractions came and went, barely 2 minutes apart. I skipped the bath altogether and called the doctor.
(For those of you who have never had the pleasure of timing a contraction and want to picture this correctly – you time from the beginning of one to the beginning of the next. So even though they are 2 minutes apart, there’s only say 60 seconds or so of downtime between them at that point. Though the amazing thing is that those 60 seconds actually are pretty relaxing and there’s zero pain during that part. Until it comes back… Repeat. Repeat. Repeat.)

The on-call doctor from the practice advised that I maybe ought to probably get my ass to the hospital.

By the time I hung up I was just slightly worried I’d waited too long. Not too long in the sense that I would deliver in the car. Just long enough that the 45 minute drive was going to be miserable.

I yanked my clothes back on, husband leashed the dog and we all piled into the Jeep.

Side note – I had a very different image of this in my head, in that I expected this at-home bit to last a lot longer and move a lot slower. I’d figured the contractions would stay 5 minutes or longer apart for a few hours at least and I’d use the time in between to shower and dry my hair, maybe put on a little make up, maybe ask husband to shave my legs – the lower half at least, right? Yeah. Not a chance in hell any of that happened.

I mean you hear these stories of people laboring for hours and hours and they want you to stay home as long as possible…and I had like, two hours!

As we pulled out of the drive I texted my mama and told her we were hospital bound and that I would update her when we were admitted and knew where we stood. I’d long worried about my parents rushing out of the house in the middle of the night, driving 2.5 hours and then me being all “Oops! False alarm!” So they were prepping but staying put until they heard from me.

Josie dog – much to her dismay – was dropped off at day care. (Yes, at 3 a.m. – she goes to a doggy daycare that is staffed 24-hours. They’d been storing a Josie kennel on site for months and were ready for her when we needed them. God bless those people!!)
The roads were completely empty. About 10 miles in I texted my mom and told them to hit the road that there was no way this wasn’t the real deal. The contractions continued every two minutes, to the second. I breathed slow and deep like we were shown in class and used the windshield fluid dispenser thingy on the hood of the Jeep as a focal point. Of all the techniques we learned, I’d suspected the focal point thing would be the one I preferred. I’d packed several little 2×2 inch Instagram prints of happy things for this purpose. Instead I ended up using the windshield fluid thingy. Go figure. But it worked!

I later said to Zac how crazy it was that we’d made that entire drive without talking! No excited talk of baby on the way, no yelling or cursing about the pain. I think I’d gone into some Silent Zone of Coping. Husband corrected me though and reminded me that I did say one thing. Or rather, I yelled one thing. Zac swears I said it like Batman (you know, “I am Batman,” ala Christian Bale) and that it was terrifying to him.

Allegedly, I Batman-growled, “Turn on Christmas music.”

Husband punched on the Christmas radio station and Lord help us all it was on a commercial. Husband was afraid I might eat him, but I didn’t, I just kept breathing and staring out the windshield at the fluid dispenser thingy.

When we rolled up to the hospital I told husband to park and that we would walk in together. No way was he dropping me off right at the door and then parking or any of that crap. No way. So he parked and we waited while a contraction passed (I couldn’t get myself out of the Jeep, never mind walk by that point) and then we hurried into the Maternity Welcome Center. I was determined to get into that triage room before I had another contraction. I did not want to be the crazy laboring lady laying over the welcome desk doing my deep breathing.

The door of the welcome center slid open and the sweet nurse behind the counter looked up, stood up immediately and said “Right this way!”

It was the same sweet woman who had taken care of us months before when we came in the middle of the night, terrified because our baby hadn’t moved in far too long. I made it to the door way of the triage room just in time to lean my head against it and breathe through another of those bastards (I’ll refer to them as bastards from here on out.). By that point, they were nasty, nasty bastards. It passed and the sweet nurse said, “Go ahead and get on the scale.”

Seriously.

Cruel fucking joke.

Let’s remind the giant woman exactly how giant she is!

Questions were answered, my blood pressure was taken and I was hustled down the hall for a quick exam to see how far along I was.
Leading up to this point my only “plan” was to make it as far as possible before getting the epidural. I had no illusion of delivering without one. But I did like the idea of getting a good ways into the whole thing before druggin’ up. I had no idea if that would be 2 cm or 5 cm, 2 hours or 20 hours.

