Sullivan's Birth Story

Here's Sullivan's birth story... for people who like that sort of thing. Heads up, it does contain the works vagina and catheter. Don't say I didn't warn you.

I'm pretty sure the cherry coke made me go into labor. That or dancing at prom. But my money's on the cherry coke. Tuesday, the 6th, Henry and I went to my parent's house for dinner. I rarely drink soda - as in once a month or so I'll have a sip of Jared's. I also don't drink coffee. But seeing that can of cherry coke in the door of my parent's fridge inspired an irresistible urge to guzzle. I drank it down within ten minutes.

At dinner, I told my parent's about the phone message I'd gotten from my father-in-law earlier that day. It was his birthday and he was hoping it was going to be Sullivan's, too. My dad asked if I thought it might be. I shook my head confidently saying there was no way I'd have him that day.

Henry stayed over at my parents and Jared and I stayed up way too late chatting. I went to sleep around 1am. At 2:30, I woke up feeling contractions. They weren't too dramatic, but definitely happening. I waited a bit to wake Jared up figuring this whole thing would take awhile and one of us should have some sleep. But after hanging out in the living room by myself for a bit and them not going away, I decided he should probably be awake for this. At the birth center (with Henry) they wanted more of the labor to happen at home so told us to call them when the contractions were 4-1-1: four minutes a part, one minute long, for one hour. When I asked the doctors here, they said, "Oh no, don't wait that long. Call as soon as they are regular. 6-1-1 or even earlier."

By the time we started tracking around 3, mine were 2.5-1-1.

In between moans, I finished packing my bag and we set off for the hospital, 30 minutes away. Just like in the movies, they brought out a wheelchair and I was rushed to Labor and Delivery. They hooked me up with monitors and such, stuck an IV in my hand and I put on their gown. I was already seven centimeters dilated. My water hadn’t broken and they were waiting for my doctor to arrive. They quickly noticed the baby’s heart rate was dropping during contractions. It felt a little like déjà vu as the same thing happened with Henry. However, this time we could clearly hear his heart. It went from the horse-racing hoof sound of duh-dump, duh-dump, duh-dump at 140 beats per minute to the terrifying

Dump

Dump

Dump

They kept changing my position and made me wear oxygen. My doctor arrived around 4am and broke my water. With his calm voice, he brought up the c-section possibility and Jared, after hearing that insanely low heart rate for the last half-hour said, “Don’t dilly dally. If you need to do it, do it!” The doctor said they didn’t know why the heart rate was dropping – that it could be a cord thing or that the baby was just pissed off at how quick labor was going. He said they’d take me to the OR and if, along the way, my labor progressed to the point where he could use a vacuum for a VBAC, we’d still go that route.

I was rushed downstairs to the white, bright room I remembered from Henry’s birth. This time, they made Jared stay outside until they assessed. It was determined I’d need to be knocked out completely and emergency c-section was a go. There was a sweet woman holding my left hand and lots of running around. My eyes were mostly closed as I was still having intense contractions and was now lying flat on an operating table with very little to brace myself with. The nice woman left and was replaced with a blurry, deep-voiced, gruff terrorist who proceeded to tell me she had to insert a catheter. And she couldn’t wait until I was knocked out. And then slapped the inside of one of my thighs saying “Open up” while I was having a contraction. Then there was shooting pain, I’m pretty sure I screamed several times and she told the doctor, “I think I put it in wrong. Is that her vagina?” Lovely woman.

Eventually, my doctor did her job and they knocked me out (with a suffocating rubber mask that made me ask them if they were killing me). Turns out the cord was wrapped very tightly around his neck which is what was causing those practically flatlining heart “dumps.” Sullivan Brady McCannell was born at 5:21am. Less than three hours after I woke up feeling the first contractions. He weighed 7lbs 10.8oz and was 20.5 inches long. Perfectly healthy boy. Just really wanted to get out. It was the cherry coke, I tell you.

Bust a Move

Yesterday morning I woke up at 4:42. Well, that’s my guess because I wouldn’t let myself look at my phone until 4:57. At some point in the night, Henry had climbed into bed with me. His tulip lips and delicately closed eyes were on the pillow next to me and his feet bumped my knees under the covers. I thought for the 137^th time how tall he’s getting and remembered when he’d first nursed in bed with me, his feet skimming below my stomach which I shielded with a blanket to protect my c-section scar.

After a few moments of enjoying my sleeping son, the to-do list bullets started firing in my head. Work stuff. My first job, my second assignment, and the committee I’ve been working on. Email so-and-so. Write up such-and-such. Finish that one thing. Assign those other things. Email someone else. And then the baby to-dos began to whine. Fish out the infant car seat. Wash both car seats. Where is the breast pump? Finish packing the hospital bag. Set up the co-sleeper. Clean out Henry’s new closet. Hang the artwork in his new room. Rearrange the nursery.

