beer is gross, or i love my little anemone

baby m is one month old. holy crap.

my broken beer palette

i was so excited to be able to enjoy a guilt-free drink after safely depositing baby into the world. i hoarded a Belgian gem - the Trappist Westvleteren 8, you know, one of the best rated beers in the entire world, for almost two years to savor.

after a particularly arduous bout of feeding this kiddo and right before kickoff, we poured the bottle into the Westvleteren chalice. the color was perfect, the bubbles were perfect, the aroma was perfect, and the taste...i hated it.

WHAAAT THE EFF?!?

yes. i have apparently lost tastebud sensitivity with regard to the hoppy, bitter, fruity, smooth nuances of one of my favorite beverages - beer. i had Dan open an American blond - too bitter. a wheat ale - too bitter. a Bud Light - TOO BITTER?!!?!

i was near panic. as a last ditch effort, we had a Yuengling in the fridge, and it tasted palatable. i can't believe i just wrote that.

i'm terrified to open a bottle of Rioja and discover that now i like reisling or white zinfandel or boone's farm strawberry hill.

must. keep. trying.

things i never thought i'd do, but have now done

• wear Crocs in public. shame. 
• worry about running out of tucks medicated pads
• not care about 12 ounces of milk barf covering me from neck to thigh
• not care about 12 ounces of baby poop covering my lap about an hour after a milk barf bath
• hate having giant boobs

misguided

on principle, i purchased a device called a Boppy. the Boppy is a breastfeeding pillow shaped like a horseshoe. the theory goes that you put it around your waist and the baby will be supported comfortably while you feed her and not have to hold her whole weight up. millions of these Boppys are sold, and they have cute name. 

i could not, on principle, purchase the competitor to the Boppy, despite it having better reviews, solely because it was called "My Brest Friend Nursing Pillow." Seriously? My Brest Friend? this rivals Nads hair removal cream for top horrible product names of all time. 

so, i have a Boppy. sad part is: it totally blows. the thing won't stay around my waist, so it creates a little bowl space where the baby keeps falling in against my belly (albeit this space is convenient for corralling milk barf in a tidy pool). i have to use a second pillow to prop the Boppy against me, so between the burp cloth, the blanket covering the couch to protect from milk barf, and two pillows, i am toting around a Bed-in-a-Bag just to do some nursing. 

with a well-timed Target gift card, i splurged on the "My [insertstupidnamehere] Friend." And, of course it is my freaking best friend. damn. 

troubleshooting

remember when your computer didn't work and Windows would pop up one of those "troubleshooting" choose-your-own adventure screens? that shit never worked. just re-start the junker. 

luckily, newborn babies are much easier to read. 

• cry 1: feed me
• cry 2: i have to burp or poo or fart
• cry 3: i keep hitting myself in the face and would rather be sleeping, so please swaddle me 
• cry 4: my diaper is cold and wet against my tooshie

easy. 

granted, we seem to have an easy baby. no food allergies, colic, or other ailments thus far. she even slept 4.5 hours in a row last night. hooray! (my boobs were pissed.) 

parenting a newborn is basically just troubleshooting on a three-hour cycle. i was reading three different medical/science-y texts and all of the doctors said a variation of the same thing:

theory: after millions of years of evolution, the human frame has gone from hunched-over, wide-hipped cave person, to tall-standing, narrow-hipped condo person. what this has done is shortened our gestation period from 12 months to 9 months, because the baby has to fit out of our narrower hip opening. so, all human babies, according to this theory, are three months premature. 

it makes sense, really. newborns can't hold up their own heads. their eyes can't focus as the cones aren't fully developed. they have reflux because the keep-puke-down muscle isn't strong enough. they're not social learning yet (i.e. babies don't exhibit human social emotion, like pleasure or manipulation, until after 6-9 weeks or so).

someone asked me about how it was going, and i related it to taking care of a really squirmy and demanding plant or ocean creature, like a venus fly trap or sea anemone. the reflex of clamping shut is like baby's clamp on my nip. plus, you have to tend to both, feed them, clean them, and adore their little interesting perfect biological construction, but neither are cognizant or aware like you'd prefer, well at least prefer for the tiny human. even a kitten or puppy has 100-times the situational awareness after a week of life than a newborn.

