FUMBLE!!!

"Monica"

I got up in the middle of the night to change my newborn son. I was 

completely exhausted, hair matted, the shower a distant memory of 

days gone by. I got the fresh diaper on and took my baby back to bed 

in hopes of getting a little more rest before morning. I got up the 

next morning, fed him, and moved back to the changing table. When I 

took his diaper off, I discovered that I hadn’t exactly “changed” my 

son in the middle of the night. While I did put on a fresh diaper, I 

neglected to take off the dirty one. My son was wearing one very 

soiled diaper underneath one very pristine one! After sitting in his poo for a good few hours, I had to pour warm water over his little nuggets to release them from the diaper!

Communication

People say babies can only communicate by crying; that's why it's so important to respond to a baby's cries as immediately as possible. Today, however, my baby wouldn't stop crying all afternoon. I fed him, I rocked him, I changed him, I even gave him a new outfit. We got in the car, the swing, mommy's chest, daddy's chest, the vibrating chair, the glider...nothing was calming him down. So finally, after one last attempt to lay down with him, I sat straight up and sat him straight up in front of me. I looked him right in the eye and asked, "Abraham? What is wrong with you?"
At that very moment, my son pooped a poop so big that it came out of every single side of his diaper, through his onesie, and through his blanket.

Mmhmm. Tell me babies only communicate through crying. Mine talks using poop sounds. He's asleep now.

FUMBLE!!

Since bringing Abraham home, I couldn’t believe the amount of mistakes I would make even after reading all these books and attending all the classes. I didn’t even know how to put a diaper on a newborn correctly until my husband showed me. MY HUSBAND showed ME. Now that is humbling. Swaddling was a joke for the first week. My baby Houdini could find his way out of anything. Oh, and it’s important to secure your baby in the car seat even if you’re just going for a walk with the stroller…’cuz you feel REALLY badly when you open up the sunshade and see him doubled over on himself, head on knees, trying to somehow continue his nap.

I started talking to other moms in an attempt to feel somewhat normal about my fumbles, and the stories I heard were incredible! Some of the ridiculous things we moms have done in the first months of our childrens’ lives MUST be shared. So over the next few weeks, I’ll be sharing some real mom stories I’ve collected from friends and family. Email me or Facebook me if you want to share yours. Of course, all stories are anonymous!

I’ll start:

After about 4 days of breastfeeding, my milk came in. As everyone predicted, I did turn into Dolly Parton for a hot minute. But the transition happening in Abe’s tummy was more of my concern.

A new mom, poop had become a military-esque mission. I tracked every poop down to the minute. Poop was the ardent new word in my husband and I’s conversations. “When did he poop?” “Did you change him, did he poop?” “Was that gas or a poop?”

When Abe didn’t poop for an entire 24-hours, I began to get nervous. I called the pediatrician, who assured me this could be perfectly normal. She suggested a few different massages to help get things moving. She also explained how checking his rectal temperature could stimulate his bowels. Well, I massaged and massaged and the poor kid remained all stopped up. I decided to try and take his rectal temperature, something I’d never done or even seen done to a newborn. Afraid I would hurt him, I just barely put the tip of the thermometer in his bottom. He didn’t seem to notice it, so I twirled it the way our pediatrician described. Nothing. A little sleep deprived and a little curious, I decided the best thing to do would be to get eye to eye with his bottom to ensure I had the thermometer in the right place. Not my brightest moment. The second I got eye level, you guessed it, poop. Not just poop. Projectile hot orange poop…straight in my face. I stood up, stunned, reaching for wipes or diapers or anything to get this off me. Furiously wiping myself off I looked down at Abe, who was now peeing directly onto his own face. This was half awful and half amazing. Both of us covered in poo and pee, I decided this was a perfectly acceptable situation in which to laugh hysterically as opposed to my go-to emotion of the week, sobbing uncontrollably. I laughed through all the clean up and the new diaper. And I learned a good lesson!

Ever After

There were a lot of things I didn’t know about life AFTER delivering a baby. Someone should absolutely mention the shaking. My body shook so hard after Abraham was born that I could barely hold him. Some say it’s the epidural and some say it’s the adrenaline. Either way, I felt like my own personal earthquake.

It would also be nice to get a head’s up on the amount of blood loss you can expect to see. When it was time to change rooms, I sat up and freaked out! I told Doula, “I think I’m hemorrhaging!” The nurse checked and told me I was actually not bleeding badly compared to some. She reminded me I had been carrying 50% more blood for the past several months and my body would need to get rid of it.