We’re getting close to the single-digit countdown. Jared’s big work event (Reunion Weekend) passed this weekend (a huge success). The ESL students start to arrive on Wednesday. After that, we are just waiting. On Friday, the doctor acted like I was overdue. They also act like I’m the one scheduling weekly appointments. “No questions?” they say each week. This time she gave me tips “to get things going” as if I’m past my due date. “I’m in no rush,” I told the doctor, “they are easier on the inside.” She shrugged, maybe surprised I’m not begging for induction.

 

Although… Friday night, we went to the first annual Alumni Sno-Ball (MCI’s version of prom). To celebrate the 90s in which we attended high school, some of us did some throwback dressing. I found a blue, glittery gown from the Goodwill that was very stretchy. With Aquanet bangs, blue eye shadow and my very form-fitting dress, we joked I was the token teen mom at the prom. (Pictures coming soon) Being mostly belly at this point, people seemed very concerned when I took to the dance floor. If you can’t dance to Bust A Move and the Humpty Dance when you’re 8 ½ months pregnant, when can you? And if that doesn’t speed along labor, well then, baby isn’t ready to come out yet. I’m happy waiting.

 

Gives me more time to pretend I’m going to finish those to-do lists.

Just Scream Dance 2

I’m 37 weeks pregnant today which means “full-term.” Which means I could deliver at any moment. Well, I’m sure there’ll be a little notice. I went into labor with Henry two days before his due date and he was born very early the morning before. The doctor says this is a good thing, that my internal clock is accurate. Look out August 14 then.

Henry was in camp this week so I tried to spend my mornings knocking things off my to-do list. Monday was very productive. Tuesday through Friday I think I added more things to the list than took off. I hope Front Loader hasn’t heard how many times I’ve said “the worst timing” in describing his arrival. We are excited, just ill-planned.

There are moments when Henry is being the bestest boy – splashing in the water at Lake George in his Thomas the Tank Engine swim trunks, the sun reflecting in his brown with yellow specks eyes – and I think, This next one is going to be so much easier. I’ll just throw on the sling and tuck in FL and we can come to the lake and enjoy the rippling water that laps at my legs while Henry walks on his hands, making a tunnel through my legs. Then there are moments where 45minutes into trying to get Henry to take a nap – “I’m not a nap boy, Momma.” – where I think What have I done?? How does anyone ever have more than one child?? And yet plenty of people have. When we found out we were having another boy, I started counting all the friends I know who have two boys. A surprising number. And they are all incredibly, impressive mothers (or fathers). I got this, I’ll think. And then Henry will yell “Poop!”

I’m at the point in my pregnancy where the belly is peaking out below even my maternity shirts and people feel comfortable approaching me in public about the impending arrival. Most conversations begin with “When are you due?,” contain a story about their child(ren) and end with “Enjoy it because it goes so fast. Good luck.” It’s a strange thing for strangers to know this about you. No one knew when I was going through a divorce or got a new job or had a fight with my parents. Yet, just by looking at me, they know at some point soon I will be in a hospital with near-strangers between my legs helping me push out a mini-human. Doesn’t that seem extremely personal? Is that what warrants the conversations? It’s like, Well, we know all know this about you and some of us have been through this before so we might as well just address the Front Loader in the room. A public connection too strong not to acknowledge.

And I suppose this is why Mommy Groups are so popular. Motherhood can be so polarizing and isolating. It’s easy to drop into the mind-sucking quicksand of poop and feedings and lack of sleep. To forget that millions of parents around the world are experiencing (or have experienced) the same thing night after night, year after year. What’s surprised me the most is when I feel less than, it’s my mom telling me how occasionally she’d have to go in another room and do a scream dance just to make it through a moment when we were young. It’s probably because I consider her a model mother that her itty-bitty-breakdowns are so meaningful to me. It tells me it’s okay to need to scream dance in another room. My child can still feel loved and I won’t win Crazy Mother of the Year.

With two children, I may need to hear more stories from my mother.

A Year and A Month

Tomorrow, I will have lived in Maine for a year.

Today, Front Loader is one month away from his due date.

Today, Jared and I will go for the final ultrasound to see this boy who feels like he’s already a 10lb gymnast and they will look at the chambers of his heart and ask me if he’s moving and if my feet are swelling and am I sure I want to do a VBAC (vaginal birth after cesarean). Then we will go meet with the anesthesiologist at the hospital because everyone is freaked out about VBACs and he wants to know I’m allergic to penicillin before I’m moaning through another labor.