i spend most of my troubleshooting hours admiring the warm perfect baby. her biological adorableness in the form of tiny perfect fingers and the heartbreaking and sincere wails where her little lower jaw shudders as she inhales for another cry. i love when she slumps, milk drunk, onto my belly and snoozes for 20 minutes. it's so cute when she cries loudly, lets out a big burp, and immediately is silent and serene, staring at the lamp, because all is suddenly well again.

this phase is more about us enjoying baby rather than baby enjoying anything. we have an adorable little bundle of squirmy who would really rather still be in the womb. she's a blank canvas. she is a biology miracle. she is not quite ready for the hard lessons or learning of a social being yet. i envy her.

so, our task as the parent of the newborn is simple: enjoy the innocence and keep the baby alive until her own life begins. i am enjoying every little minute watching her and wondering who she is going to become

i think the next set of phases that include "don't mess her up,""don't let her manipulate you," and "don't hate her just because she's a hormonal teenage monster" are going to be much more challenging.

be careful what you wish for

of course this is more about my boobs.

what? there's more?

yeah. it's surprising how much of my life involves my own boobs now (approximately 40% of my life, actually). so, if you don't care about my boobs, you might want to skip most of this. 

after four weeks of breastfeeding, i can see why the invention of baby formula was heralded as the best thing to happen to women since, say, ever.

breastfeeding, especially at first, isn't all natural instinct and happiness. it's painful, raw, and animalistic. i think the only way the human race survived pre lactation consultant, double-electric breast pump, and nipple shield, is that some women figured it out and just kept the milk supply going. other women had to have been passing around their babies to these community wet nurses to keep them alive until they, themselves, had the hang of it.

from triple-A to triple that

for my entire tween life to present, i've had to psychologically and foam-paddingly compensate for my lack of boobs. luckily, i rock in other areas, so my boobs took up way less than 40% of my time. more like .0000004%. 

then i got knocked up. and they grew. and grew. it. was. awesome. and fun! like having a new toy for the whole family to enjoy (note: our family was just two people at this time). 

then someone mentioned that they would get even bigger when the milk showed up. what? more!? yay! and no huge belly to overshadow their awesomeness. 

and they did. and i now hate them.

they are either engorged and painful or have a tiny human attached to them. and then there is the soreness and the cracking nipples. and thrush. 

oh, thrush, you feel like tiny shards of glass embedded in my angry red nipples. why this whole new dimension of pain. to top it off, i now i think i have a bit of a vaspospasm, so when they inflate every two hours, it's like they're filling with lava. 

the moral of the story: be happy when your body is in stasis. change can be hard. really, really hard and painful. 

old faithfuls

currently i'm making enough milk to feed octomom's brood.

before baby, i was so worried that, because i am such a sound sleeper, that i wouldn't wake up right away when she started to fuss at night.

no need to worry. my boobs wake me up like two competing geysers of pain and hot liquid. i go from a sound sleep to a milk bath in 20 seconds every two hours. during the first days, i would stand over her bed begging her to wake, or i just woke the child up, just to get some relief.

and not only that, but the ladies are not the same size. they compete for dominance, and ms. righty is definitely winning. she's huge. it's annoying (only to me).

chug

i think the pain is slowly ebbing as the days pass, but poor baby has to deal with my production issues. for her, attaching is a lot like trying to get a good grip on the side of softball. and for me, well, when she does get a grip it's vice-like before things settle down.

the last few days after she attaches, around four minutes in, she'll start to gag a little, detach, and re-attack. i wondered why, until i saw a shooting stream of warm milk spray her in the face when she let go last night. poor thing is trying to drink by putting her whole mouth around a garden hose.

but, based on the quantity and heft of dirty diapers, she's getting enough to eat. and all that extra goes in the freezer for the time where i want to drink a whole bottle of wine and celebrate the fact that my sacred vessel has made it through pregnancy, childbirth, and breastfeeding all in one calendar year.

sorry boys

to top it all off, these milk producing fun bags are off limits until everything feels under control. poor, poor husbands of new moms.

oh, wait, screw them. they're not up every two hours nor did they have to push this cantaloupe out into the world and then have it clamp on to their other most sensitive body part just minutes later.

leave me alone and change a diaper or something. i'll let you know when and if my commitment to celibacy ends.