How about trying to pee after an epidural? I stood up in my postpartum room, looked at Dave and exclaimed, “Oh! I’m peeing!” After 3 months of feeling like I needed to pee every 5 minutes, I now had absolutely no sensation of needing to pee until it was actually happening. I called my mom and told her to buy some adult diapers before I came home. This was a really good move and saved me many a panicked moment in the days to come. “Eek! I’m peeing! Oh, it’s ok. I’m wearing a diaper.”

Stitches. Ever get stitches? Well, a few days after you get them, they itch. That’s all I’m going to say about that.

Skin, hair, and nails are so crazy beautiful during pregnancy. Then the baby comes out and all the moisture in your body laughs and runs away. My hair, which is always naturally oily, feels like straw. My skin is sooo dry. And because I'm so busy worrying about the other person who now lives in our house, I often forget to moisturize. I'm concerned I may lose my entire epidermis within a few days.

Two weeks later and I’m just now getting to the point where walking isn’t excruciatingly painful without Darvocet and Ibuprofen. And five minutes alone is kind of like a Hawaiian vacation. :)

Feel free to comment and share any postpartum symptoms you were surprised by...I could use the head's up!

Birth Story Part 6: The Final Push

The anesthesiologist arrived within seconds, it seemed. He carefully explained to me everything he would be doing. I looked up at my husband who sat on a bench in front of me with Doula. He seemed like he was crying, scared for me. He later told me that was the worst moment of the entire experience. He said my eyes didn’t just communicate pain, they screamed with fear. And he was right, I was terrified. I didn’t know it, but he had to leave the room at one point to keep from losing it himself.

The kind nurse held me as I sat on the edge of the bed through contractions. It took the anesthesiologist 5 tries to get the epidural into my back. Five pokes, five contractions, almost ten long minutes. The nurse kept pushing my head down into my stomach so that my spine would stretch and separate. I am such a small person that it took an act of God to spread my vertebrae enough to get the needle in. The anesthesiologist tried to administer a local anesthetic so that I would not feel the needle going in, but after screaming, “I CAN FEEL EVERYTHING” and realizing that only slowed him down, I decided that feeling a needle going into my spine was the trade off for ultimate relief.

Finally, and within minutes, the epidural took effect. I closed my eyes, tears streaming down my face, and breathed as fully and calmly as I could. It had been almost 26 hours since I could relax. I shared a few kind and quiet moments with my husband before I dozed off. The nap was short, but when the nurse woke me up to check me again I felt a new mental preparedness for what would come next.

The nurse smiled. “Ten centimeters! You’re ready to start pushing. Do you want to try to push now?” I was so shocked and excited that Abe was ready. I tried to push but couldn’t feel anything.

“Am I pushing?”

The nurse sweetly replied, “Not really.”

I focused hard on my body and the muscles I needed to use to push Abe out. I tried again and again until about the fourth time the nurse said, “Oh! That’s it! That was a push!”

The midwife at my OBGYN practice agreed to be on call for me through the weekend despite the fact that she wasn’t working. She’d arrived at the hospital shortly after I did, which I was so thankful for. The last thing I wanted was the scary doctor there repeating things like gestational diabetes, giant head, huge shoulders, or big baby.

The nurses quickly dismantled the bed and set up trays of metal instruments and plastic bins. During this time, my husband and I took a moment to reflect and even cry about how amazing and exciting this was. I was so grateful to be engaged and alert enough to be present in that moment. It is my favorite memory of Abe’s birth: my husband’s face on mine and both of us saying, “He’s coming!”

The nurse continued to instruct me to push with each contraction. Epidural or not, I could feel the pain of Abe’s head descending. Doula held one leg, I held the other, and my husband sat behind me supporting my head. I asked for a mirror in my birth plan, which turned out to be extremely helpful. I could see what was working and what wasn’t with each push. David could also see everything that was happening without leaving my head. I moved Abe so quickly that the nurse told me to stop and wait for the midwife.

When the midwife walked in, so did scary doctor. He just “happened” to be in the neighborhood on a Sunday and thought he would stop by. I later learned that convinced I would be having a c-section, he asked to be informed when I was admitted so that he could perform it. I’m not sure I spoke to him or even acknowledged him for the brief moment he was there. I just pushed as hard and as long as I could to show him I didn’t need him.