 

After these appointments, we will drive to a coworker’s “camp” and meet with several other coworkers over a mish-mashed potluck discussing our plans to improve the boarding program at MCI. We’ve been meeting for months and our three-hour long meetings are so inspiring and motivating that I don’t even mind we’ve been sitting inside an un-air-conditioned house while the heat and humidity threaten to melt me. Over pulled pork and guacamole and homemade ice-cream sandwiches (not in the same dish), we’ve been hashing away at a system that will allow students to earn privileges, deciding their own fates. Thrilling stuff. Seriously.

Tomorrow, Henry and I will probably go swimming at Grammie’s house and I will marvel, again, at how he can now walk down to the bottom step in the pool with his long, big-boy legs whereas a year ago his stubby stems sat on the top step with his adorably pudgy hands slapping at the water.

 

 

August 2012

 

Next week, he goes back to camp (this time Polar Bears and Penguins themed) and starts swim lessons at night. And wherever he goes he picks up words and concepts and his language, no matter how long he’s been talking and how many times it surprises me, continues to knock me over with his sharp insights and sense of humor. His face, in a constant state of expression even in sleep, paints compassion and frustration and glee and anger and surprise and understanding and confusion – sometimes  

July 2013

all within five minutes.

While I still long for San Diego Mexican food and seeing old pictures of Henry at the Zoo bring about a sense of mourning, our life is here. Walking down the street to Big Bill’s for ice cream. Eating hamburgers and fruit on Nona and Bumpie’s deck, listening for loons. Watching cousins pull Henry around Grammie and Grampie’s pool in the blue, floaty, netted inner tube. Having friends over for Taco Tuesdays. Lots of driving. Living in a dorm full of girls with my house full of boys.

The hardest thing about moving to Maine was the actual moving. Despite the weather changes, more remote location, new jobs and all our new “neighbors,” being here has been like changing an outfit. I still own my San Diego clothes, the skin I was born with. But right now, this Maine wardrobe fits pretty great.

Front Loader's #1

33 weeks along (which means there’s 7 left) and we haven’t picked out a name yet. Front Loader is getting closer and closer to the front runner. We have plenty of suggestions. And plenty names we don’t hate. But Henry Oscar came so easily to us. Within a month of finding out I was pregnant last time. I’m struggling with the maybe impossible balance of recognizable name (aka, people can spell it) without the overwhelming popularity. I’m also looking for a name that, when I share it with my brother, he doesn’t text back “Seriously?” and then “That makes me think of a large, slow man. Like Lenny from Of Mice and Men.” Eh, it will come to us.

Meanwhile, Henry went to pre-school summer camp last week. Every day I dropped him off, he ran off with a “Bye, Mommy. See you later.” and picked up the trains before I could answer. The first day was waaaaaay harder on me than him. On Monday, he did gymnastics. Tuesday, he made a monkey paper bag puppet. Wednesday, he complimented the teacher on using her words. Thursday, he was cuddling with two little girls when I picked him up. Friday, he brought home a picture of himself wearing gianormous red glasses, in a frame made of popsicle sticks and tissue paper flowers, where his resemblance to Elton John prompts us to sing Henry and the Jets. This week we’re hanging out at home, but next week he’ll return for Pirate Camp.

It’s strange to have a baby kicking inside and an almost three-year-old on the outside (sometimes, also kicking). As Front Loader (henceforth known as FL) gets ready to escape, newly independent Henry also wants to conjoin. He’ll climb into bed with me in the mornings and get so close it’s like he’s trying to crawl back inside, his knees pressed against my belly and head sweating on my shoulder. “I missed you, Mama,” he says when I return from a quick trip to the store (or the other room). And today at the beach, after playing with other kids in the water, he’d run over to me just to touch my shirt before heading back out to splash. FL rolls and turns like a big cat pacing. Two boys already with different energy.

As we’ve gotten baby clothes, I can’t imagine a child fitting in these tiny pieces of soft cloth. “Was Henry ever that small?” I keep asking people around me. As my boy-child loses his baby pudge, his body leaning and stretching, his stomach no longer round, FL will spend the next seven-ish weeks gaining fat. Here is Henry, the child I could never conjure, but also the inevitable boy, so himself from before he was pulled out. My mind is separated into before Henry and after, a benchmark for events. And FL will emerge with his own personality and dark hair, alike but completely different like when I scramble my letters in Scrabble; the same components spelling a distinctive face and hands and sense of humor. And what name will fit him…

Potties & Pirates

On Thursday, I took Henry for a mini-interview at the Y for their Preschool Summer Camps. Kids are supposed to be at least 3 years old and potty-trained. When I told Henry on Monday he could go to Pirate Camp if he used the potty, he spent the next two days running around naked or in underwear rushing to the potty and proving all I had to do was dangle “Pirate Camp” in front of him to do away with diapers. Each time he went I gushed over him. When he’d catch me using the “big girl potty” he told me how proud he was of me. A week of no accidents and 1/4 the diapers was lovely, if not homebound.

