Labor & Execution

I grew up watching sitcoms and movies in the 80s and 90s. Often times pregnant women were depicted as emotional basketcases who devoured large chicken legs with chocolate sauce (or something equally as ridiculous) and then gave birth in elevators or taxis while screaming at their idiot husbands or complete strangers who had the misfortune of being in the wrong place at the wrong time. Then, after a minute of farcical screaming, thirty seconds of "hee hee hoos" and half a second of pushing and grunting, their work was done and they could lay back and enjoy their clean, swaddled, flawless 3-month old newborn. Oh, the miracle of birth. And television.

When it came time to give birth to my son almost a year and a half ago, it didn't exactly go down like that....

It was the day after my due date and I was anxious and bored at the same time. My husband, mother, and I were binging on the happy-go-lucky historical drama, The Tudors, to pass the time. Nothing like going to bed nine months pregnant and dreaming of beheadings....

I was loving the costumes and romantic trysts, as well as the unrealistically attractive portrayals of Henry the VIII and Anne Boleyn. The execution scenes, however, were wearing on me. By the time they were getting ready to have someone "drawn & quartered" I knew I had to back my large self away from the television until the scene was over (if you're unfamiliar with what being "drawn & quartered" entails, do not, repeat DO NOT find out. It's worse than you think).

I sprang up from the couch, walked over to the landing, and that's when I had the feeling that our son was about to make his grand entrance. Was their screaming and a mad dash to the hospital with me practicing my lamaze? Sadly, no. We meandered around the house, called the doctor, grabbed the bag, and my practical husband put a trash bag on the passenger seat of the car just in case (it was not necessary). Then we drove into Sibley Hospital in DC. Parked the car. Checked in. Waited. Did some paper work. Got set up in a room. Blood pressure check-geez, I'm even boring MYSELF right now.

Fast forward 12-13 hours later (I think I took a NAP at some point, courtesy of something that rhymes with "schmepidural"). Grant was born, and he looked like a wrinkly, purple wrestler/alien. I looked like I had taken a all-expenses paid trip to hell and back. Doctors were still attending to me because (who knew?) the actual birthing of the child is only part of the labor process.

Of course, we were still over the moon with relief and happiness that our baby was healthy. And his wrinkly alien phase was short lived and he soon transformed into a blue-eyed cupcake-cheeked sweet marshmallow of an angel (too much?).

Though being a mother to our son is the greatest joy I have known, if they ever make a movie version of my life I'll be sure to have them add a car chase and, like, a mime to his birth story just to make it a little more interesting....

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