So when the nurse said I was already 4 cm and just about to 5 I nearly threw a party! Nearly, because then another bastard came roaring up and I no longer felt celebratory.

I was wheeled back to the triage room where I signed one more paper and then, as if by magic, a labor and delivery nurse materialized in the doorway and cooed, “Maggie, I’m so-and-so and I’m going to take you to your labor suite.”

I asked if the suite had a bathtub. I’d hoped to use it to make some progress in a relaxing, spa-like way. Also, I like big bathtubs.
The nurses said it did and I was pleased. She wheeled us down the hallway toward the elevator while husband walked alongside me, wheeling our suitcase and my carefully packed labor bag – filled with calming aromatherapy lotion, tennis balls for back massage, my little focal point pictures, a season of Friends on DVD. Per the instructions from class, I was prepared for the long haul.

We were wheeled into the big, beautiful birth suite. The lights around the bed were dimmed. It was lovely and calming, as were the two nurses tending to me. It was at this point that the contractions became so intense I finally started swearing. I know. Can you believe that? I made it that whole time without letting the f-word fly.

And I didn’t know these two sweet nurses so I felt bad about swearing. The first time I just barely whispered, “ooo. Fuck. That hurts.” But then shit got really real and I said something like “Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuckety fuck.” And the nurse putting in my IV port cracked up and told me she loved me.

What is that about?! I swear people only like me for my potty mouth.

So the IV was in, the litany of medical conditions had been read to me – the no boxes checked for each – (that always makes me thankful for my health!) and the wireless contraction and heartrate monitors were in place – I was free to get in the big tub!
The nurse said she would help me to the bathtub and that if and when I wanted her to call anesthesia, to just say the word and they’d be there in 15 minutes or less. I said I was ready to try the tub.

I stood up and was clobbered by another nasty bastard. I did the deep breathing thing. And the f-word thing.

And then I threw up all over.

Game over.

“Get on the horn with the anesthesia!! To hell with the bathtub!!!” I yelled.

I can handle pain (I mean barely – don’t get me wrong – I wasn’t smiling or anything) but I cannot handle vomiting. Nope, nope, nope. The select few individuals who have been privileged enough to see the drama that is me vomiting – my parents, my husband, a college roommate or two – will attest to the fact that its best for everyone if just doesn’t happen.

Six minutes (and 3.5 contractions) passed and in came a man with a cart and miracle drugs.

This is the part I was afraid of. I had little to no fear of dealing with labor and all its glory. The needle in the spine thing has terrified me since I was old enough to even think of myself delivering a baby.

I’ll keep this brief: I didn’t hurt.

It didn’t pinch.

It didn’t burn.

It didn’t anything.

I literally felt nothing.

Ok correction, I felt the bones in my husband’s hand crunching because I was gripping it so hard in terror.

But honestly, I felt nothing until I started to feel the warming sensation of my legs going numb.

Within just a few minutes the pain of the contractions was dulling. The next few felt more like the very first ones, mild, mostly just noticeable. And then, Glory be to God, I stopped feeling them at all.

(So this is where the hospital photos begin… I didn’t photoshop them to perfection because vanity is a dangerous sin. And I didn’t have time. Let’s just go ahead and give ourselves permission to delivery babies in whatever state we were in when the babies decided to arrive and to look like…oh, I don’t know, women who just gave birth…instead of perfectly coiffed super models with nary a smudge in our eyeliner. Good? Good. It’s a deal.)

2015-02-06_0003

I chatted with husband. I checked Facebook. I sent texts to a few close friends and announced, in a rather dull manner, “Its baby day!”
And then my blood pressure dropped and alarms started going off.

Before I knew what was happening there was an oxygen mask strapped to my face and an anesthesiologist injecting something into my IV. A few minutes passed, problem solved.

At this point Zac started to take my photo and I smiled real big and gave him a thumbs up. He told me to stop that immediately and just have a blank expression.

“Why?! I’m excited!”

“You won’t like the way it looks.”

“Not the time for vanity. Take the photo!”

When I went through the photos a week or so later I realized what he meant…

Well hello there, Hannibal Lecter!

2015-02-06_0004

We were instructed to try and rest a bit, so we did. But it wasn’t long before another alarm was blasting away…this time though it was the baby’s heart rate dropping.