At the Y, we interrupted play time. Henry ran in, saw what the kids were doing, then ran back to the door, took off his shoes (although every other kid was shoe-d) and hung up his jacket. Then he ran back to the trains and dug in. Because we came in the middle, there was only ten minutes left to play and when asked to clean up, Henry was not quite done with these new toys. He eventually got over it and helped put things away. The other children watched him with tilted heads and squinting eyes. “I’m Henry,” he’d tell them when he made eye contact.

We were invited to stay for snack time and Henry sat in between a little girl with curls, Molly C, and a hyper boy in a striped shirt, Gus. The kids talked as they ate their pretzel sticks, popcorn and watermelon. I helped insert straws into juice boxes. Henry tried to contribute to the conversation and, for the first time, I felt protective of his emotions.

“I watched a movie yesterday,” Henry added when they talked about watching Finding Nemo.

Molly C eyed him frowning and I thought, You think your shit don’t stink, Molly C?

“You weren’t here! I don’t know you!” Gus yelled. Back off, kid! He's trying to connect!!

A stuttering boy from the other table leaned back in his mini-seat offering, “I…I…I…I w-w-w-atch movies, t-t-too.”

I wanted to move Henry from the big table to next to this awkward boy, but I took two steps back fast-forwarding my brain through middle-school and high school imagining my child.

“Is he going to be the weird kid?” I asked Jared later as I recounted the story.

“He’ll be fine,” he reassured me.

It’s hard to picture your two and a half-year-old – a boy obsessed with saying “Poop” who runs around naked with his hand up his bum – a part of a school community, having friendships and being in a classroom. My heart already hurts a little for my big boy. The girl that might say “No” to him for prom. The elementary school boys who will make fun of him for ever watching (and loving) Sophia the First and Tangled. The team he won’t make or the part in the play he won’t get.

And the silence. The silence I’m sure I’ll get when all these things happen. I can’t imagine silence from him at this point. He tells me when he’s mad at me or nervous or thinks I’m being mean or when something is fun. He remembers everything and brings things up randomly. He is… always talking. Any quiet now is when he’s hiding behind the chair with the dry-erase board erasers making the carpet camouflaged with black smears. Or barricading himself with chairs under the kitchen table while he practices with scissors. But even then he’s snickering.

I’d thought of summer camp as a chance for him to get out of the house and for me to nap. Who knew I’d go Breakfast Club on the poor kid!?

Departures and Arrivals

Sunday, 15 of my girls graduated. By Monday afternoon, all 15 were moved out. That only leaves 25 girls and by this time next week, they’ll be gone, too. It was a crazy, chaotic weekend of tears, last-minute packing and flash flood warnings. The graduation ended up outside in 90% humidity. Out of the top ten students in the senior class, four of them were my girls.

There are some I will miss (already miss) and others who left bags of trash and drawers with hairballs in their rooms. There are so many things on the “Now We Know & Can Do Better Next Year” list and while I’ve accrued some tips (I’m now an expert at mailing large boxes at a very, small post office), me thinks the end of the year will always embody a certain amount of madness. The recycling of notebooks and returning of internet chords. Room keys and broken vacuums. Passports and bags & bags & bags (& bags) of discarded hangers. Wet towels left hanging on the backs of doors like shed skins. Empty, rickety shoe racks yawning into hallways. Oozing shampoo bottles hidden under sinks, the melted remainders of rushed mornings.

The underclassmen observed the panic and, in some cases, were left to deal with the abandoned fridges or hole-punched confetti left under desks. I told them to make it easy on themselves. To pack a box every day this week and take out trash bags as they make them, using the seniors as a cautionary tale. And they nodded. But we shall see come next Monday and Tuesday if they learned anything from the past weekend.

And we shall next year if I’ve learned anything from the past year. Next year, over half the dorm will be new girls. Already we’ve started planning for the ESL program, which, in its second year, they’ve asked me to direct. Already we’re discussing the changes to our dorm structure for next year and discussing how the dorm program will look. Oh yeah, and I guess I should start preparing for Front Loader Gilbert McCannell. Although if Henry taught me anything, it’s that “preparation” isn’t applicable and any attempt at such is fairly futile.

Today, the most important thing of the summer was taken care of: the air conditioning was installed.