Pushing got more painful each time and I began to let out those primitive grunts you hear women making on TV. Sometimes the midwife would count 3 pushes and I would throw in an extra fourth before the contraction was over. I began to repeat from my gut, “Get him out. I have to get him out.”

Suddenly, the room went blurry. I could still hear voices, but no longer was I a part of it all. I entered a tunnel of my own, staring into the mirror and watching my baby.

“Erin! Reach down and feel his head! He has so much hair!” someone murmured in the distance. I reached down because I was told to, but I didn’t really put effort into feeling. I just kept pushing.

“You’re almost there! He’s turning the corner!”

My husband’s was the only clear voice. He shouted and laughed, “You’re doing it! Yes!”

When Abe’s head turned the corner and straightened out, I stopped watching the mirror. I went inside myself to push with everything I had. I don’t remember anyone telling me the head was out, or that his shoulder was out, or that he was born. I don’t remember Doula shouting, “Grab your baby!” I remember pushing until I looked down on my stomach and there he was. There was the person I’d been waiting to meet, pink as a rose and loud as a train.

David cut the cord and followed Abe to the scale and then to the warmer where the nurses tended to him for five long minutes. Doula was at my side smiling. I remember her saying, “Isn’t this cool, Erin?!” Finally, they handed Abe to me and I placed him on my chest. Here he was, and everything felt right. Life was never life until he fit right there beneath my chin. 

Birth Story Part 5: The Labor I Needed

It was 9am on Sunday. I’d been in labor for 25 hours.

Of course, I was immediately given instructions to pee in a cup and put on a gown and get hooked up to the monitors. There was absolutely no way I could do any of these things, and when I started to go mental on the nurse who helped me into the bathroom (I think I started crying and shouting, “I can’t even pee!”), she started backing up like I was the exorcist. “Ok, no problem sweetie. You don’t have to pee in the cup. It’s fine.”

I made it back to the bed and felt the worst contraction yet. It hurt to cry and it hurt to breathe and Doula grabbed me under my arms and let me hang beneath her, my body limp on the floor. It was truly one of the most humiliating moments of the entire experience; hanging there like a rag doll, no control, sobbing and screaming.

My husband picked me up and placed me on the bed. Nurses began furiously poking me with needles in my left arm. I wasn’t sure why this was happening now as opposed to last night until I heard one nurse comment that I was spilling keytones in my urine and was extremely dehydrated. I didn’t remember peeing so I wasn’t sure how she knew this, but as the next contraction came I didn’t care. My body sucked down a liter of saline in 8 minutes (according to my husband). They put up another bag immediately, and another one after that. The nurse, a middle-aged woman with kind eyes, too much mascara, and a sweet southern voice laid her head next to mine on the bed. I felt so comforted by her. “Erin? Sweetie, I read your birth plan. We can easily accommodate everything for you, but I want you to know right now that pain medication is available to you if you need a break. I won’t ask you about it again after this.” Doula began explaining to her I’d been in labor since 8am the day before and she felt like it may be time for me to accept some help.

This was not the plan. The plan was for me to be a super hero and finish the job myself. This is what women were made to do and I was going to do it and carry the bragging rights in my pocket forever. I couldn’t surrender. It wouldn’t be my perfect birth. I said all of that to Doula with my eyes and she stared hard right back at me. Then she said the words that completely changed my life. “Erin, you get the labor you need. You don’t have to be perfect. You’re allowed to take the help.” I cried through the next contraction, feeling half like a failure and half like a woman finally free of a lifetime striving to be a hero. It all hit me at once like an emotional ton of bricks. It was finally time for me to admit that being a hero didn’t mean doing it all myself.

I continued to cry in pain and a little in relief through the following contractions while the nurse checked my progress.

26 hours in I was 8cm, 100% effaced.

The nurse smiled and got close to my face again. “Do you know how well you’ve done? It’s time for you to rest so that you can push this baby out.” I nodded and accepted help genuinely and from my heart with no ego. I’d been broken that there was no energy for ego anyway.

Stripped down to my soul, I felt a peace I’d never felt. I suddenly wasn’t disappointed that I hadn’t achieved the goals I wrote down on paper. In fact, it was the opposite. I was proud. In that moment, I changed as a person and began to see the beauty, strength, and courage in myself that I’d only pretended to see before. I couldn’t become a mom without accepting help. That was my lesson. That was the labor I needed.