The nurse put the oxygen back on, changed my position, etc. but it didn’t seem to help quite enough. She placed internal monitors to get a better read. Another position change seemed to solve the issue and away she went. She didn’t say a whole lot to us about what was going on, if we should be concerned or what have you. I wasn’t real keen on that.

Thankfully, within just a few minutes there was a shift change and a new nurse arrived. She was everything I could have asked for in a nurse. She was encouraging and comforting and informative every step of the way.

2015-02-06_0032

Bottom middle, watching Josie playing at day care on the live Webcams :)

The baby’s heart rate dropped a few more times and she continued trying different positions and techniques to help her along. We felt confident in her and were comfortable knowing she was monitoring our baby.

About that time my parents arrived! They chilled out with us and we all chatted as we waited.

2015-02-06_0006

Earlier in the morning an OB resident had told us to expect the baby early afternoon. But by 9:30 I was at 8 cm, so that wasn’t seemingly likely. I didn’t know how long we’d be waiting, but I suspected it wouldn’t be until early afternoon!

The baby’s heart rate dropped again, more dramatically than before. By that point the oxygen was a permanent fixture. I breathed deep – real deep – over and over, trying to get as much oxygen to the baby as possible. Each time the heart rate came back up. But it also took longer each time.

Our nurse assured us she was in constant contact with our Dr.

Then came another OB resident, who checked again, reviewed the print-outs of the monitor and said he would confer with our Dr.
I stressed more than once to our nurse that I was in no way opposed to doing anything that got the baby out safely. Lots of moms are strongly opposed to caesarian sections unless it’s an absolute emergency. Others are opposed to others measures, etc. I didn’t want there to be any confusion about me feeling that way. Watching her heart rate drop was killing me. I wasn’t sure I could handle much more of the deep breathing and praying combo I had going on. I just wanted her out and safe.

By that point, I was shaking uncontrollably. Thankfully we’d been warned in our many labor classes that shaking is very common – as a reaction to the most intense part of labor, as a reaction to an epidural and as a reaction to adrenaline. So, with all three at full force, there was a whole lot of shaking going on. That alone would have scared me to death if I hadn’t known it was normal.

The nurse came back and told us that our Dr. was on his way over. He felt the baby had had enough and it was time to move forward. She explained that he would check me and depending on what he found we would either try delivering her with the help of a vacuum (he didn’t like the risk of it taking a while) or start prepping for a C-section. But either way, she was coming out fast.

The Dr. arrived almost immediately. The room cleared and he checked for progress.

Ten centimeters, ready to rock and roll.

“We’re going to start pushing,” he said.

“WHAT?” I said.

I mean, I knew what the options were but he was just so….casual about it.

“I’ll grab my scrubs, you can hug your mama and then we’ll start pushing!” he confirmed.

So that’s what happened.

My parents came in. Hugs and kisses were exchanged. My bed transformed into a delivery table. A nurse appeared, ready to attend to the baby.

2015-02-06_0033

I looked – wide-eyed I’m sure – at my husband. “I can’t do this. I can’t do this right now. This is insane. This is terrifying. How can it just be time to push like this it’s too calm!”

He assured me that I could do it.

I assured him that I could not.

Because this is not how I pictured it.

Call me crazy but I just figured it would be more chaotic than that. I thought I would be all jazzed up, maybe even sweaty, and someone would yell “It’s time to push!!” and I would be all “Oh thank God!” and then people would rush around everywhere.

But no. I’m just chillin’ out, minding my business and some guy casually says, “Well I’ll grab my scrubs then we’ll push.”

Just as quickly as he’d left, the Dr. reappeared in his scrubs and pulled up a front row seat. My feet were hoisted up and everyone assumed their positions. Then the nurse said we’d practice once or twice before we tried to make progress.

Practice is always good, right?

She told me to wait for a contraction and then she said “Okay, give it a try!”

So I tried.

And the baby’s head came out.

Seriously.

Just like that.

Mind = Blown.

And here’s what all the pregnant readers are waiting to hear… It didn’t hurt. Honestly. It didn’t. I felt it. I felt every bit of it and I knew exactly what was happening. But it was painless. I know that doesn’t make sense.

Zac looked at me, his eyes all sorts of lit up and said, “Mag! She has hair! She has tons of hair!”