Non-committal

Check up

Went to the doctor to have a follow up on the healing process of my Franken-vag. Needless to say, when I saw said doctor I got dizzy and thought "fight or flight!?" My instructions were: Please stay outside the touch zone. I made it through the visit, sort of.

Anyway, the nurse was doing her routine questioning and asked, hesitantly, eggshell-esque, "Weeeellllll, in a few weeks the doctor will be asking you about your plans for birth control. Have you thought at all about that?"

Me: "Yes."

Her: "Um, well, um, what would you say your plans are? Are you familiar with the options? I, uh, ..."

Me: "Dude, whatever is MOST effective."

Her, obviously relieved.

Apparently there are people who have two kids inside of 12 months. Psychopaths.

Modern medicine and its Stadol and dissolvable stitches got me through this; modern medicine and its birth control methods are going to ensure I have control over whether I ever do it again. 

Politics

Baby M watched her first presidential debate. I decided to vote for the candidate who was not talking when she barfed all over me. Halfway through the very first question it was decided: we are officially abstaining in 2012. Tough crowd.

Back off

So, it has been about 14 days since my childbirth experience. Days 2-14 have been textbook with  late nights, tired self, soreness, lovey-dovey baby oggling, taking pictures, being typical "oh, look at what she just now did, isn't it cute?" parents, etc. I am absolutely enjoying all of it (well, my nipples have seen better days), but there is also this big grey shadow hanging over me.

It is you. You know who who you are. You're the "next time" people. People who have already staked a claim on one of my unfertilized eggs and are asking me if we've picked out names yet.

"Next time, you can go to the hospital earlier and get the epidural if you have back pain."

"Next time, breastfeeding is so much easier."

"Next time, they seem to grow up faster." 

"Next time, maybe you'll have a boy...or twins!"

Now if that last statement isn't enough to send me to the land of celibacy, I am not sure what is. 

But, really, it took us eight freaking years to decide whether or not to have this one single little person join our insular little duo. We don't even know if the three of us are compatible yet. It's like roommate roulette - no chance to even interview her to see whether she likes dogs, is vegan, or has crazy relatives (she does!). And already everyone has their Jump To Conclusions Mat out and is predicting due dates for Baby Next Time.

As far as I'm concerned, I have one, single baby. Will there be a next time? We're back where to where we were before I got knocked up this time: maybe, maybe not, in five years, none of your business.

Just like couples who don't have any kids can have a complete, whole-life existence with the appropriate amounts of self-fulfillment and happiness, so can people with a single kid, or two kids, or five kids, or...well, more than five seems a little extreme. (It's like throwing a sausage down a hallway?)

Jelly belly

I know that the baby belly can't magically disappear overnight, but it doesn't even disappear after two weeks?!? I still look five months pregnant, but now it's all squishy and ugly. All my tight little  belly showing maternity gear now looks gross. I need more zip front hoodies and sweatpants. 

Snurgle

It's a noise this kid makes. Like a gurgle, a snore, and a stuffy nose. So cute. 

Disturbing

It is slightly disturbing that I keep thinking, "I wonder when her parents are due to come pick her up? We should call them."

I still can't believe that she is ours, for good, with no background check or competency test. Also, two weeks feels like a fun little foray into parenting, but it hasn't sunk in that this is a whole-lifestyle modification. We. Are. Parents. Luckily she's perfect and I'm smitten. And, of course if someone tried to come take her from me, I would scratch out their eyeballs, but the back of my mind lurker is still skeptical about whether we are capable of this.

One day at a time we go. 

Week 1: From PTSD to parenthood

Immediately after baby went safely to the nursery, I crawled into bed. I was more sore, exhausted, hungry, and thirsty than I've ever been. I felt like I was baby M. I felt fetal, small, and helpless. My ankles crossed and my knees tucked up in this big hospital bed that could fit two of me. I needed help just standing up. Finally, I was alone for the first time in hours and only thought one thing: What have I done?

