Birth Stories

Always Kiss Your Momma

October 8, 2019

by iwanteditall@gmail.com 1 Comment

The day Alexander was born I became a “boy mom.” (Although to be honest, I was always annoyed by the phrases “boy mom” and “girl mom” as if that made any difference to parenting. Moms with girls could have rough and tumble little girls who preferred mud pies over Easy Bake ovens; Moms with boys could have soft spoken little boys who carried a baby doll instead of Spiderman). Nonetheless, when Xander was born we unofficially met our gender quota and could relax in knowing that we would no longer be asked the intrusive question “are you going to try for a boy?”

After the delivery of each child I would stare at my sweet newborn’s face and marvel how something could fit so perfectly into my heart despite only arriving a mere hour ago. I would gently rock the new love of my life, pray obsessively over their little body and make promises that I hoped I would never break.

“Dear God thank you for this miracle that you have given us. Please help guide me to be the mother that this child deserves.”

As I kissed his sweet face I whispered, “I promise to nurture you in every way that I can. I promise to guide you as your grow into the incredible person I know you will become. I can’t promise that you will always be happy and I guarantee you will have your heart broken throughout your life, but I can promise that I will always be there for you. I promise to love you for who you are, not who I want you to be. I promise to let you make your own mistakes and choices, even when it is not what I would choose for you. I will teach you strength, compassion, truth and empathy. I promise to teach you manners, how to be respectful, how to treat girls-especially your sisters and momma….”

I remember pausing at that moment, alone with him in the middle of the night, and realizing that I would forever be the first woman he loved. For some reason it seemed more pivotal than it did with my girls. I knew that for the first few years of his life the sun would rise and set with me and as a pre-schooler he would announce “when I grow up I’m going to marry Momma.” I also knew that as the years passed this would fade and he would eventually grow to become someones boyfriend, fiancé and (God-willing) husband.

Post-delivery hospital memories are usually a blurry dream-like state for me, but this is a memory I have managed to keep clear in my mind. As tears welled in my tired eyes I made one more promise to Alexander,

“I promise to remind you to always kiss your momma.”

I realized that for the first eighteen-ish years of his life, he would need me to reassure him of my unending love for him. But as he grew and I began to feel the stinging pull of my baby boy leaving? I may be the one who needed the reassurance.

To this day, if you ask Alexander ‘what is the number one rule in this house?” He will respond with a toothless giggle, “always kiss your momma.”

It’s a ‘rule’ we practice nightly as I tuck him into bed. Still young enough to need a nightlight and his ‘Buddy’ blanket, but old enough to no longer need his mom’s lullabies and rocking chair cuddles, he will declare “always kiss your momma” before each goodnight kiss. Some nights I’ll tease him and ask “what about when you are in 3rd grade, 4th grade or 5th grade?” He will smile and say “Ill still always kiss my momma.”

“What about when you have a girlfriend?”
“Eww! I’ll still kiss my momma!”

As he leaves for school, his backpack bounces when he runs back to me on the front porch. The bus comes to a stop in front of our house and he gladly make his school mates wait as he says “I didn’t forget mom. Always kiss your momma.”

When I leave for work in the morning, I am frazzled and balancing my planner and coffee in one hand, quickly shelling out hugs, kisses and ‘you’re going to do great on your test today’ affirmations. Alexander reminds me “hey! Always kiss your momma!”

I’m not naive and I know it may not always be this easy. Someday his friends will be hangin’ around and he will be embarrassed. As a teenager he will inevitably ‘hate’ me for one reason or another and may refuse to show any form of affection as a means of retaliation (and I will have to try my damnedest to not let him know how much it hurts me). He may have an adoring girlfriend and reserve all of his affections for her. It will be during those years that I will fondly remember the memories we are creating today; the way he holds my face in his little hands, the way he giggles and the way he proudly and openly declares his love for his momma.

Someday the lap sitting, cuddles and calling me “momma” will fade into high fives and ‘hey mom”. He will likely stand taller than me, his voice will grow deep and his face will be rough with stubble while I look back and fondly remember the memories of today.

A mother’s love never dies, nor does the love a child has for his mother and I think it is important that we teach children to not be ashamed to show this love. I think as parents it should be our mission to show children, especially young boys, that affection is not a sign of weakness nor is love something that you should be ashamed of or kept hidden.

