Rice paddy or no rice paddy, I will be heard. Unless you go away. Which you can do.
November 16th, 2005
Because I feel like it. Because I’d tell you, if you asked. Because she might ask, someday.
Because rice paddy or no rice paddy, anyone who pushes a wombat-sized creature out of her nether-regions is entitled to an annual public reminiscence.
Two years ago yesterday—November 15th, 2003—I started feeling a little weird around the middle.
I phoned my mother after lunch.
“Feeling a little crampy. Might be stomach flu,” I said.
“Might not be,” said my mother. “Keep me posted.”
By three in the afternoon, I was feeling weirder. Not stop-the-presses weirder. Just slightly weirder around the middle.
David and I had donated Sophie to some friends for the afternoon, so we could devote our full attention to monitoring the situation.
“Let’s take a nap,” I said.
David found this agreeable. He fell asleep. I did not. I lay on my side on our bed next to him, looking out the window I am so fond of. It was a lovely, sunny pre-winter day in New England, a perfectly good day for contemplating any weirdness around the middle.
If we got rid of the aluminum siding, we could paint our house like that nice house across the street, was one of the several lines of thought I was entertaining at the time. I am very fond of my bedside window because it looks out on the blue-green house across the street, which is one of the prettiest houses in town, in my opinion. I always feel sorry for the owner of that house, who must look at our home when he gets his mail. We got the better end of the deal.
The weirdness ramped up a wee bit.
“Interesting,” I said.
Our friends dropped off Sophie. I sat on a kitchen chair and watched her eat dinner, something noodle-ish, as the sun set cruelly on the day and on her peaceful, happy life as an only child.
“I think we should be timing,” said David, who was standing over by the stove. I keep him there and only let him out for naps and toileting.
“I don’t think it’s time for that,” I said.
“Still. Go.”
“I am going. You go.”
“Oh. Right.”
So he looked at his watch while I said things like now and that was one I think and no I mean it’s over now no stop timing no wait there it goes again. It was all so confusing. We have terrible timing.
He glanced up from his watch with an anxious expression.
“Every four or five minutes,” he said. “Should we be concerned?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Every four to five minutes?”
“I’m sure we timed it wrong.”
After Sophie was in bed, I phoned my brother, Joe, who, very conveniently for me, chose to grow up and become an amazing family physician who delivers a lot of babies. Joe still talks to me, even though I once convinced him to swap me his Luke Skywalker and Han Solo and Princess Leia Star Wars figures for my one lousy Jawa, who was missing his brown hoodie. Joe rocks.
“I know you’re my brother and all, but I’ve got some questions. You know. About what’s going on. Um. With my body.”
“I can handle it.”
“It’s a little embarrassing.”
“I can take it.”
“Well, I’m seeing some [too much information] and a bit of [far too much information]. And I’m feeling some crampy things.”
“Contractions?”
“Maybe.”
“How far apart?”
“David says four to five minutes, but I think we counted wrong. I’m sure we counted wrong.”
“Uh—” There was a long pause on the other end of the line. “Have you called the midwife?”
“Of course not. She’s very busy. I don’t want to bother her.”
“Right.” Another pause. “So here’s what you do. Take a warm bath. If the contractions stop, it’s probably false labor. If they don’t, call the midwife.”
“Or you.”
“Or the midwife.”
“Right.”
I got in the bathtub sometime after midnight. Just like that, the contractions melted away. Gone. Zip. Nada.
“Damn! My brother is good! I would kill for a doctor like that! Why isn’t he my doctor? He should be my doctor!”
David was leaning against the bathroom sink, looking troubled. He was in between phone calls at this point, but he was still clutching the phone. “I don’t think he could be your doctor. I think there are laws. Ethics. Did they really stop?”
“Totally! Completely! I feel great! I’m going to add some more warm water.”
“I’m calling the midwife.”
“No! Don’t!”
He handed me the phone, which I tried very hard not to drop in the bathwater.
Pam the Midwife did not seem the least put out by the fact that I had called my brother first. She agreed with Joe’s strategy and told me to give her a call if anything changed. Everyone was so reasonable. Everything was so reasonable. It was a very reasonable day, and I was pleased with the world.
I hung up and called my brother.
“I’m in the tub.”
“Okay.”
“The contractions stopped! You were so right! False labor! Totally false!”
“Okaaay.”
“I’m in the tub!”
“You said that.”
“I feel great. But if anything changes, I’ll call you.”
“Or your midwife.”
“Right.”
My brother hung up. I handed the phone to David.
“I’m fine,” I said.
“You’re sure?”
“Absolutely. Look at me. Calm seas.”