Each time the nurse aide woke me up to check my vitals, I sucked in my breath with a little panic and adrenaline surge through my ears thinking that, for some reason, she was coming to get me to take me into the delivery room. Nooo! No! Then relief when I realized that I had already done it. I already had the baby. No more labor. I was suffering from back labor PTSD.

Dawn came, and the nurses were in to check on me every hour. By 8:30 a.m., I thought, "Hm...I'm here for a reason. I am pretty sure I had a baby early this morning. Wonder where she is?"

Slowly, I could feel myself going from, "What have I done?" to "Holy shit! I actually DID that! WOW!"

Every minute baby M was with me, I could feel that warm mother-y feeling growing and growing. It's like a wash of emotion containing an equal parts terror of something happening to this little person you've just been given and the simultaneous relief that nothing has, yet. It's the "I would throw myself in front of a bus for you" feeling? Extreme.

On daddy
He is a saint, doula, hero, perfect daddy in every way. Everyone knew that would be the case, so I am just happy to see him performing at this exceptional level of perfection. I am the luckiest person on Earth, even though I feel sad when he does something way better than me - like I'm a worthless, mother-instinct-lacking failure. It's one of those things I'll just keep dealing with because it's all about baby and not about me. And I'll catch up. Luckily I have boobs, so baby and I get some great bonding time, and I get to practice my solo skills.

I did thank him profusely for being so amazing during delivery. I was so out of it, there was none of that glow-y mother-father-baby perfection. It was more like me demanding ice chips and cursing his virility. I think he forgives me. 

Good news
I almost have a belly button again
I can admire my pedicure without bending over
My boobs are even bigger!

Did someone say boobs?
My random thought after a week of breastfeeding and simply "dealing" with the exacting pain this baby delivers every three hours or less was, "Wonder if I was into nipple clamps, would this hurt so much?" My terribly un-kinky side will never know I guess. But aside from the painful swelling and tender, tender nips, my boobs are fabulous. Porn-star quality when the milk first came, and pretty damn decent after. Yes, I will do as suggested and wear a v-neck that fits loosely around the waist to hide my bulging belly and enjoy my, probably temporary, time as a C-cup. Rock it!

Girl, girl, girl!!! Shows 10-times daily! More on boobs. I pretty much spend half the day with them hanging out. Why is this important? Well, my own father lives a continent away and the decision as to whether he should accompany Grammy Jackie for the birth of his second granddaughter was a weighty one. It takes 13 hours, three airplanes, and a car ride to get from his house to mine, and we didn't know if baby M would even be on time. This all being said, I'm pretty pleased that we decided to keep him at home taking care of the ranch and just sending photos and Face Time-ing. The extreme awkwardness of trying to cover the ladiez between feeding, air drying, testing out milking apparati, and general boob awareness would have been too much to bear. It's a little awkward just reading this.
Lessons
Never have unprotected sex. Ever. Well...
Hospital-grade stool softeners are your friend
Stock up on laundry soap because babies are dirty laundry factories
If you plan to breast feed, you might consider letting your cat start gnawing on your nipples now to prepare

Things I never thought I'd say
I milked myself today
I lost 19 pounds this week

Rest and recovery
Thanks to my domestic - Grammy Jackie - I have been able to sleep when baby sleeps, eat as meals come hot from the kitchen, shower daily, brush my teeth daily, and avoid many of the exhaustive trappings of new parenthood. Of course, I'm keeping odd hours due to late night/early morning feedings, but with naps, hydration, ibuprofen, a heating pad, and food, I am starting to feel human again. I am amazed at how sore my body is, like I was put in a washing machine on the agitate cycle for 24 hours. I am slowly able to walk around the block, readjusting my posture and strengthening my back. Baby M, Henry, Grammy and I took the B.O.B. out for a spin, awesome. I know it's just Week 1, but I'm hopeful that we can feel physically better soon - more so I can enjoy baby before she's all grown up and going off to college.  

Evacuation complete

Dear reader,
Don't read further.
I'm just saying.
-hh

Horror show

I don't know where to begin. First, at the end. I am a parent. Mom. Holy crap. Here's how I got there.

January 2012

• Unprotected Sex.