Even though this tradition began the day Xander was born, nowadays all four of my children happily follow this family “rule.” Every night I thank God for gifting me these children and my love for them does not change based on their gender. I am both a “girl mom” and a “boy mom” and I wear these badges with honor. I continue to ask for God’s guidance as I strive everyday to be the mother that they deserve. I am sure that some days I fall incredibly short of being a perfect mother, but I pray that my children never doubt my love for them and that they never stop kissing their momma.

Birth Stories - Motherhood

Alexander Thomas: A Birth Story

May 10, 2013

by iwanteditall@gmail.com 1 Comment

I never know how to start the birth stories of my children. I stare at the screen for several minutes, watching the cursor blink, as I try to find the words to convey the emotions, thoughts, and excitement of welcoming my child into the world. Inevitably, I realize that there are no words that will adequately describe that day.

Words just aren’t enough.

However, I suppose the best place to start is the beginning. But where exactly is the beginning of a birth story? The last few weeks of the pregnancy? The moment I knew it was time to go to the hospital? When I knew I was within minutes of holding my baby for the first time?

See my dilemma?

The last few weeks of my pregnancy were far from pleasurable. I desperately tried to soak up every last kick and poke from my growing baby, but the truth was, I was done. I was feeling huge and incredibly uncomfortable. With each passing doctor’s appointment, I was hopeful to hear words of dilation and effacement and planned to dance out of the office with the knowledge that my baby was to arrive shortly.

It didn’t happen.

The last week in March, I was desperate to go into labor. I googled ‘natural ways to induce labor’ even though I knew that there had been no new developments in this area in the two years since I last googled it. Furthermore, I had made the promise to my husband that I would not try any of these methods until after I hit the 37^thweek mark and April 1^st (at which time we received better insurance that covered labor and delivery).

But as our luck would have it, I began having contractions at work on March 19th. I timed my contractions in between patient appointments and as I drove home that day I called Marty and told him I was driving myself to the hospital. Having just started at a new department, he was in training and scrambled to leave early. I reassured him that I was fine and I would call him when I knew where I was in my labor.

After being checked in and given a room, the resident came to perform a bedside ultrasound since I was presenting prior to 37 weeks. I was less than surprised (and amused) when he informed me that I was carrying a “rather large baby.” But, regardless of size, baby still was considered premature and I was given medication to stop labor progression. Within hours I was sent home, feeling larger and crabbier than ever.

On April 8^th I had an appointment with my OB/GYN. As he walked in and cheerfully said “Oh Kathrine. Still pregnant I see?!” I did my best to fight back tears. Although we had an induction already scheduled for April 15^th (a week before my April 22nd due date) I pleaded with him “Dr. Kim, I don’t think I can take much more of this. This baby is so heavy and my feet are so swollen.”

When he offered to strip my membranes (a procedure that may or may not start the process of labor) I nearly hugged him. Instead, I settled for thanking him….over and over again. When he did the procedure however, a procedure that was extremely painful when I had it done with Lily, I was confused to find that it didn’t hurt… at all. Dr. Kim reassured me that it was because I was already dilated to three centimeters, but I secretely thought that he had only pretended to strip my membranes and he planned on me being pregnant forever.

It was a conspiracy.

My irrational fear was only further fed when twenty-four hours came and went without any change in contractions. (With Lily, I went into labor just four hours after having my membranes stripped). With no sign of labor in sight, I left the girls with Marty and told him I was heading to the condo to get some cleaning done before we moved in that weekend (Because who doesn’t move into a new home when they are 9 months pregnant?!)

However I ended up sitting in a sandwich shop for an hour and a half, sinking myself into a good book. Watching the rain hit the window beside me, counting irregular contractions (contractions that I had felt for weeks and drove me half-mad because they never progressed to full-blown labor), I dreamed about that moment that I would finally know it was time.

(Eventually I did make it over to the condo and spent an hour vacumming and shampooing carpets, with the thought that maybe this would induce labor.)

Later that night, as the girls lay tucked in their beds and Marty was at work, I sent him text messages letting him know that my contractions had returned, were getting stronger, and were 6-8 minutes apart… but that I was not optimistic as I had experienced contractions daily for the past two weeks with no sign of active labor in sight. By the time he came home at midnight, I was in tears because the contractions had slowed down and were no longer painful. We sat on the couch until 1:00am, hoping that my contractions would return, before we finally called it quits and headed to bed. Since Marty is on a different schedule than the rest of the family, he headed into the basement bedroom as I got ready for bed upstairs. As I undressed, I starred at the stretch marks staring back at me in the mirror when suddenly I was struck with a contraction. A hard contraction. Four minutes later, I bent over, clutching my dresser as another contraction hit me.