David left the bathroom. When he returned to the bathroom twenty minutes later, he found me squatting naked and dripping wet beside our washing machine, which I was embracing like a long-lost lover.
“It feels so cool and good against my cheek,” I said. “I can’t explain it.”
“Contractions?”
“Oof. Oof.”
“I’m calling the midwife.”
“No! Give me the phone!”
I called Joe.
“They’re back. I can’t let go of the washing machine.”
He chose his words with impressive restraint. “Although I appreciate your confidence in me and my abilities as a physician, Jenn, this is probably a good time to remind you that I live in Washington. The state.”
“I know that.”
“This would be a very good time to call the midwife. I would call the midwife. Call your midwife.”
“Right.”
“Tell David to take string and scissors in the car.”
“No string. Dental floss?”
“Fine.”
While I got dressed, David phoned our friend Blair, who’d been alerted earlier in the evening when David was not buying my calm seas bit. He arrived sleepy but willing to be Sophie’s guardian until the next day, when news of life’s latest development would squash the poor thing like a bug.
It was approaching 2AM at this point, and David, feeling grateful, was determined to make Blair feel right at home with a nice middle-of-the-night cuppa. Don’t ever underestimate the power of the Brit-Canuck connection.
“Can I make you a pot of tea, Blair?”
“I’m fine.”
“Well, let me show you where we keep the tea. We’ve got Darjeeling, English Breakfast, Orange Pekoe—”
I grunted meaningfully from the hallway. “Oof. Oof. Urgh.”
“—oh, I almost forgot, we’ve got quite a few varieties of herbal tea—”
Blair protested blearily. “Really, I’m fine—”
I tried hopping. “Getting worse over here. In case you were wondering. Oof.”
Polite Boy would not be stopped. “The blue teapot is on top of the—”
“OH MY GOD ARE YOU KIDDING ME? ARE YOU? WE HAVE TO GO WE HAVE TO GO GO GO GO GO I HAVE NEVER BEEN SO SURE OF ANYTHING IN MY LIFE! OOOOF! URRRGH! OOOF!”
We headed to the car.
“We forgot the floss and nail scissors,” I said. “My brother said to bring them.”
Dental floss and nail scissors, six bucks. Husband’s expression, priceless. Yeah, the joke’s getting old, but it wasn’t in November 2003, trust me. Hey, this is my wombat, I can tell it however I like.
For once, our ancient red Toyota station wagon cooperated with us, possibly sensing the gravity of the situation, and we hit the road, chugging up Route 7 into Vermont.
We live in Massachusetts, but all the groovy midwives seem to live in Vermont, so that’s where we were headed. At 2AM, there wasn’t much traffic, and it was a beautiful night. Brisk almost-winter air, tinged with my favorite smell in the universe— wood smoke and burnt leaves—and a sprinkling of stars overhead. Perfect. No, seriously. Perfect. I remember looking up at the sky and thinking, hey, this is my life, not bad, beats NYC up and down with a stick.
Sure, the weirdness around the middle had achieved Guinness Book Weirdness. Sure, I squirmed a lot and braced myself against the dashboard and made some peculiar, unladylike noises along the way. But it was fun. I can’t remember exactly what we talked about (unlike my usual flawless recall and verbatim recording of every conversation of my life! ha! ha ha!), but we were still smiling when we arrived on the maternity ward. This alone is worth remembering for the kid.
They handed me a rubber girdle. “For the fetal heart monitor,” they said. I tried to figure out a way to get it around my waist a la Houdini by sliding it up one leg and one leg only. Then an arm. No go. Worse than ten Lycra Tubes of Death and Spandex-and-Steel Butt Girdles. I fell over in the bathroom and started laughing hysterically.
I opened the door a crack and handed it back to them. Someone handed me another rubber girdle, this one presumably used to strap equine fetal monitors to the bellies of the mares they breed to make Budweiser Clydesdales.
This worked. I took a look at myself in the bathroom mirror and fell over laughing again.
Pam the Midwife and the labor nurse exchanged glances. “We’re probably going to send you home, but we’ll just check to see.”
If you don’t know what “checking to see” entails, this is for the best. Continue to keep your legs closed and aim them away from any latex-gloved index fingers.
They checked to see. I tried not to hit the ceiling too hard, lest I disturb the ICU on the floor above and set some poor Schmoe flatlining.
“Five centimeters.” They seemed very, very surprised.
“Five centimeters? Isn’t that good?” asked David.
“We just don’t see a lot of women laughing at five centimeters.”
I was bad-ass. Bad-ass! These hips are made for birthin’ and that’s just what they’ll do, one of these days these hips ARE GONNA BIRTH ALL OVER YOU.