September 22, 2012

• 1:30 a.m. - Wake up with tiny baby contractions. So exciting. Tug on the belly muscles. About 12 minutes apart. Closing to 10 minutes as the early morning progresses. So, I watch a DVD about baby swaddling, Google some stuff about healthy eating while breastfeeding, check my email, start a little notepad to track contraction time and duration.
• 7:00 a.m. - Still awake. Time for breakfast and to make sure we have everything ready. Contractions are 6-8 minutes apart. Need food. Everyone says, "Stay at home as long as you can, because once the hospital ties you down to IVs and monitors, there's no more eating or drinking." So, that was our plan. Home labor as long as the nurse says it's OK.
• 8:00 a.m. - Breakfast! Contractions are getting a bit stronger, but the nurse says take some Extra Strength Tylenol and lie down for a while.
• 9:00 a.m. - Drive to Food Lion to get Tylenol and Gatorade. I had to hide behind a display of Ritz Crackers so I wouldn't freak out the other shoppers while gasping with my more-painful contractions.
• 11:00 a.m. - Tylenol slows everything down. I'm starting to get pissed off about that. I've been awake since 1 a.m., and now Google says pre-labor can last up to 24 hours. The contractions aren't horrible, but I still can't sleep through them. So, I'm tired and irritable and in the whole, "Is this ever going to happen?" Phase.
• 12:00 p.m. - Lunch! I take the whole, "Eat like you're going to run a marathon" seriously. I burn calories faster than the average person anyway, so there's no way I want to bonk during labor. Eat, eat, eat. Drink, drink, drink.
• 1:00 p.m. - Stupid labor. It's all hovering around 6-7 minutes apart, 30-55 seconds in duration. Now my lower back is starting to ache a little bit with each contraction, too, so maybe that's progress.
• 2:00 p.m. - Might as well do some work. Grammy Jackie and I start stuffing envelopes for a direct mail campaign. My back aches more each time a contraction comes, but I can bear it. No progress.
• 4:00 p.m. - Now shit is starting to hurt a bit more. Got the exercise ball so I can watch football during the pain - wooosahh - but we're going along OK. The nurse says to come in as soon as I feel like it - either five minutes apart or when the peak of the contraction takes my breath away.
• 5:30 p.m. - Dinner! I am wondering if each meal will be my last. I keep thinking, "Why does my back continue to ache? Isn't the uterus a huge muscle in my belly? What the hell?" I'm alternating between the ball, all fours, and having Dan shove his balled-up fists into my lower back as the contractions peak. Definitely taking my breath away.
• 7:30 p.m. - Driving to hospital. Three contractions in 12 minutes. I'm writhing in pain in the car. This doesn't seem like any f$*(#ing movie I've seen.
• 8:30 p.m. - Checked in to hospital and waiting for the doctor. I've got to get an IV, and I'm practically in tears, asking Dan if I can have an epidural. I didn't want an epidural, but I can't handle this pain. This excruciating, increasing, horrific, back pain. "Nurse Ashley, please give me drugs. Any drugs. Please. ARGGH!" Of course, only the doctor can prescribe drugs, so we wait and I have Dan massaging (i.e. kneading with fists) my lower back. 

Intermission: With regards to pain medication
My co-pregnant and previously pregnant friends all have varying views on pain medication. I, personally, didn't have a birth plan. It was "try to get as few drugs as possible, but if it's unbearable, ask for the drugs." I secretly hoped that my pain tolerance was high and I was warrior woman. When I realized that I couldn't do it without the epidural, I was crushed. IV drugs seemed OK, but I didn't really want to not feel anything. My friend M just had a baby boy a few weeks ago, and also had similar pain to mine - back pain. She had previously had a natural labor, but the pain here was too much, and she opted for the epidural. The word she used was "validating." It is validating to know that you're not alone and you're not a huge wimp if you have to reach out for help from God of Anesthesia.

• 9:30 p.m. - Doctor says, "You're at 4 cm." Me: "I need drugs. Seriously. Drugs. Anything. Please help me. Why does my back hurt?" Doctor: "Oh, you're having back labor." Me: "Excuse me? I don't give a shit. Give me drugs. ASAP. I want to die." Doctor to Dan and Jackie: "We are probably going to have a baby by 5 a.m." Me: "Oh, shit. I can't do this for another five hours!" Nurse: Giving me an injection into the IV tube.