Could it be?

I paced the room, knowing it was ridiculous to climb into bed at this point as there was no way I could sleep through these contractions. As the third strong contraction began again just 4-5 minutes later, I grabbed my phone and called Marty.

“Yeah?” he groggily answered. (Clearly he had just fallen asleep)

“It’s time,” I said. “Come upstairs. I’m calling my mom to come over.”

“Seriously? You said the contractions stopped.”

“Seriously. Let’s go.”

I glanced at the clock as I called my mom.

1:15am

Why must all of my babies come in the middle of the night?

But despite being the middle of the night, my mom cheerfully answered the phone on the second ring,“Is it baby time?”

Moms. They are the greatest.

In the fifteen minutes that it took for Mom to show up on our doorstep, bag in hand, ready to crash on our couch as we headed to the hospital, I paced the floors of our home. I made note of the messes, the half-empty rooms (as some of our furniture had already been packed or moved), and the signs of our life as a family of four. In just a few hours, we would be a family of five.

Five.

Wow.

I snuck into each girls room, kissed them on the forehead, and whispered “I love you.” I spent a few moments gazing at each of them. Both seemed so small and angelic, especially Charlotte. I choked back tears as I brushed strands of hair off their faces and re-tucked in stuffed animals. I knew that in the morning, after having laid eyes on my newborn, my baby girls would no longer seem so small. In fact, they would seem as though they had grown inches overnight and Charley would no longer look like ‘a baby.’

Such a bittersweet moment. Closing the door to Charley’s nursery, I walked away from one baby as I walked toward welcoming another baby into our lives.

As we drove to the hospital and walked into the ER, I couldn’t help but notice how calm, cool, and collected we were. There was little fear or apprehension. We’ve done this before, not once, but twice. In fact, I dare say we may have strutted into the ER, smiles on our faces, as we confidently stated “Hi. I’m in labor.”

Once in labor and delivery, I was given a gown, told to undress, and that the nurse would be in shortly. I climbed into the bed and gazed around the room. The sight of the plastic newborn bed, prepped with receiving blanket and hat, nearly brought me to tears.

Our baby would be here soon.

The nurse, Laurie, came in and hooked me up to the monitors. As the sound of our baby’s heartbeat filled the delivery room, Marty smiled and said “that’s the first time I have heard this baby’s heart beat. I’ve always missed the heartbeat at the appointments.” We sat in silence for a few minutes, taking in the sound of our baby’s beating heart, before Dr. Kim’s resident came in to check for dilation.

3 centimeters.

I must say, I had hoped to be a little further than I had been at my last doctor’s appointment. The resident physician performed a quick ultrasound and stated (with much surprise in her voice) “this baby is about 9lbs, 8oz…give or take a pound.” She then informed me that she would keep an eye on me for a few hours and then determine if we would continue with labor or if I would be sent home to labor at home. Our nurse must have sensed the panic on my face because after 30 minutes she reassured me that with the strength and regularity of my contractions, combined with being 38 weeks pregnant, I would not be sent home. Putting trust in her, I began texting friends and family to let them know that Baby Kranz #3 would be arriving sometime that day. This was it. Marty and I settled in to our terribly uncomfortable couch and incredibly too-short hospital bed respectively and prepared for a quick progression from 3 centimeters to ‘I see the head!’

But it wasn’t quick.

Hours passed and we tried to catch a few Z’s in between sending text message updates and playing CandyCrush. Around 8am, I was told I could get the epidural. Marty, extremely sleep deprived, begrudgingly gathered some of his things as he prepared to leave the room in anticipation of the anesthesiologist’s arrival. Our nurse, likely sleep deprived herself, harshly advised him to fold up the chair he was sleeping on and to move it out of the way. Marty quickly snapped back at the nurse and shot me a look of ‘how come we always get the mean nurses?” before he left the room.