Birth Story Part 4: Primal

Before I left the hospital that Saturday night, the nurses all suggested I take something to help me relax for the night as I would need my strength for the next day if labor were to continue. Doula agreed it might be a good idea. I rolled over and took one of the most painful shots in my behind I’d EVER felt (how is THIS supposed to relax me?!) and went home. 

Defeated.

It was late, but Doula suggested we call my chiropractor (a close friend) to see if she would make a house call to help me loosen my pelvic muscles. Amazingly, she raced to our house with her suitcase of tools.

The muscle relaxer didn’t kill the contractions, but it did make me high as a kite. I flowed in and out of crying and sleeping and breathing through contractions, which were now about every ten minutes. My chiro worked on me for 40 minutes, none of which I clearly remember except for the moment her head disconnected from her body and floated over my face repeating, “You’re doing great.”

Was it the best choice to accept the muscle relaxer? I still can’t say for certain. It did help me relax, though I still felt every contraction and only slept in 5-minute intervals over the next 4 hours. At about 3am the drugs wore off and I began working hard to breathe through contractions again. I hadn’t eaten since lunch the day before and barely drank anything since leaving for the hospital. David woke up and saw that I was back in the swing of things. Doula Shmoula had gone home to get some rest, so he did what he could to coach me through. He put me back into the bath. The pain increased and was like nothing I’d ever felt. I floated there, writhing in pain, and in between each contraction I looked David in the eye and apologized because I couldn’t do it anymore. “I tried,” I told him over and over again.

I got out of the tub at about 4:30am and began pacing the house. I entered a primal state of being, grunting and groaning and ignoring everyone and everything around me. David tried standing in front of me with food and water, at one point even offering me a sandwich. I shouted, “I HATE THE CRUST,” and pushed past him. I’ve never had a problem with sandwich crusts, not even as a kid, but at the moment it was the only control I had.

Doula came back at about 5:30am. I could hear her and David whispering over me while I rolled and twisted in agony on the bed, but I never caught anything they said. I remembering thinking that I hoped they were both in agreement that labor was over and I could go eat some chicken noodle soup. I even sat up after a contraction and announced I was finished and I was going to the table to eat a meal. The trouble with labor is that no matter how hard you try, you can’t stop it. The end to the pain comes when it wants, not when you decide.

I labored through the worst four hours of my life there in my bedroom. I cried and screamed and begged Doula to make it stop. She continued changing my positions and suggesting new alternatives. In the end, I found myself in the tub again. I screamed in desperation, “TAKE ME TO THE HOSPITAL.” Doula asked me what was going to happen at the hospital and I snapped that I didn’t know, I just needed to go somewhere. I needed to do something different. Doula looked me in the eye, the sunlight beginning to peer through the bathroom window, and said, “If you do three contractions in the squatting position, we’ll go to the hospital.”

I looked straight back and asked, “Are you f*&king kidding me?” She shook her head no.

“I want your water to break,” she whispered. “I want your labor to progress. Now let’s do three contractions. You’re doing great.”

I did those three contractions in the squatting position and like a lioness, roared through the house to the car. I don’t remember the second ride to the hospital. Nor do I remember the security guard who apparently told David to just park in a handicapped spot because he was so fearful of the noises I was making. David said he thought I was dying. I do remember being pushed in a wheelchair straight to labor and delivery and walking directly to the same room I’d left. I didn’t even stop to ask where to go. That was my room and I was taking it back.

Birth Story Part 3: Deep Breaths

Doula Shmoula arrived and gave me a big hug. “See? I told you eventually you’d go into labor!” I’d been contracting since about 8am. It was now 2pm. Doula held the space while my friends watched YouTube videos and played games on their phones. It felt like a totally normal day, except that every 5 minutes I stopped participating to breathe.

At about 4pm, contractions got a bit stronger. Doula suggested I lean on my birthing ball for a while on account of the nasty back labor I was feeling. My friends, good instincts and all, decided it was time to pack up and go. My husband turned off the TV and put on some of my favorite music. He fed me melon and water in between contractions.

I was staying on top of each contraction by taking deep breaths, focusing on filling my lungs, and changing positions at least every half hour.

Doula Shmoula was key. She had all kinds of creative positions for me to try. Some of them gave me great relief, and some of them increased the pressure so much that my teeth started chattering uncontrollably. Watching me in pain was scary to my husband, but Doula reassured him that we were doing everything right. She was trying to help me position Abe’s head in such a way that would continue the forward progression of labor and make it easiest for him to make his debut.