Intermission: With regards to back labor
At this point, I have no idea what is happening. The Googles say that contraction pain starts in the back and radiates around to the belly. I know the contractions are getting stronger, but they're all in my back. I didn't know that such a thing as "back labor" existed. (Really? After all the time spent on the Googles, I didn't come across back labor? Probably because I refused to read anything that would lead me to worry about anything. The whole, "what if" this or "in rare cases" that. I avoided that content like the plague.)

During gestation, the doctors said everything was fine, so everything was fine. I did think my kid was on her side, but the doctors were all vague and like non-committal about her positioning, so I just went along with that, hoping for a routine delivery. Anyway, the lowdown on back labor, Googled after the fact is this (from moms):

• "Back labor is very, very, very, very, very painful"
• "My sister said it was like hot pokers from her lower back down through the backs of her legs, and my chiropractor gave a similar description - that the pain seems to be ongoing - it doesn't stop with contractions and that it extends from your lower back down through the backs of your legs."
• "My back felt like someone was pulling my back apart then stopping."

I abso-f-#$@ckn-lutely agree. Imagine giving some sturdy midget lumberjacks access to your lower back and spine with a full set of serrated bread knives. Yeah, those strong little bastards just saw on your spine, your muscles, your tailbone. It's excruciating, and you can't "relax" like the fucking nurse says you should. I'm curled into a tight ball every time the wave comes, literally begging for mercy from whatever horrific sins I've committed to deserve this. There is no joyful bringing of this beautiful child into the world together with Dan at my side, glowing. It's me, writhing in pain every three minutes, saying very mean things to everyone on the planet. Die midgets. Die.

• 9:31 p.m. - Stadol. Hallelujah. A warm, delicious envelopment of hospital-strength narcotics fills my whole body head to toe. Swimming in my brain as my cheeks get poofy and I say silly things like, "Wow, I can see the plus side to being a drug addict." I was high as a kite and in and out of clarity. Contractions came and went - oh, I could still feel them - and Dan's fists continued to massage me. I cursed the midgets. I cursed the pain, but with the edge off and the ability to do so colorfully with jokes and less panic. Woosah.

September 23, 2012

• 12:00 a.m. (-ish) - Literally, my eyes snap open. It's like someone turned off my drug pump or plugged me into my power source. All of my muscles are knotted and being serrated. My spine might tear apart. Now Grammy Jackie is kneading my back and Dan is massaging my hip tendons. I'm lying on my side and it's very obvious to me that the Stadol supply has run its course. More drugs. More. More. I'm practically frantic in my desire to take one of those knives from a midget, crawl into the pharmacy and start stabbing a pharmacist to get more drugs. If only I could roll over. I want this epidural N-O-W!
• 12:01 a.m. (-ish) - Panic, panic, panic. Pain, pain, pain. Dan is my breathing coach. Eye contact. Innnn - out, out, out. Innnnnn - out, out, out. I'm gripping his hand thinking, "Lock it up! You can't panic. Breathe. Follow instructions." I work hard to avoid hyperventilating. The nurse is giving more advice about not screaming and instead breathing.  I would rather scream, but I'm willing to try anything.
• 12:15 a.m. (-ish) - Doctor comes in. Time to "check progress." Him: "Can you roll onto your back for me after the contraction?" Me: "NO! The contraction isn't ENDING! DON'T YOU UNDERSTAND THAT!?! [insert PAIN noises]; I HAVE TO POOP. [insert PAIN noises]; WHERE IS THE EPIDURAL?" (Note: You can't get an epidural right away, it takes 2-3 hours for the team to hydrate you with IV fluids so you can get the injection. So, at 12:15, I'm finally ready.) Him, wrestling me onto my back with everyone's help: "Oh! Well, we're at 8 or 9 cm." Me, with a complete clarity and understanding that epidural administration cannot take place after 8 cm has a fit of the whitest, hottest rage in the universe. Me: "YOU, YOU! You tricked me! You told me I could have an epidural! [insert PAIN noises] Now you say I can't! You didn't want me to have one in the first place, so you lied all along. Why did you do this? I need more drugs! ARCHAGHTSGH![insert PAIN noises]."  