I oofed a few extra times to make sure they wouldn’t send me home. “Can I get in the Jacuzzi now?”
“You sure can.” Pam the Midwife smiled and led me down the hall to a huge, dimly lit room with a massive shiny white tub. “Here you go.”
I fell madly in love with Pam the Midwife.
I pulled out my big sporty water bottle and took a deep breath. I did not have a chance to spout a birth plan with Sophie, and I was determined to be a Birth Planner, if just for five minutes before someone jammed a pair of forceps up my hoo-ha.
I showed Pam the Midwife my water bottle and began my rehearsed Nerd Girl speech. “See? An hour ago, the water level was here, and now it is here. I plan to continue hydrating, so that IV fluids will not be necessary. I am prepared to sign a waiver—”
“That’s fine. Here’s the tub.”
“Because I have a serious and debilitating IV phobia that colored my entire first childbirth experience in a very traumatic way—”
“Here’s how you work the jets.” Pam the Midwife fiddled with the controls. Water gushed into the tub.
I had read the books. I had seen the birthing tubs. I had seen the birthing tubs occupied by two types of women: embarrassed-looking women wearing wet T-shirts, and bad-ass naked women.
I had come this far. I was already slightly bad-ass for hitting five centimeters with no assistance except for the moral support of my washing machine. I was going all the way.
Nerd Girl had to announce to the room that she was going all the way. The room was only occupied by David and Pam the Midwife and the lovely blue-eyed labor nurse, but still. I Had a Proclamation of Bad-Assity to Make, and it went something like
Hear ye, hear ye, forsooth, I will hereby be removing my clothing, yea, verily
and then continued along the lines of
Here I go. I’m taking them all off. Right now. In several short moments I will be wearing nothing but this moonstone necklace that my mother gave me, which is reported to ease the pains of childbirth, and my Adidas flip-flops from the Y. I wear these at the Y. I did. When I used to swim. I am not planning on swimming at this time. I am stripping right now because I have seen the T-shirted women in the birthing tubs, and it looks very, very wrong. I will not be one of those women. I will be naked. Am I naked yet?
“No.”
“Now I am. You have seen this before. Have you seen this before? Of course you have seen this before. All of you. In your own way. With your own people. In your case, me—”
“You can get in the tub now.”
“Okay.”
Three in the morning? Three-thirty? Somewhere around this point, Father Time the deadbeat dad took a cigarette break and left us to fend for ourselves. The Jacuzzi helped. It definitely helped. In the way that a tourniquet would be a welcome approach to the bloody, spurting stump of your just-sawed-in-half leg. As in, it’s not a bad way to go, but it doesn’t really solve the problem.
Not so much fun at this point. But of course, you knew that. Even those of you who don’t know about checking to see knew that.
I forgot I was bad-ass. I wandered about on my knees in the Jacuzzi, mooing softly and wondering whose fault it would be if I pooed in the tub. It is possible that my husband touched me, as one might reach out a finger to stroke a sick pet hamster who’s clearly a goner. But it didn’t really stick.
Several times, I heaved myself out of the tub and padded my full-moon self to the private bathroom that was also part of the deal, so concerned was I that I would poo on the floor. Mooing and worrying about pooing. Much of this.
I heard Pam pop her head in. She had been leaving David and me alone, for the most part. I didn’t actually hear this conversation, but David told me about it afterwards, and I liked it so much, I decided to include it here. Again, my rice paddy, my wombat.
“She’s in the bathroom,” David said.
“I’m not worried. She’s doing great,” said Pam. “She’s really cruising along.”
At the time, I would have disagreed vehemently with her assessment of the situation, as I was hanging headfirst off the loo, quite certain that my body was not equipped to handle the stunning and profound UUURRRRRGHHness of it all.
David knocked tentatively on the door, fearing violating the single, inviolable tenet of our marriage: absolutely no pooing in each other’s presence.
“I think we’re way beyond that now,” I said.
He knelt by me. As bad as a mirror. I know I was gray in the face because he promptly turned gray in the face and began trembling.
“Very bad,” I said. “Verrrrrry. Not good. Dying.”
“You…want to get back in the tub?”
“I will poo in the tub. I will poo on their floor. I can’t go anywhere. Urrrgh. All very bad. Very bad. Urrrrrrghhh. Oooooh.”
David, at a complete loss, grabbed a hand towel and threw it around my neck. Think Rocky.
It was a sweet gesture, one of the sweetest I’d ever witnessed. I still knew that death was imminent, but I would go out looking like a prize fighter, and that was something.
“Urrrghh. Ooof. Scared. Very scared. OOOOOOF.”