My face fell when the anesthesiologist walked in the room. It was the same physician who performed my epidural with Charley… the epidural that only worked on one side. Although I know that he was not at fault for the epidural not working two years ago, I couldn’t help but be apprehensive. I remembered that pain and I had no desire to ever feel that much pain again. I ‘casually’ joked that he could ‘throw in an extra dose or two’ explaining that I had ‘a bad experience in the past’ and hoped not to have a repeat performance. Luckily, within ten minutes, my pain had significantly decreased and my faith in Dr. Khan had been restored.

Around 10am, the resident came in and broke my water. “Please oh please, let this speed things up.”

Friends and family began to arrive as I continued through labor. My parents, my younger brother Zack, Jende and Haley scattered my room, kept me company and filtered in and out when the nurses came to check for dilation. The environment was calm and relaxing, as if I were sitting at home in my living room, with the occasional interruption from nurses and doctors.

Unfortunately, despite my contractions being three minutes apart, labor wasn’t progressing as fast as the doctor’s would have liked. The resident suggested emptying my bladder. I was skeptical, but why the heck not? Within an hour of having this done, the nurses announced “she’s complete” and began fluttering around the room. Marty and Haley exchanged questioning looks and asked “um, in other words…?”

“She’s dilated to ten.”

It was finally time!

My mom and Zack came back in the room, only to be told that it was time for them to head to the waiting room. Hugs were exchanged and soon Marty and I were left alone to welcome our third baby into the world.

Dr Kim, my fabulous OB/GYN showed up and announced “Ok Kathrine, time to meet this big baby!”

As they got me into position and the doctor’s scrubbed in, Dr Kim asked me to push during the next contraction.

I laughed, “Dr. Kim, I can’t feel the contractions. You are going to have to watch the monitor and tell me when to push.”

“Ok. Now!”

As I began to push, my eyes darted to the clock on the wall above Dr. Kim’s left shoulder.

1:55pm

I have several favorite times during labor and delivery; the anticipation of the drive to the hospital, seeing the plastic crib next to the hospital bed, the moment the baby warmer is wheeled in the room and the minute I look at the clock when I start pushing. It is that moment in time when I am the most aware. It is in that minute that I am suddenly aware that life as I know it is about to change forever. Soon this baby will no longer be physically attached to me and I will see my baby’s face. It is a time, solidified in my heart forever, that greatness is coming. In that moment I know, I am standing on the cusp of falling head over heels in love…again.

The next six minutes are kind of a blur. I remember Marty telling me that the baby had hair and that “this baby is much bigger than Lily and Charley” (as if I needed to be told).

At 2:01pm on April 1^st, 2013 a little body was placed on my chest. I couldn’t see much. Just a little pink wrinkled body. I was smitten.

Now comes the embarrassing part of the story. I’m not proud of it and I wish I could leave it out, but I try to document my children’s birth stories exactly how I remember them, careful not to leave any detail out (if possible). Plus, my friends find this hilarious.

As I gazed at the little person that was just welcomed into the world my first thought was “I think those are balls.”

Embarrassing, I know.

Careful not to shout out, careful not to get Marty’s hopes up, I looked at my husband and asked “What is it?!”

He peeled his eyes away from mine, looked at our baby, brought his face within inches of mine and said with a smile “It’s a boy!”

Before I could say a word, the nurses rushed over, told Marty to quickly cut the cord and whisked my baby to the other side of the room. He wasn’t crying. Why isn’t he crying? Why isn’t he crying? Why isn’t he crying? I asked over and over again.

But then I heard it. The small lamb-like wail from my little boy. Relief came over me and I grasped my husband’s hand with all my might as I said “We have a boy. Oh my God, we have a boy. Marty we have a son. We have two girls and a boy. I can’t believe it. We have a boy.”

The nurses wiped him down as the doctor’s continued their work on me. As they worked they began to guess how big our little baby was going to be. Dr. Kim guessed 9lbs 4 oz, the resident guessed 9lbs 8 oz… our nurse grabbed Marty’s arm and said “Get your camera, Daddy. You are going to want a picture of this. He isn’t no 9 pounder.”

10 pounds 3 ounces and 22 inches of beautiful baby boy.

Marty made his way over to the baby warmer and gazed lovingly on our new baby, just as he had with Lillian and Charlotte. But as he took pictures and video of our little boy, I wished that someone was able to capture Marty’s face. The face of a father meeting his son for the first time. I tried my hardest to study his face, every detail of his joy, as I know that it is a moment that will exist only in my memory.