It had now been about 12 hours since my contractions started, and things felt intense. Doula had me in the tub and I was feeling a lot more pain. I could tell David was starting to get on edge, concerned that I was now so verbal with each contraction. As she had done all day, Doula asked me a series of questions at this, what seemed like a transition point. “Are you feeling the need to bear down? Is the pressure in your back coming and going with contractions? Can you feel the baby moving lower?” She concluded that it was probably time to make our move. Her concern was that if contractions got much stronger, my water could break and labor could progress very rapidly. And while I admire home births, it wasn’t on my short list for the day.

The ride to the hospital was pretty terrible, I'm not gonna lie. I could tell my husband was driving like a bat out of hell and in between contractions I shouted from the back seat, “Don’t get a ticket!” I’d seen those shows where women were in labor and their husbands got pulled over and they ended up delivering in the car.

I slowly walked, contracted, and walked again to labor and delivery. They checked us in and forced me to do a ridiculous amount of things that no woman in labor should have to do. Pee in a cup? Right now? This doesn’t seem like the time. Lie flat on my back so that you can monitor my contractions? Lady, I can tell you myself when the contractions are coming.  Just listen.

The pain throughout these hospital intake rituals was horrible. I felt like I was losing control. Then came the questions: “Who will be taking care of this baby when you get home? Do either of you use heroin? Does anyone in your family have cancer or acne?” David answered everything as best he could while holding my hand and breathing with me. I began to get so aggravated with all the questioning that I started twisting and turning in the bed to get the contraction monitor to move so she would have to reposition it and stop asking. Doula stayed at my head, reminding me to focus and breathe.

Finally, after an hour of questions and protocol, it was time to check my progress. I felt like I had to be at 8 centimeters, but I would settle for a 6. I pleaded with the nurse, “Gentle, please be gentle,” as I anticipated the pain of the next contraction. She checked. I waited. And finally…

“Four and a half, or so. That’s good.”

WHAT? I screamed fairly loudly at that point. FOUR? I’VE BEEN FOUR SINCE THURSDAY.

“Oh, ok,” she replied. “Well, let’s see if you progress over the next hour and then we’ll formally admit you. If not, we can just send you home. It’s best.”

Send me HOME?! Pardon my French, but are you FAR-REAKING KIDDING ME? I’ve been in labor for 13 hours and you want to send me HOME? I panicked, refused, insisted I was having a baby, but alas. My contractions began to slow down. We walked the hospital and tried a few new positions, but nothing kicked me back into gear. My morale was completely obliterated. I went back to the room, sunk into the bed, and cried. Doula, David and I talked to me for a while about how frustrating this was, trying to coax me out of the hospital. The nurse checked me again. Fourteen hours, and still 4 centimeters. The nurse told me this was fairly normal for a first pregnancy, but it didn’t matter. I was sunk.  And I was giving up. I felt like a complete and utter failure.

Birth Story Part 2: I'm Not in Labor

(If I don't break this story up into parts, you'll be reading for an hour and a half, so bear with me.)

After another day of no contractions, I started to get frustrated. Come on! Four centimeters? People get epidurals by four centimeters! I called Doula Shmoula to complain. She told me to pick out a recipe for dinner and cook something scrumptious for my mom and husband. I snapped out of my funk, watched Food Network, made fun of Rachel Ray (what is she talking about half the time?) and finally decided on a chicken and pasta dish, followed with homemade crepes. The dinner was delicious, and I was still pregnant.

I slept well and woke up disappointed on a Saturday morning. By this point, I was beginning to resemble a fat Eeyore. “Woe is me. I guess I’ll just be pregnant forever. Nobody seems to care anyway.”

My friend sent me a link to Deepak Chopra’s 21-day Meditation challenge. I didn’t have anything else to do and decided I would try to meditate on labor. I can be hippy dippy. I sat, holed up in my room, lotus position on my bed, listening to some guy tell me to watch my thoughts float or something. It was super hard to concentrate:

“Right here, there is only right now. Mmm, do I smell pancakes? Is my mom making pancakes? No wait, clear my mind. Was that a contraction? Clear my mind, CONTRACTION! Wait, did I make that up? Did I just feel one? Right, clear my mind. Float back to the now. Here and now. There is only now. I wonder if that was a contraction. I should probably open my eyes and look at the clock to see if I can time them. But then I’ll break my concentration on the now. I’ll just peek with one eye. Then, it’s right back to the now. 7:44am. Ok, remember that. Back to the now. I wonder how long this meditation is. I should have looked at the time before I started. Then I’d know how long I had to sit here in the now. Is that a contraction? Or a cramp… CONTRACTION! Right?”