The nice labor nurse stuck her head in the bathroom. “Is she pushing? Are you pushing on the toilet?”
“Don’t. Know. What. I’m. Doing. OOOOOF. URRRGH.”
“No, no, don’t push! Pam! She’s pushing on the toilet!”
Pam the Midwife rushed in. She and the labor nurse proceeded to drag me off the pot and over to the hospital bed, my hand towel still flapping about my neck.
“No, please, don’t, I’m going to poo on your floor, and I won’t be able to clean it up for a while—”
They checked to see. One flight above me, poor Mr. Schmoe kicked the bucket while his relatives shook their fists at the floor.
“Please don’t do that. I don’t want to have to poo on you or your things. Please. Please.”
“It’s not poo. That’s your baby. She’s here.”
The labor nurse grabbed my left hand. David grabbed my right. Pam set up shop in the only other sensible place. She kept calling for a doctor to come and oversee things, but everything was quiet in the hall.
“I’m scared,” is what I am sure I said to the labor nurse. This is as verbatim as it gets.
“I know. But you can do this.”
I whimpered. “It hurts.” Understatement is an elegant choice for any occasion.
“I know. But this is a good kind of hurt—useful pain, pain that you can really do something with.” Not verbatim, but as close as I can get. I got the drift. I fell madly in love with her, too.
Four pushes. Exploding [far, far too much information] that got a big laugh from the peanut gallery. And then, there she was.
How about that.
No meds, no IVs, no poo on the floor. Seven pounds, five ounces, but we didn’t find that out until later, as this was not a weights-and-measures sort of establishment. Happy Apgars, and then the still unnamed and very pink baby girl was on my chest, blinking. Time stubbed out his cigarette and snuck back in the room: the clock read 4:56. November 16th. A good day to have a baby girl.
A day later, on the way home from the hospital, I said to David, “I’m going to be talking about this for a long time, I’m just warning you. That was the least half-assed thing I’ve ever done in my entire life.”
I can’t tell you if she cried at four minutes to five in the morning. All I thought at the time was, Perfect. Just perfect.
Happy second birthday, my sparkling feisty crackling fiery howling rascally snuggling Hannah-Hattie Belle. You’re driving me crazy right now—I can’t lie, kid—but I would miss you something fierce if you’d never come along. And that’s a fact.
Entry Filed under: Uncategorized, Because I said so. (Parenting), See Mommy laugh. (Favorites)
66 Comments
1. geogirl | November 16th, 2005 at 8:26 am
Wow…
I’m so sorry I chose to read this during breakfast.
Still, very touching. I feel like I need to go call my mother now.
Happy Birthday Hattie!!
2. Christy | November 16th, 2005 at 9:55 am
My mom still tells me the story about when I was born (though not about pooing, which I think is something we won’t discuss until I’m in the same situation, IF EVER) every birthday. I’m 28….I fully expect this to go on until one of us goes to our reward.
Happy Birthday to your beautiful, brilliant punkin.
3. Lisa S. | November 16th, 2005 at 10:37 am
awwww….I love birth stories……Hatties is no exception! sweet! And sister girl you ROCK for doing it all natural! Go Jenn! I bow to your bad ass!
4. Spot the Wonder Dog | November 16th, 2005 at 10:55 am
____________________________________________________
“I was determined to be a Birth Planner, if just for five minutes before someone jammed a pair of forceps up my hoo-ha.”
____________________________________________________
I had not realized before today that “froufy” was an adjective.
5. Simon | November 16th, 2005 at 11:07 am
Having experienced the birthing thing first-hand (umm, from the spectator perspective), you are totally BAD-ASS for doing it the ol’ fashioned way. My wife’s favourite word for ten whole hours was ‘epidural’.
And happy day to Hattie.
6. R J Keefe | November 16th, 2005 at 11:09 am
When my daughter was born (thirty-three years ago last Friday), some cutup from the delivery room called the waiting room to tell me that I was the father of “an Apgar Nine.” Even my pediatrician mother-in-law blanched, momentarily.
7. Simon | November 16th, 2005 at 12:18 pm
Spot, given that Jenn decided to bare all for the event and be brave and all that, perhaps she also elected to make herself ‘pretty’ for Pam.
I once read a story where a mother, just prior to a trip to her own OB/GYN, hurried home to wash before the appointment. She grabbed a handy cloth, cleaned, and was on her way. The doctor verbally marveled at the efforts to which she had gone in order to make herself presentable for her appointment. The woman thought this odd since she’d done nothing out of the ordinary. Who doesn’t want to be hygienic for a doctor’s appointment?
On returning home afterwards, she more closely investigated the cloth she had used to clean and discovered it to be the same one her own daughter had used to tidy up after an arts ‘n’ crafts project. It was covered in tiny, shiny sprinkles.
