|Spandex is my friend|
Forgive me readers, mom, it has been about nine months since my last confession.…err.…blog post. I have absolutely no reason for not posting other than the pure unadulterated laziness that comes from cooler weather and maternity leggings. I swear to God, the second those suckers go on for the first time, it is like my body turns from semi-functional mother of two to sloth. All I want to do is watch Honey Boo Boo, purely to make myself feel better about my own life, and eat peanut butter straight from a jar. Plus, the thought of having to get out the wireless keyboard for my iPad, or God forbid grab a laptop, has proven too much as of late.
My pregnancy has been easy, like insanely easy, to the point that I forget I am even pregnant until I am setting off automatic hand dryers in the bathroom with a quick move of my ever-growing belly. I have been pretty even tempered, aside from a few emotional outbursts that normally revolve around boy bands and the face that I really wish the world still thought overalls and flower hats were OK. Other than that, it is smooth sailing.
I am looking forward to actually giving birth. I don’t know my baby’s gender, yes intentionally, so that moment is especially exciting. I am one million percent terrified of being sliced in half and from the moment that I peed on that stick, all three times, I have reminded everyone around me; including, but not limited to, my husband, mother, doctor, nurses, extended family and occasional custodian at Walmart, that I will not be having a c-section. Giving birth is the only time in my life that I have ever been even remotely athletic, so I feel this is my time to shine. That is, of course, as long as no one dies along the way. Wait, what, WTF did she say?
Perhaps that is a bold statement, but please, let me explain. I have this thing, about, well, black celebrities dying on pretty significant days in my life. Like the time Nate Dog died the night before my birthday and forcing a 24-hour continuous loop of Regulate. Or, the tragic day that I lost my best friend and companion,the beautiful blue luxury sedan that was with me for seven years. As if my Mercury Sable dying weren’t enough for me to take, Sherman Hemsley moved on up to his deluxe apartment in the sky the same day. But the day my sweet Handsome #2 came into this world, well that one takes the cake.
|There is nothing quite like the bond between a girl and her luxury sedan|
I was extremely enormous toward the end of my pregnancy, think Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade balloon, and eager to get the baby out. I was due on Memorial Day and opted for an early induction. I had a baby already, via an induction, and everything was perfectly fine, aside from the meconium that caused the newborn to be rushed to ICU and the quick sedation of an overwrought first-time mom, I was knocked out and don’t remember much. I wasn’t in too much pain the first go around, opting for an epidural and I expected my second birth to go the same way
|One last Diet Coke, so many less calories that way|
I arrived at the hospital, checked in, got hooked up to the pitocin, got the epidural moving and began the Thomas-family tradition of the birth viewing of National Lampoons Vacation.….No, not one bit of me is kidding. If you are really doubting my affinity to the Griswalds, please see exhibit A. The Thomas Family Christmas card. I quickly realized that this experience was not going to be the smooth sailing that I was expecting.
|Exhibit A.….Pure Awesomeness|
Once the epidural was in, I was told that I could have more medicine, if I really felt that I needed it, but not to push the button without first contacting the nurses. Easy enough, I thought. I quickly realized that the pain was coming fast and strong and it wasn’t lessening, at all. After contacting the nurses three times asking for more medicine, I was given the go ahead to push it as much as I wanted. That should have been the first clue.
I have seen childbirth as depicted by Hollywood hundreds of times. It is always dramatic, sweaty and loud, but I had always called bullshit on that.I had a baby, that doesn’t happen. Well, as matter of fact, it does when your epidural fails. WTF!!!!!!!!!!!!!
After listening to me writhing in pain for what seemed like hours, OK, probably 20 minutes, my darling husband, my companion, my support system, the one who would get me through the next few difficult hours, sat up from his makeshift bed and exclaimed,
“Coll! Please be quiet, I am trying to get some sleep.”
As God is my witness, he said it.…And the only reason that he made it to see the birth of his son is because I was in so much pain I couldn’t move, or I would have killed him right there. Certainly this moron had lost his f&*$%ng mind!
“I want my mom. I want my mom. I need my mom,” I sobbed.
“Here. Do you want your phone to call her,” the moron said, straight faced as he tried to hand me my phone.
When I didn’t respond because I was trying to telekinetically kill him, he realized that he better make the call. He was able to rouse my mother from a dead sleep at 3 am and get her to the hospital. As we waited for her arrival, there was a staff change and I was given the choice to have a second epidural, or a cesarean. Clearly, these people didn’t read the, “No way are you cutting me, but I would be happy to cut you” look on my face. I opted for the drugs and we were on our way.
I quickly began to become numb and felt remarkably better. My mom arrived and for a few minutes everything was A-OK. And then it all when down the drain. I started to freeze and asked for several blankets. Scott and my mom were watching some news program featuring a black man and woman being interviewed. I peered from the comfort of the bed and began to say over and over, “My God. Gary Coleman looks like shit.”
At first, they thought it was funny, or that I was kidding, but quickly realized that something had gone wrong. In an effort to spare you the long, boring details, they brought in the STAT team for fear that I was having a stroke. It turns out, that is was just a bit too much medication, and I was just fine after a few more minutes. The remainder of my labor was uneventful and painless, aside from the part where the baby got stuck and I was instructed to lay on my side and go to my, “quiet place.” Honest to God?!!!??! I am anything but quiet, but the trick worked and I was soon holding my darling 9.4lb, 22in Handsome #2. He was gorgeous, and perfect and worth every moment.
After I had been moved back to my room and put on my makeup and fixed the horrifying bed head, this time my hair will be much longer in an effort to curb that look, I felt that it was appropriate for Handsome #1 to see his momma. My sister-in-law, Lolo, came in with a balloon and the big brother and announced to the room, “I hate to be the bearer of bad news on such an exciting day, but Gary Coleman has passed.”
|My Sweet Baby Boys|
Oh.my.God. WTF did she just say? Gary Coleman is dead? No way. Certainly this was a joke. Some silly nurse must have tweeted about a real live one in L&D having visions of the 1970s. I quickly grabbed my phone and there it was, right in front of my eyes. May 28, 2010, Gary Coleman dead at 42. I had a quick moment of silence for little Arnold Jackson, later Drummond, and vowed that I would instill in my children the importance of acceptance and that above all, they must always remember that, “The world don’t move to the beat of just one drum. What might be right for you, may not be right for some.”
Now, I didn’t kill Arnold Jackson, I don’t think. I mean, not any more than I killed George Jefferson. But if I were JJ Evans, I would be a little concerned that May 27, 2013 might not be so, “Dynomite!”
|You might want to sleep with one eye open come May, just sayin’|