And then I lost it. I’d waited 9 months to see if she’d have hair. I cannot tell you how many times I said, “I wonder if she’ll have hair…” I actually didn’t have a 3D ultrasound because I was afraid it would ruin the hair surprise.

The Dr. did whatever it is Drs are doing at that point and then said, “Okay, we’re going to push again at the next contraction.”

The nurse said “Go!” so I pushed again. It felt like a long push. I would guess I pushed for a full 90 seconds. I paused once to take a breath and whispered quickly, “Oh that hurt a bit” and then shaazaam, a baby was born.

Seriously.

The nurse immediately laid her on my chest and she looked up at me with those big dark brown eyes and held eye contact for what felt like forever.

2015-02-06_0008

I said hello.

I told her I was her mama.

I told her she did a really good job.

I told her that again. That she did such a good job being born. I knew it had been hard on her and I wanted her to know she did well.
I told her she was a rock star. Because that’s what I say to people when they’ve done something awesome. I always say, “You’re a rock star!” Apparently that’s the first time the labor and delivery team have heard someone say that to a newborn baby. Whatever.

I told her we loved her.

I told her we were so, so glad she was here.

She just snuggled in and stared into my eyes.

So I just snuggled and stared back.

And then I looked up and said, “Jeeze, that was easy!! We’re going to do this a bunch more times!!”

There was a roar of laughter from the Dr and nurse stationed between my legs, but I wasn’t kidding!

I was completely dumbfounded by how well the entire process had gone. All you ever here are these horror stories. It hadn’t occurred to me that it might go smoothly and you know…not be that bad! I will say this – those two pushes were hands down the hardest workout of my life! I credit our labor class instructor for teaching me how to push effectively. That woman laid down on the floor of our classroom, pulled her knees up to her neck and demonstrated proper pushing for 24 people. She “pushed” as hard and long as you actually have to. So when I went to give it a go, I just did what she did. And there ya go.

The sequence of events after that are kind of fuzzy for me. I remember them, but I don’t know what order they happened in and parts are pretty blurry. When I look at the photos, I know two hours passed between her delivery and when my parents came in to meet her. In my head, it’s more like 30 minutes.

I know someone brought me peanut butter and graham crackers and a cold can of Sprite and that I suddenly realized I was ravenously hungry.

I know I watched Zac watching the baby be cleaned up.

2015-02-06_0009

And I know that at some point I realized the Dr. was still taking care of some sort of business and he was looking concerned.

And at that point I realized there was probably a lot more blood than there was supposed to be. Not a great feeling.

“Am I ok?” I asked the nurse.

“Oh yeah, yeah you’re okay… Let’s get you cleaned up.” She started wiping down my chest and getting me a clean gown. I knew she was distracting me.

So I called the Dr. by name and asked him directly, “Am I ok?” I could see husband standing just feet away from the end of the bed, with a much better view of what was happening than I had. He looked like someone who was trying not to look very worried.

“Yes. You’re going to be ok. There’s just a good bit of internal bleeding going on and I’ve got to get it stopped.” He sounded more serious than he had earlier.

I took his word for it because I wasn’t in any way capable of questioning it. So I focused on watching my baby being weighed and measured and tried not to think about the Dr. calling for extra hands and different meds in my IV. Extra hands arrived. New IVs were hung and so on, I heard the Dr. say, “There we go. We’re good. We’re good now.”

Thank you Jesus.

I wasn’t about to be pulled out of the moment of watching my newborn baby’s first hour ticking by, but it was a hard situation to ignore.

Then Evie was back in my arms, all wrapped up and warm. Husband and I passed her back and forth and loved on her and tried to wrap our heads around the fact that she was real and ours and here with us. Finally.

2015-02-06_0010

2015-02-06_0011

As the Dr. finished up he explained that there had been 3 internal tears, 2 of them more severe. Thus the bleeding. But he’d fixed them up and didn’t expect I’d even notice them or have any trouble from them. I was, he informed me, otherwise perfectly fine. That’s probably more information than needs to be shared on my blog. But just as with the labor, you hear so many horror stories of 3rd degree tears and episiotomies that never heal right and on and on that you kind of fail to consider the possibility of coming out of the whole thing unscathed! (Aside from the internal boo-boos of course. And the Dr. was right, I was never aware of them and they caused no issue.) (And no, I did not use any type of massage or oil or black magic to condition or prepare my body. Hey there, too much information. Whatever. Inquiring pregnant minds wanted to know that, I assure you.)