She had given herself a sparkly hoo-ha for her visit.
8. Spot the Wonder Dog | November 16th, 2005 at 1:13 pm
So is “Ho” an adjective modifying “jackapiffy”?
9. wife of prom date | November 16th, 2005 at 1:41 pm
Holy crap. What the hoo-ha have I gotten myself into?
Happy Birthday Hattie!
10. Jenn | November 16th, 2005 at 1:48 pm
Jeez. Leave it to Spot and Simon to find the dirty joke angle in my touching birth story. Froufyhooha is to hooha as refrigerator is to fridge, people. Somebody didn’t do his LSAT prep workbook.
An Apgar Nine! Oh, shame on them, for shame.
Yeah, I was not the horse I would have bet on for an unmedicated birth. It all happened so fast, I forgot to ask. My IV terror also helped to keep me mute. And the epidural and emergency induction and hundreds of wires and badly inserted IVs and oxygen masks and insensitive doctors the first time around with Sophie? Pretty much sealed the deal, I would say. For me, this was definitely a better way to go. Definitely. Not that I would do it every day of the week, of course.
11. the Mater | November 16th, 2005 at 2:21 pm
Wow … you may want to somehow share Sophie’s story on her natal day, even though it was quite a different experience and quite traumatic.
I believe all the laughter helped to push Hattie out for sure. When I came on the scene just a couple short hours later, you and David and baby in your arms were looking so happy and beaming! I’ll always remember the snapshot moment when I walked in the room :>)
Happy Birthday to momma and daughter and poppa and big sis too! Hattie turns two! May there be many more tales to tell!
12. geogirl | November 16th, 2005 at 2:28 pm
For those of us who haven’t shot a wombat out of our nether-regions…
what’s apgar??
13. diaperdame | November 16th, 2005 at 2:32 pm
What a great story! How awesome that you held your resolve and did it the “bad-ass” way. Though I would say that any ass that can push out a baby all on its own without the need of painkillers or surgical intervention is a very, very GOOD ass.
Hope you and your family have a wonderful time celebrating your daughter’s 2nd birthday!
14. Spot the Wonder Dog | November 16th, 2005 at 2:40 pm
The A.P.G.A.R. test stands for Appendage Presence / General Anatomical Reporting. You count the baby’s fingers and toes and the resulting number is recorded by the hospital as the APGAR score.
15. Kristen | November 16th, 2005 at 3:20 pm
I have promised myself that when my oldest irritates me I will remind him that he was a 5 hour intense labor with ABSOLUTELY NO PAINKILLERS and many many threats of the evil EPISIOTOMY and when my youngest irritates me I will remind him that HE was the one who decided to stick his arm out in front of his head ollowing the breaking of my water causing ME to undergo an emergency c-section. This will either cause them to: (a) roll their eyes, (b) tell me to shut up, (c) enter into a therapist’s care, or (d) all of the above.
Happy Birthday Miss Hattie!
16. the Mater | November 16th, 2005 at 4:13 pm
Geo, the real scoop on the Apgar test is that it was devised as a useful baseline on the baby’s general health right after delivery. The doctor/midwife does an immediate evaluation of breathing, heart rate, muscle tone, reflexes, alertness, etc. at one minute and then five minuites after birth. A score between 8-10 indicates that the newborn is in fairly good condition. Named after Dr. Virginia Apgar.
Nothing to do with fingers and toes and everything in between!
17. Birch | November 16th, 2005 at 4:25 pm
I sat here, in my cubicle and read your entry and tears ran down my face.
“The least half-assed thing” indeed.
Well done.
18. geogirl | November 16th, 2005 at 4:32 pm
Thanks Mater. Don’t worry, I didn’t trust Spot for one minute. Good thing I have Google.
Although, I was tempted to argue against Spots version of the test as being sexist. Boys would always score one higher than girls.
19. ryann | November 16th, 2005 at 5:06 pm
sniffle, sniffle.
Happy Day, Miss Hattie. May you get to eat your cake with no fishsticks beforehand.
20. The Homosexuals | November 16th, 2005 at 6:11 pm
I think you shoulda pooped on the floor! You were paying for it! I do it whenever I can! AT WORK!
21. Pink Rocket | November 16th, 2005 at 7:16 pm
Wow! Thank you for sharing! What’s funny is that I got a bit teary! Is that weird? I just have a thing for amazing stories I guess! Happy birthday to your little one and way to go, for you, for having a bad-ass moment!