Intermission for things said/cried:
Me: "The Ducks game started at 10:30, why can't I have an epidural?"
Me: "I would like a time machine to go back an un-have sex with you." Others in room: "Do we have to go?"
Me: "Guys (meaning everyone in the room) I don't think I can do this anymore. Can we please stop. I just think that I can't make it."
Me: "I wonder why they did that with their mailboxes? The mailboxes and the driveway are the same thing....What the hell am I saying?"
Me: "You'd better enjoy this, husband, because I'm never doing it ever again. ARGHAHCH!"
Me: "Me, guys I want to go home."
Me: "Guys, I don't want more contractions. I want more drugs."
Me: "Ice chips please, water please" (x1,000) Those bastards dehydrated me. I was parched the entire time.
Me, as my sweaty hair is sticking to my head and neck: "There HAS to be a goddamn piece of circle elastic in this place. I'm so HOT."
Me: "I must poop. I neeeeed to poop. Is this me needing to push? Ugh. Poooooooooop."

• 12:17 a.m. - Doctor to nurse: "Give her (some small dose) of (something)" Me: "I need to push. Seriously. If I can't have more drugs, I feel like pushing. It's like having to poop, right? Let me push." Doctor: "Yes, you can push." Exit stage left, Grammy Jackie.
• 12:18 a.m. - A bit more Stadol. Not nearly enough, but enough that I find this focus outside of myself. Sort of like what people that have taken LSD describe - the ability to be outside yourself, but still aware of yourself. I can feel everything, but I have this little blue place with a lot of light where I can visualize this baby descending. I can feel her moving south as I push.
• 12:20 - 1:50 a.m. - Pushing. This is not easy, but it's so much better than letting a contraction rip your body to shreds. You fight back. Seriously. BIG breath. Grip these conveniently placed handles down by your hips, and PUSH. Inhale, HOLD/PUSH: 10,9,8,7,6,5,4,3,2,1 - Exhale, Inhale, HOLD/PUSH: 10,9,8....repeat. There are now breaks between contractions, thankfully. I keep asking, "Is she moving? Is it working?" Nurses: "Yes. You're fine. Just focus. Tuck your chin to your chest. Try to hold the tension between breaths and...." Inhale, HOLD/PUSH: 10, 9, 8,.... It's so crazy that I was sort of high, but I don't know what I would have done without the IV drugs. I could feel her head, I could feel the pressure, the stretching, more pressure. My abs fatigued on the third set of 10 in each contraction and I didn't know if I could go on. Nurse Ashley took a towel and tied a knot in one end and I gripped it. She pulled one end, I pulled the other end through a few contractions. I kept going to my blue place and feeling/seeing the head get closer and closer to being through. They told me they could see her hair. I could see her hair. I could.

Intermission for disgusting things:
Peeing on the staff - check
Tearing - check
Pooping - check, I think, but minor

• 1:40 a.m. - Doctor is in place and I'm pushing like a champion. There is a huge tray of surgical instruments off to his right, and I swear I almost panicked. Me: "Is everything normal? Are we getting there?" Everyone: "YES! Ready to go again? Let's push!" BREATHE, PUSH, VISUALIZE. Doctor is giving me local anesthetic, and it feels like tiny bee stings and I don't even flinch.
• 1:57 a.m. - Doctor: "OK! Here we go! PUSH. You're going to feel some burning. PUSH."

Result: Baby. 
Conceived on game day, born on game day. The circle is complete.

That random extra footage during the credits:
Stitches
Cutting the cord
Staring into crying baby face
Exhaustion, so much in fact that I needed Dan's arms to help me hold my baby for the first time because I am shaking with weakness
Holding baby for the first time
Photos
Random bouts of shuddering/shivering
Baby declared perfect
Dan shows me the Ducks score. My first laugh in hours.

Finale

• Oh, now the big question (say this with one of those sickly sweet voices, full of patronizing mommy-love syrup, that stupid people use): "Wasn't it all worth it when you held her in your arms for the first time?"
• Answer: I am not dignifying this question with a response.