Once clean and bundled, Alexander Thomas was placed in my arms. The little body that had poked and kicked me for 9 months molded into my arms as if that were where he had always laid. And as he snuggled in and I was able to breathe in his sweet newborn smell, he nuzzled his way into my heart, where he will always stay…

My little boy.

**Stay tuned for a follow up post detailing our gender reveal…**

Birth Stories - Motherhood

Charlotte Renee: A Birth Story

May 12, 2012

by iwanteditall@gmail.com 0 Comments

When we made the decision to try for baby #2, I was reminded by of a quote from a Dawson’s Creek episode (Forgive me, but teeny-bopper Kate still lives on in this 28 year old body).

“That first kiss, it’s the passionate one. It’s the one filled by desire and attraction and all of that, but the second kiss is rational. You’ve got time to worry and over-analyze. Most women… they prefer that first kiss, but I’m partial to the second one, because it’s about something more.”

The same could be said about making the decision to have a second child. The dreamy and picture-perfect vision you once had about what life would be like with a baby is long gone and the hard truth of reality plagues your thoughts. Before you have your first baby, you think you have an idea of what to expect; sleepless nights, crying, poopy diapers, and weekend nights spent at home. With your second baby, you know what to expect; pure and utter exhaustion, hours of relentless tears, frequent outfit changes for both baby and you due to numerous puking/pooping/peeing catastrophes, and a new loneliness for realizing other friends just don’t understand what you are going though.

But you also know, it is completely worth it.

You no longer worry about how you are going to take care of an infant, but instead, if there is enough love in your heart to love another child as much as you love the first. With baby #2, your dreams, hopes, expectations and fears are vastly different.

During my pregnancy with Charlotte, I tried, really tried, to enjoy every moment of being pregnant. But the fact of matter is, pregnancy does not suit me. I whine too much, my feet swell up too big, and finding maternity pants with a 37 inch inseam is damn near impossible. By the eighth month I was ready, really ready, to meet this baby. I tried next to everything to induce labor. Literally. Spicy food. Sex. Jumping jacks. Breast pump. Good God, just get this baby out of me.

I remember one night in particular when my nesting was in full-swing and I decided that some manual labor around the house just might be what I needed to get this baby moving. Nesting, the urge pregnant women have to prepare their home for the upcoming arrival of their newborn, was something I didn’t experience with Lily. But with my second pregnancy, my nesting was intense. I once called my mom and before she could say ‘hello,’ I blurted out “I feel like I can’t stop. It’s like spring cleaning, but on steroids!” Ever read the children’s book, “If You Give a Mouse a Cookie?” In my case, my story would have been, “If You Give Pregnant Kate a Candle.” The story would go something like this…

If you give pregnant Kate a candle, she will clear off a windowsill to place it upon.
If she clears off the kitchen windowsill, she will notice the window needs to be washed.
If she washes the kitchen window, she will need to clean the remainder of the windows in the home.
Once the windows are clean, she will realize that the clean windows make the floors look dingy.
As she pulls out the vacuum, she will decide she needs to dust the furniture and ceiling fans before running the vacuum.
Once dusted, she will start to vacuum and decide that the crumbs under the couch cushions should also be vacuumed.
When she removes the cushions, she will decide to unfold the pull-out bed and wash the sheets and mattress.
As she loads the washing machine, she will notice the spider web along the top edge of the door way trim. She will retrieve the vacuum and begin vacuuming the door frame until she notices that the vacuum needs to be emptied.
When she empties the vacuum, she will decide that the vacuum would clean more efficiently if it too was cleaned.
Her husband will find her sitting on the floor of the laundry room scrubbing the vacuum, the washing machine full of forgotten bed sheets and couch cushions strewn about the living room floor.
He will then suggest she light her new candle to help her de-stress…

Much to my dismay, my late night nesting tirade didn’t induce labor, but I was confident that my house was prepared for the arrival of our new baby, and it slightly decreased my anxiety.

On January 26th, I went for my routine doctors appointment, hopeful for good news, progress from my last appointment, and ready to beg and plead for my OB to strip my membranes and get the baby moving. I should preface the rest of this story by saying that I was far from pleased with my OB at this point. After Marty had been laid off and our health insurance ended, I was put on Medicaid and given an OB in my area. Up until this point, he hadn’t done anything wrong, but there was something about him that I wasn’t thrilled about. On this particular day, he gave me a reason not to like him.