This went on for 30 minutes until I finally got up and took a shower. I decided in the shower to invite all of our friends over for lunch and walk up to the store to pick up a few things. I’ve been fooled before, clearing my entire schedule in anticipation of Abe’s arrival. Not anymore.

CONTRACTION!

I was pretty sure I felt another one. But I just kept drying my hair and getting ready for my day. I’m not falling for this.

CONTRACTION!

These don’t even hurt. I casually mentioned to David that I was feeling contractions on my way out the door and he stopped me. “We have to call Doula Shmoula!” he exclaimed.
“No, no, don’t be so gullible. This is what always happens. It’s not labor. I’m going to the store.”

“Well, I’m coming with you! Your water might break.”

“Fine.”

CONTRACTION!

David immediately pulled up the contraction timer application on his phone that he’d downloaded weeks before and started timing. As soon as each one was over, he announced how far apart they were, as well as duration.

“6 minutes, lasted 45 seconds! Good one!”

When the woman in the store asked me when I was due, I smiled and said, “Now. I’m in labor now.” I mainly did this for the shock factor, not because I thought I was actually in labor. It worked. Her jaw dropped and that made me happy. I'd been waiting to say that for 9 months.

CONTRACTION!

When we got back home, David asked me if I wanted him to cancel lunch. I explained that if he cancelled lunch, we would sit around waiting for contractions and they’d stop. So all of our friends piled in with subs and smoothies. We watched The Hangover and tossed jokes back and forth. I was still contracting regularly, but I was easily breathing through them and getting back to the movie.

Finally, David couldn’t take it anymore. He called Doula Shmoula, who agreed it was time for her to stop by the house and hang out for a bit. Fine, waste her time, I thought. But I’m not in labor. 

Birth Story Part 1: No Admittance

On a Thursday afternoon, I went in for my bi-weekly NST (aka worthless time spent sitting in the uncomfortable chair). While hooked up to the machine, I started having contractions. They didn’t hurt at all and made lovely mountains on my side of the paper print out. Immediately after the NST, I had an ultrasound to check Abe’s amniotic fluid and growth.

“You haven’t delivered yet?!” asked the nurse as I walked by. Isn’t that an adorable thing to ask a woman who is 38 weeks pregnant?

Suddenly, my doctor waltzed in, completed an ultrasound in 6 seconds, announced that I was 4cm and in active labor and must be admitted to the hospital immediately.

Um, what? I’m not contracting regularly. I don’t even feel most of them. Don’t I have to have contractions to be in LABOR?? I told the doctor I wanted to go home and he acted extremely reluctant, as if he was going to strap me to a chair and force me to be admitted. He called in the midwife, who seemed much less concerned.

“She lives 2 miles away, she’ll be fine.” 

“Well, I don’t want her to drive home with contractions.”

“She can’t feel them. Can you feel them? She can’t feel them.”

“If her water breaks, she could go fast.”

“She’s not going to deliver at home. She can come back in the morning and go on the NST again if she doesn’t deliver tonight.”

All the while, I’m laying on the exam table wondering if I’m still in the room.  When the two decided it was safe to send me home, I praised God and called my mom. She packed a bag and came up just in case things started happening that night.

Thursday night came and went and I drove back to the doctor’s office on Friday morning. I had no contractions for the previous 8 hours so I felt confident I would be sent back home, which is what I desperately wanted. After all, I had a Doula Shmoula. If they admitted me, I wouldn’t get to labor in my tub or on my birthing ball or on my bed or anywhere that was comfortable and serene to me.

The nurse hooked me up to the NST machine and I began to read my book when suddenly … a contraction. What? I haven’t had any in 8 hours and I get one now in this chair!? Well, certainly one isn’t enough to send me to L&D.

A second contraction five minutes later. Seriously? Now?! My contractions couldn’t wait until lunch?

A third, 5 minutes later. This is just great. I’m contracting regularly but ONLY when I sit in this uncomfortable chair. The midwife came in and looked at my mountains. I desperately tried to explain to her that I only contract when I sit in that chair.

She smirked, half believing me and half assuming I just wanted to go home. “If you are any more dilated, I’m going to have a hard time justifying sending you home.” She checked me. 4 centimeters. Everybody breathe a deep sigh of relief. We’re going home again.