22. Nothing But Bonfires | November 16th, 2005 at 8:11 pm
Oh, the pooing! The pooing! I’m so glad someone’s told me about the pooing, so whenever I have kids, I’ll be prepared enough to know that I should bring my Swiffer along when it’s time to head to the hospital. Thank you!
23. Paula | November 16th, 2005 at 8:15 pm
Ooh, what vivid commentary! I had actually forgotten the ohmygodohmygod pain of getting ‘checked’ until you reminded me. . I don’t remember much laughing (even with laughing gas), but apparently I broke up the attending group with my never-lose-your-manners-even-without-an-epidural approach to pushing. “I’m sorry - I don’t think I can hold my breath to 10″.
Happy birthday Hattie.
24. Sarcastic Journalist | November 16th, 2005 at 8:56 pm
That was beautiful, yet entertaining. The best kind of post. Isn’t it crazy how through all of that, you can still worry about the poo?
25. kris | November 16th, 2005 at 9:28 pm
Just how did you manage to make a birth story funny?
I loved reading it.
Happy Birthday Hattie! And a wish for many MANY happy birthdays to come.
26. TJM | November 17th, 2005 at 8:54 am
As a fellow germ-aware person, the biggest element of suspense in your account was whether or not you would poo in the tub.
What do they do if someone poos in the tub? I shudder.
27. Molly | November 17th, 2005 at 9:39 am
I had the pickle exactly 11 hours and 2 minutes later, with same nurse and midwife, I didn’t laugh or poo, but I did tell them to stop talking to me because I didn’t want to be rude by not answering their questions. It is a great hospital, and an even better story Jenn, you made me cry. What is it about poo stories that choke me up? Happy Birthday Hattie-belle
28. Julie | November 17th, 2005 at 9:57 am
What an incredible story! Thank you so much for sharing it with us!
29. the Mater | November 17th, 2005 at 10:04 am
I find it amazing, after reading all these comments and your own story, to see that the “poo element” keeps coming up. Doesn’t your generation of women get told that having a baby is like having a bowel movement? The sensation and pressure in your nether regions often seems the same and hard to distinguish (as you found out).
Of course, I wouldn’t want to pooh pooh the whole saga of birth. But, frankly speaking … babies happen!
30. robin | November 17th, 2005 at 10:21 am
a great story, the father time bit, brilliant!
31. Dawn | November 17th, 2005 at 11:33 am
I’m pretty sure I peed all over the bed, or it could have been the amniotic fluid? I also was hauled off the toilet due to being 10 cms and READY.
The nurses just cleaned up all the pee, swished my ass up, and then lay down new clean sheets. It rocked.
And that New England cold weather smell? I love it too. It keeps me here. That leafy, earthy, crisp wind blown state. Yum.
Very bad-ass. You rule.
Happy birdday Hattie! May all your potty cake dreams come true
32. Spot the Wonder Dog | November 17th, 2005 at 12:38 pm
In the heat of the moment, the distinction between the hoo-ha and the poo-ha grow fuzzy, indeed.
33. karina | November 17th, 2005 at 3:29 pm
I find it funny that after Jenn’s long, heartwarming saga of childbirth and poo, Spot is the one who just managed to share far too much information.
Happy birthday, Hattie!
34. kristina | November 17th, 2005 at 4:13 pm
I gave birth to my baby boy 8 months ago- I was so worried about pooing that I didn’t even want to push! I ended up doing both- POOING and pushing… At least I didn’t let my husband film the event. I can’t imagine showing people that. Here’s me pushing, and there’s my bowel movement. I would be mortified
35. Spot the Wonder Dog | November 17th, 2005 at 4:15 pm
Hey Hey Hey!
No drawing inferences not reasonably supported by a clear preponderance of the evidence on record.
:-P
36. gorillabuns | November 17th, 2005 at 5:14 pm
a love your birthing story and “the least half-assed thing i’ve done”, so true. it brought a few tears and i’ve done this twice..well, not vaginally, c-section, so more power to you!!!
37. Sonia | November 17th, 2005 at 5:37 pm
Wonderful story telling! I apparently had a bm on the delivery table. Didn’t know until my husband shared the moment with a ROOM full of people, on Christmas Eve, 1 month post delivery. I have since perfected The Stink Eye to shut him up at moments like those.
38. geogirl | November 17th, 2005 at 7:33 pm
(sung to the tune of “I got you Babe” by Sonny and Cher)
Child you’re young and you don’t know
what I went through just to see you grow.
Well it may sound bad, but it’s all true
‘cause I had you, and, baby
I had poo.
(chorus)
Babe,
I had poo,babe
when I had you, babe.
Off to the hospital I was sent
Driven by such a lovely gent
But the contractions came and hurt a lot
And I felt ill as I sat upon the pot.