As I sat in the cold room, covered in a thin paper gown, I ran through my ‘please-oh-please-strip-my-membranes’ speech in my head. He entered the room, shook my hand, flipped open my chart as he swiveled on his doctor’s stool and cheerfully asked, “So, you’re having a baby boy soon. When is he going to be here?”

My face fell. We didn’t want to know what the gender of our baby. We had decided that we had wanted to be surprised at the moment he/she was born and had adamantly stated that we were not to be told our baby’s gender.

“I don’t know. I didn’t want to know what we are having.”

Our doctor tried to cover his blunder. “Uh. Me neither. I don’t know what you are having. So…. let’s see how far you have progressed since last week, shall we?”

But the damage was done.

The rest of the appointment is a blur. I remember fighting back tears as he told me that I was still 2cm and 0% effaced (the same as I was last week), that he didn’t want to strip my membranes quite yet, and we would schedule an induction date for one week from that date in the event that I didn’t go into labor on my own. He proceeded to say, “I have a conference I am presenting at tomorrow morning and I will be out of town this weekend, so if you go into labor during those days, I will not be the one to deliver him. So, if you could go into labor on Monday that would be best for me.”

I wish I could say I made a snarky comment in retaliation, that I laughed in his face and asked if he was freakin’ serious, but I was so stunned by the absurdity of the entire visit, that I simply nodded and willed him to leave the room so I could get dressed.

I called a few people on my way home and blurted out, “he told me what we are having!” I nervously laughed through my tears as I tried to wrap my mind around the fact that soon, very soon, we would be meeting our son. While I was excited to be having a boy, I was fixated on the fact that the element of surprise was stolen from me. In my opinion, there are a limited number of true life-changing surprises in life and that moment when you meet your baby for the first time and hear those three magical words, “It’s a ____” is one that I want to experience. I opted not to tell Marty what gender the OB had revealed, but he knew that I knew. I spent the afternoon with my amazing friend Cassielynn, who was pregnant herself, understood my frustration both with my ruined surprise and the fact that I was still very much pregnant. Having been friends since we were in elementary school, Cass is one of those one-in-a-million friends who has known you at every stage in your life, who you can tell anything to and know in your heart that she isn’t going to judge you. She took pity on me as I showed up on her doorstep, whiny, tear-stained, and ready to bitch. She listened to me complain, cursed my OB and offered to call his office and give him a piece of her mind (she would have too), and then as any good friend would do, she turned my attention from the ruined surprise to the fact that soon, I would be holding my baby. As she hugged me goodbye she told me, “I hope the next time I see you is when I come to visit you and that little boy in the hospital.”

As I left Cassielynn’s home, I wasn’t quiet ready to go home. I wandered around Wal-mart, picking up some last minute toiletries for my hospital bag and perused the baby boy section, smiling to myself as I imagined Marty’s reaction when he would finally realize, we had a son. As I walked, I clutched my stomach as the cramping, that I had been having since December, began again. Once home, I expected the pain to fade away, but several times an hour the cramping would gradually intensify, just enough to the point where I would stop what I was doing and think “naw, it couldn’t be. Could it?”

Marty had offered to help our neighbor with a household project and left me to put Lily to bed alone. As we prepared for bed, we snuggled on the couch, her little body melting into my side. Her hand on my tummy, waiting for a kick from her little sibling, she picked her head up, pointed to my belly and said, “No baby, no.” I smiled to myself and snuggled her pajamaed body closer to mine. My baby wasn’t quite ready to share her mommy. It was as if she knew what was to come and she needed one more night alone with her mommy. Her little sibling kindly obliged and the contractions subsided allowing some quality cuddles, bedtime stories, and “I love you’s” as I tucked her into bed. Looking back, I desperately wish I knew at that moment that that would be the last time I kissed her goodnight as my only child. But that is the tragic beauty of ‘last times,‘ you never know when they occur.

When the house was quiet and I settled into my groove on the couch, the cramping began again. At that point I decided enough was enough. Tonight, we would go to the hospital, I wouldn’t worry about being sent home for a false alarm, this had gone on long enough. I texted Marty and asked him to come home… but to bring Coney Island home with him. If I was going into labor, this momma needed a large Hani and fries for fuel. As I devoured my dinner, I called my mom and asked her to come sit at the house with Lily. Within twenty minutes, my mom was at the door, duffle bag in hand, ready to batten down the hatches and wait for news that it was time.