Once I was all fixed up, we got the green light to try nursing.

Prior to a year or so before I got pregnant I was 100% sure that I did not want to breastfeed. I had no interest it in, the thought made me uncomfortable and I never imagined I’d want to. I’m not even sure what changed my mind. But at some point I decided I wanted to. And I’d spent a good bit of time trying to learn how. Classes, books, more books, blogs, website, etc. So I was more than ready to give it a go.

It seemed ridiculous. This teeny tiny baby and my ginormous boob. But that little rock star knew exactly what she was doing. She figured it out right away and I was totally amazed and immediately hooked on breastfeeding. I’m so thankful I gave it a shot and so thankful that it went well. It is hands down the most amazing thing I’ve experienced. Okay maybe it’s tied with the entire pregnancy/delivery thing.

(For what it’s worth – I’m only mentioning this because it’s a big part of my experience. I’ll never be one of those banner waving, “Breast is Best” chanting advocates. Because I’m not into putting any type of pressure on moms to do anything they don’t prefer to do. If your baby is happy and you are happy, you’re getting a high five from me, sister!)

Once Evie was fed, we finally let her Gramma and Grampa in to meet her.

They liked her hair.

2015-02-06_0013

We all watched as she was given her first bath and had her hair washed. She loved having her hair washed!!

2015-02-06_00152015-02-06_00162015-02-06_00172015-02-06_00182015-02-06_0019

Zac carried her over to me. All freshly washed with a red bow in her dark, dark hair and said he thought she looked like Snow White. I agreed.

Grandpa Jeff arrived to meet her.

We all agreed she was perfect and lovely.

We were moved to our mother-baby room for the rest of our stay. It was much smaller than our giant delivery suite and I later told Zac I was so glad about that. Because when our visitors had left and it was just the 3 of us in the middle of the night, it felt like cozy and safe and happy.

2015-02-06_0020

Despite expecting to do the opposite, we let the nurses in the nursery take Evie overnight so we could rest. We’d been awake for nearly 40 hours when we finally got some sleep. We agreed we needed the help of the nurses if we were going to take good care of her and if we were going to leave the hospital in any reasonable condition.

They brought her in to nurse every 2 hours, more when she wanted it. Husband faithfully logged each feeding and diaper. Every time they wheeled her in I would feel so tired, and every inch of my body was sore but as soon as they would hand her to me I felt perfectly fine. And every single time I said, “Oh my God, she is so cute!!” I just kept being shocked at how totally adorable she was, especially that dark hair. I was a total goner. So was husband. Watching him fall in love with his tiny baby was been a major life highlight for me.

2015-02-06_0022

2015-02-06_0028
We spent two days in that little room, learning how to have a baby. Visitors came, many, many photos were taken. I ate no less than 6,000 calories per day from the ridiculously amazing room service menu.

2015-02-06_00212015-02-06_0023

And soon, it was time to take our tiny baby home.

2015-02-06_00242015-02-06_00252015-02-06_00262015-02-06_0027
I fought back tears as they wheeled me to the front of the hospital with itty bitty Evie tucked into her great big car seat. I don’t know what exactly was making me emotional.

Our pregnancy journey was over. Our sweet baby was here. We were taking her home.

More than enough reasons to be choked up.

And so we brought her home. And that’s that.

Everything is absolutely the same.

Everything has changed completely.

2015-02-06_0029Evelyn Louise Violet Medema
November 18, 2015 – 10:47 a.m. – 7 lb 6 oz, 20.5 in

More blogging to come… including a few words on my debunking of that very scary post-partum chapter you might recall me ranting about. A preview: It’s not that bad. Seriously.

Also coming… a review of our first few weeks with a newborn. A preview: It’s not that bad, either.
Other upcoming installments include “Daddy Goes To Jail” and “There’s Shit Everywhere”. Stay tuned, friends.

A huge, huge thank you to my amazing husband. While being an incredible labor coach, a giddy new daddy and essentially my own private nurse, he still managed to take all of these amazing photos. I will love them, and him, forever.


COMMENTS

Care to Leave a Comment?

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked: *