(chorus)
Babe,
I had poo, babe
when I had you, babe.
(David sings)
She got down in that jacuzzi
naked as a little floozy
I was in pain, but I showed class
I stripped down, and showed my Bad-Ass!
Now I don’t mind you took so long
‘cause babe I’m really glad you came along.
They put your tiny hand in mine
and I knew that I’d love you for all of time
(chorus)
Babe,
I had poo, babe
when I had you, babe.
Oh you were worth it, all that I went through
but baby, I just can’t WAIT till it happens to you!!
Babe,
I had poo, babe
when I had you, babe
I had poo, babe
I had you, babe
I had yoooooooooou babe.
39. Nancy | November 17th, 2005 at 7:46 pm
Great story — thanks for sharing. And your love for the washing machine and delivery nurses was very, very touching.
Happy Birthday (a day late) to your Hannah-Hattie Belle!!
40. Chopin Gal | November 17th, 2005 at 8:24 pm
Geogirl, I can’t stop LOL … and I’ve now replaced my all-time favorite melody with this opus! Sonny and Cher will never be the same (and neither will childbirthing) ….
Oh, my former all-time favorite melody?! “Winnie the Pooh” :>)
41. blackbird | November 17th, 2005 at 8:28 pm
that was as good a birth story as ever i’ve read.
happy day to you.
42. Tree | November 17th, 2005 at 8:34 pm
Oh my God. That was the bestest, funniest, most bestest, most funniest birth story. EVER.
I just found your blog today and I’m SO glad!
Maybe I’ll learn this once I read through the blog, but where in Canada are you? I’m in Quebec.
Must read now.
43. the Mater | November 17th, 2005 at 9:36 pm
And to think that this birth story is all about your “number two” … baby!
Oh my … I think this blog is taking on a life of its own and that’s scary enough! I would have never believed that focusing on delivering a baby and natural bodily functions could have drummed up such a response.
BTW, how are Tom and Katie going to handle these most basic physiological needs around such an anticipated silent and sterile delivery?!
44. Geoff | November 17th, 2005 at 9:57 pm
Ummm. . . too much detail about the poo, although that might be because I’m a boy. I’m fine with the stories of the huge head pushing against the bladder and the resultant effects.
I had a friend who was a senior med student when the British royal family was producing an heir, and mentioned that William was delivered by the same obstetrician who had delivered Charles. He just smiled, and jokingly said “Oh what an honour, he’s been peed on by both the Queen and Princess Diana”.
That’s enough of an image. Oh, and Jenn, you asked me before how I found your blog, and I couldn’t remember, since I read at least 20 blogs a day, and can’t always remember all the links I explore. Looking later I am 99% sure it was from your friend Marc Lynch, since he mentioned you again a couple of weeks ago, and it clicked. Sure glad he did though-you are the best writer on parenthood out there!
45. Martha | November 17th, 2005 at 10:55 pm
That is the most bad-ass birth story that I’ve ever read. Congratulations to you and happy birthday to your little girl.
46. bree | November 18th, 2005 at 4:44 am
My mom always said that giving birth to my sister and I was like pushing out a really big poop. I thought she was just being cutesy, but apparently it’s a good comparison!
She also went for natural births. She said it was painful, but worth it.
47. brother | November 18th, 2005 at 12:46 pm
I’m compelled to delurk after being mentioned so prominently. I have always been hesitant so it doesn’t seem like the whole family is attempting to blog-jack you.
Happy birthday to my niece, Hannah! We love having you as part of the insanity that is the fam.
Kudos to my brave sister whose story keeps the myth of normal labor and birth alive. The Learning Channel would not have known what to do with you and your epidural/IV free experience.
For the record, I don’t remember ever recommending an emergency kit involving dental floss and scissors as it’s better to leave everything intact if needed. But maybe I was trying to make it a better story in the end…
Your bro
48. Bree | November 18th, 2005 at 1:49 pm
Oh. My. God. I’m sorry for laughing at your pain, but I only got halfway through and had to stop reading at work, I was making too much noise. I’ll finish later tonight in the privacy of my own home.
Haha, that sounded a little wrong out of context.
49. Jen | November 18th, 2005 at 4:39 pm
Hilarious and touching and Spot’s comments couldn’t ruin it for anyone, or me, anyway.
50. elizabeth | November 19th, 2005 at 7:15 pm
i knew there was a reason i loved your blog other than its wit and hilarity - Nov 16 is MY bday! what a lucky lucky day for all of us.
51. Mrs. Coulter | November 20th, 2005 at 12:22 am
You rock so hard. I love everything you write. Except the Miranda Rocking stuff, because I didn’t get it. I guess I don’t know enough scifi to figure out who she is so that it would be funny. No matter. That’s my fault not yours.