As we walked into the hospital, we were stopped by the security guard and asked, “What are you hear for?” I giggled and said, “Umm. I’m in labor. I think.” As he kindly lead us through the maze of hospital hallways to the elevator he asked, “First baby huh?”

“Nope. Second. I just never know when I’m in labor or not. But I’m really hoping I’m in labor and not just constipated.”

He stopped asking questions after that.

But he was kind enough to wish us ‘good luck’ as we exited the elevator and approached the Labor and Delivery desk. I remember sitting at the desk as the nurse checked me in, the nursing staff eyeing me from their positions around the desk. I could feel their burning stares and I swear I could read their minds, “Check out the preggo who thinks she is in labor. She doesn’t even look like she is in pain. She probably just needs to use the bathroom. We’ll be sending her home soon enough.”

But, I was in labor. Slow labor, but labor nonetheless. Marty and I actually snickered to ourselves when we saw Dr. Redding walk by our room. He was planning on heading home for the night, but instead he would be staying at the hospital to deliver our baby. (Serves him right for the afternoon he put me through).

Anxious to get this baby moving (and likely trying to get me out of his life), Dr. Redding decided to break my water to help speed up the process. If I was surprised by the amount of amniotic fluid that was present when my water broke with Lily, I was down right shocked when my water was broken with Charlotte. It did not stop. I kept laughing, rather hysterically, as my doctor repeatedly thought it was over, only to exclaim “Nurse, another towel please” (another four or five times). Marty smiled his “Karma’s a bitch, dude” smile and I laughed a little more. I had expected the contractions to worsen immediately after having my water broken and nearly requested to have an anesthesiologist on hand just-in-case, but the pain was tolerable and I was comfortable. Our doctor decided to try to catch a few Z’s while we waited for labor to progress as we made a few phone calls and texts to let friends and family know, it was only a matter of time. Within an hour my dad and little brother were at the hospital, Mountain Dew in hand, ready to camp out in the room until the big moment arrived.

I wore my beautiful lime green feather boa, explaining to our nurses that it was given to me by Zack to take the attention away from my “fat stomach.” Zack thoroughly enjoyed watching the monitors as my contractions slowly gained speed and grew in intensity.

“Here comes another one. Ooh, that looks like it might be a big one. Yup, it’s getting bigger. Whoa, your stomach looks like a wrecking ball!”

Marty kept asking, “are you ready for the epidural yet? You had it with Lily by this point.” I assured him I was fine but as the contractions picked up speed I finally decided “Let’s call the anesthesiologist. I’m tapping out.” Little did I know, the lab was slammed that night and my CBC still hadn’t been completed. Without assessing my platelet count, I wasn’t able to get the epidural I so desperately wanted. Two hours later, the man, who I thought would be my saving grace, announced he had arrived to perform the epidural. Zack and my dad made their was to the waiting room, promising to return in thirty minutes when I was pain-free.

Unlike my first labor experience, Marty was asked to leave the room as my epidural was placed. Hospital protocol. Marty was non-complaint to say the least. As much as I wanted him with me, I needed the pain to stop, and begged him to leave so the man could do his job. By this point, the pain was excruciating. I had the epidural placed and pleaded with Rae (our nurse) to make the pain stop. She carefully brushed the hair out of my face, held my hand and promised the pain would be gone soon.

She was wrong.

By the time Marty came walking into the room fifteen minutes later, I was lying flat with a surgical hair mask on my head, an oxygen cannula in my nose and I was writhing in pain. Pure panic settled on my husband’s face. “What’s wrong?!”

“It isn’t working! Why isn’t it working? I can still feel it! Why the hell can I still feel it?! On my left side. It’s in my back too. Make it stop. Make it stop!”

The next hour was a blur. Rae ran around the room, trying everything to make me comfortable, repeatedly telling me that the epidural would take affect soon, but had the anesthesiologist paged again…just in case. Marty tried his hardest to be supportive, tried holding my hand… but I wasThe anesthesiologist returned to my room, and tried to adjust my meds a few times, each time tell me that my pain would subside shortly. It didn’t. My brother tried wandering back into the room, thinking I was pain-free and ready for more “Smile-this-is-going-on-facebook” photo ops. Poor kid heard me crying down the hall and knew that was his signal to return back to the waiting room.