In any case, your story and finslippy’s inspired me to write my own, which is not nearly as good. But it was good to write it anyway.
52. tinker | November 20th, 2005 at 7:14 am
Congratulations & happy birthday! I somehow got on this birthing train of blogs…intrigued maybe because 29 years ago today, I gave birth to the lovely mother of my adorable granddaughters… & when your child starts having children you begin to feel like those russian nesting dolls…Anyway, I laughed a lot more reading about your experience, than I did during my own!
BTW to Mrs. Coulter - I tried to leave a comment on your blog - but i don’t think it took…but congrats to you, too! Your labortale is actually very similar to my daughte’sr/granddaughter’s!
53. Very MOm | November 20th, 2005 at 7:05 pm
Here via Alice - fabulous writing, I was there, seriously! I could almost see you pooing.
54. Rachel | November 20th, 2005 at 8:43 pm
Jenn, you’ve done it again — a post that starts out funny leaves me, at the end, with tears in my eyes.
I love the part about calling your brother. And hugging the washing machine.
55. Tina | November 22nd, 2005 at 1:30 am
Holy hell. That was amazing. Hilarious. The poo! The oof-ing! I’m expecting a child/series of poos in April - first time - and though there were plenty of scary parts in your story, I’m still looking forward to the full-assed-ness of the whole affair.
And I’m with you on IV’s. Fuck them and the little wobbly wheely things they rode in on.
(Pardon my language. I’ve just discovered this blog and I haven’t determined yet if it’s swear-y.)
56. Tina | November 22nd, 2005 at 2:23 am
Plus also, I’ve never blogrolled a blog faster than I just blogrolled yours. I mean, I JUST MET YOUR BLOG HALF AN HOUR AGO. That is perhaps the fastest 0-Blogroll acceleration that this world has ever seen.
57. dylansmom | November 22nd, 2005 at 10:14 am
wow, great birth story. Inspires me to get mine out there (going on 7 months now. . .). And also inspires me to maybe try the au naturel method with kid #2. . .
you rock!
58. the Mater | November 22nd, 2005 at 12:31 pm
Per tinker: “… when your child starts having children you begin to feel like those russian nesting dolls…”
LOL What a perfect metaphor for being a grandmom! Love it :>)
59. Eve | November 23rd, 2005 at 2:12 am
That was one of the best birth stories ever- or at least the best told! I cannot get the word “paingina” out of my head. If I were surrounded by the unbelievable hilarity of you, your kiddies, and your mother, my face would be frozen in a hideous permagrin like the Joker. So much funny!
Your blog is fantastic!
60. kat | November 23rd, 2005 at 1:04 pm
this was so freaking beautiful and hilariously written!!! i’m so glad i surfed by.
61. Torrie | November 23rd, 2005 at 4:14 pm
That was the most well writen birth story I’ve ever read!
I think I blove you.
62. victoria winters | November 25th, 2005 at 11:27 am
Absolutely awesome story. Tears in my eyes over here.
63. Wynn | December 1st, 2005 at 1:30 pm
Laughter IS the best medicine… when I was in labor with my son (some 8+ years ago), we were 99% sure he was breech. The doctor “checked me” and then looked up and said, “Yup… you have feet in your vagina.”
I looked down at him and said, “I swear to God that’s never happened before!” The entire room was laughing.
Alas, they had to do an emergency c-section so I wasn’t able to enjoy the Good Pain.
Happy (quite late) Birthday to Hattie… that was my aunt’s middle name… very victorian… I love it.
64. a mummy losing it | December 10th, 2005 at 12:36 am
This story is very close to the birth story of my first (and my second really though it was fast), both born drug-free in a birth centre. Brilliant midwives, loved the tub, though I’d die but didn’t. Biggest difference? I did poop. Both times. First time I apologised profusely and almost cried with embarrassment. Second time I didn’t give a toss! LOL
Thanks so much for sharing. I love birth stories…
65. nolamom | February 9th, 2006 at 2:11 am
I have two girls ages 3 and 10 months, and can so relate to your birthing story, especially the “getting checked” part, the first time was shocking to say the least. Both mine turned into c-sections, but they were worth every moment. Thank you for this website, you words are so humorous and just the kind of thing moms need to get some laughs and relax. Thanks Jenn.
66. erika | June 13th, 2006 at 9:58 am
I just found this story and it is wonderful. I’m laughing hysterically about the pooing and the nakedness and the hugging of the washing machine and also teary about the new baby feelings! I also labored in a tub and this hit very close to home. Thank you so much for sharing!
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