The pain was indescribable. It was a pain unlike any other and I desperately wanted it to stop. Before I knew it, the intense pressure and overwhelming instinct to push overcame me. The anesthesiologist, who still remained behind me, tinkering with my failed epidural, insisted I was not yet dilated to ten centimeters and suggested the nurse empty my bladder to relieve pressure. Lo-and-behold, I was dilated to ten. This baby was coming, ready or not. Pain meds or not.

As Dr. Redding and his crew of OB/GYN residents trickled into the room, a sudden wave of calmness and thank-the-Lord relief swept over me. The epidural had finally took effect. I couldn’t feel anything. No pain, no pressure.

Nothing.

For a brief second, I was relieved. My pain was gone and my baby was almost in my arms. The room buzzed with orders and commands as residents prepped the room, placed my legs in the foot rests (no longer called ‘stirrups’) and prepared me to push.

“Ok Kate. Time to push. 1,2,3… GO!”

“Um. I’m sorry. Push? With what?! As far as I’m concerned I’ve been amputated below my waist.This damn epidural is finally working and now I can’t feel a damn thing! How the hell am I supposed to push?!”

But I tried. I glanced at the clock on the wall. 6:30am. Damn, I was tired, but I had to try. Good Lord did I try. I closed my eyes and tried to focus on the muscles that would bring my baby boy into the world. Apparently it wasn’t working though.

“Ok Kate, whatever you are doing with your facial muscles, that isn’t going to get this baby out.”

If I could have kicked him, I probably would have. Instead I focused on listening to my husband’s voice and not letting my leg fall off the table onto the OB resident…again. I stared at the clock on the wall, focusing on the second hand as I pushed.

Throughout my entire pregnancy with Charlotte, I worried 234087 times more than I did with Lillian. I had several friends who had experienced loss, in the way of miscarriage, Trisomy 18, and still born births, that I was convinced something would happen to my baby. How could I escape pain in two pregnancies? How could I be that lucky again? Several times during my labor I would begin to panic, “I’m not ready for this, so much could go wrong.” The What-If’s began to swarm my brain. I knew the joys that a new baby would bring, but I also knew the amount of worry and fear that would accompany the intense love. In those last few minutes I begged God to please, keep her inside for just a few minutes longer. I promised I would never complain about being pregnant again, that I would suffer the fat ankles, heartburn, and lack of sleep if he would just keep her inside a little while longer. There she was safe.

At 6:40am the resident, who kindly held my right leg, grabbed my hand, “Look! It’s your baby!”

I will never forget that moment. I glanced down (something I swore I would never do) and saw my baby’s face for the first time. In that instant, my heart doubled in size. I never thought I would be able to love another human being as much as I loved Lillian Paige, but I was wrong. I was head over heels in love.

At 6:41 my baby was born. I was a mommy of two. As i felt the tiny body being placed on my chest I heard Marty say, “A girl. We have another girl!”

“WHAT?! Um, no. We are supposed to be having a boy!”

My mind was in a fog. Did he really just say we had another girl? What happened to the son I had been planning on having today? I had packed the blue outfit, not the pink one! We don’t have a middle name for a girl! This was supposed to be Alexander, not Charlotte. What happened to Alexander? Where is my baby boy?

I hate to say that some of my first thoughts moments after my daughter was born was of complete confusion and disarray, but it’s the truth. Although I had only bonded with my “son” for twelve hours, I had bonded nonetheless. It was sad to let go of the idea of having a boy, the idea of my husband having a son. But her beautiful brown eyes locked on mine and I was smitten. I had another daughter and I couldn’t have been happier.

Charlotte Renee made her way into the world in the only way now that I see as fitting, fighting tooth and nail, with as much of a hoopla as possible. Nope, she was not going to make this easy on me. She was going to make me work for it, and work I did. The day Charlotte was born I was determined to absorb every last detail of her birth day. To soak up every sight, smell, and sound because I knew just how fleeting that time would be. I knew how quickly the time would go not only in the hospital, but once we got home. I wanted to remember everything. A few of the details may have escaped my memory, but I will never forget how I felt when I first laid eyes on Charlotte Renee.

I was in love.

Again.