My darling son, SquidBoy, was born seven years ago tonight, and in honor of his birthday I'm posting our birth story.

41 weeks and counting...
Baby is getting big, and I am sick, sick, sick of feeling like a ship in full sail. Midwife strips my membranes, but nothing happens. A test indicates low amniotic fluid, so I agree to induction.

6:00 P.M.
After a "last" meal, World’s Best Husband (WBH) and I arrive at the hospital. The nurse checks my cervix. Boo! I'm only one cm. dilated and about ten percent effaced.

The nurse hooks up the Richter scale thing-y. Surprise! I'm having contractions every two to three minutes. Really? I had no idea. So they decide to hold off on the sticking the goo (you know where it goes) that usually starts an induction.

7:00 P.M.
The OB resident asks if I'd let her place a balloon catheter into my cervix to coax it to open up. (They insert the thin tube of the catheter, then inflate the small balloon attached to it.) Sure, I say, why not? She tells me she hasn’t done it before. Ah, that.  But okey-dokey. Call me guinea pig. Mini-doc does a good job; the placement of the catheter is moderately painful, but fast.

Yow! Once the catheter is in place, I immediately start feeling those contractions. I start thinking maybe this won't be quite as easy as I thought, but sitting in the whirlpool gives me some relief, and helps me get over missing my usual post-dinner dish of ice cream.

11:00 P.M.-ish
We decide to try to get some sleep--difficult at best when one is the approximate size and shape of a broken-down Sherman tank, but I give it the old college try.

Sometime in the Middle of the Night
Gotta pee. I allow my oversized butt to free-fall southward in what I hope is the direction of the toilet seat, and...  plop! What the hell was that? I look in the bowl, both hoping and fearing that I've accidently given my firstborn his/her first swirly, but it turns out to be the catheter, meaning that I'm dilated to around three cm. I also stop feeling the contractions, but the Richter scale says they're still coming. Without the pain, it's easier to sleep.

At some point, “they” decide to start the Pitocin, to get things moving. I don't notice any change.

9:30 A.M.
Shit and Shinola! I'm STILL only four cm. dilated, and not feeling much, so I let the resident break my water. It's either a really good idea or a really bad one, because suddenly, I'm really feeling those contractions, and not just in my belly, in my back, too. Joy of joys, the baby is in an OP (face up) position, so I guess I'm having the dreaded "back labor." Actually, it's not too bad, just a bit of a jolt after feeling very little for a few hours.

10:30 A.M.-ish
I decide to try to move things along by walking (waddling) around the ward with WBH. I hope I don't look half as comical as I feel—an overnourished whale trailing an IV pole, occasionally pausing to hang on a slightly dazed-looking man while breathing deeply. I see several women heading down the hall in wheelchairs holding little bundles of what look like aliens who've been left in the pod too long. I feel very envious of them and very sorry for myself.

11:30 A.M.
O.K. Enough of that. Time to get back on the bed. I got pain. Big pain. In fact, every 90 seconds or so, it feels like my spine is going to snap. Strangely--and work with me here, folks--it's not as bad as it sounds. On the minus side, Holy Living Fuck, That Hurts! On the plus side, I get a nice little rest every 90 seconds, and it means baby (sex unknown) is getting closer to vacating his/her current premises. Also, this pain isn't like the panic-inducing, oh-my-goodness-I've-done-something-really-awful-and-possibly-permanent-to-myself pain like when I broke my arm in three places or had a migraine I was sure was an stroke. It's “normal” pain.  And it will end. And I'll be o.k. at the end. I hope.

Once in bed, I find that moaning with each contraction helps. Maybe it helps me get outside the pain, or maybe it's just the fact that I'm forcing my darling husband (who says this is the worst part for him) to suffer with me.

12:00 P.M.
This is all very well until the nurse comes back, checks my cervix, which is still only five cm. dilated. Fuck. A. Duck.

I cannot do this for another bunch of hours. One maybe, two at the outside, but untold hours more? No thanks. After 12 hours of this, I won't have any stamina left to enjoy my baby. Get out the white flag and the bupivicaine, I give. I get the on-call attending  in, and ask for drugs. After a few minutes, the nurse gives me a shot of Fentanyl--which does precisely zip for my pain, but somehow makes me not really care, so I can rest (or pass out, more accurately) between contractions. Also, it makes me barf, which qualifies as WBH's second least-favorite moment of this adventure.

1:30 P.M.-ish
I can't exactly tell what time it is, I'm high, tee-hee! The nurse asks how my pain is. It's huge, thank you very much. Would I like to see the anesthesiologist now? Yes, I think I might like to consider....FUUUUUCCKK!! After a few minutes, the doc comes in and places my epidural, which I don't really recall too vividly (thank you, Fentanyl!) After a few minutes, some blessed relief. I can still feel the back pain somewhat, and my right side isn't entirely numb, but I have enough relief to become my usual, sweet, sunny self again, and work on a crossword puzzle with WBH.

2:00 P.M.
My midwife finally comes in. She takes a look at my chart, asks me if I'm comfortable (I am, sort of), and says she thinks I have at least a few more hours to go. When she checks my cervix--surprise!! I'm almost ten cm. Joy, joy, joy... The only slight hitch is that bambino is still facing the wrong way up, which might make things more difficult. Oh, well. What canna be cured maun be endured, as my Scots antecedents no doubt said at such moments, at least when they weren't screaming their haggis-addled guts out. Midwife pops out for a quick snack, while the nurse sets up for delivery.

2:30 P.M.
The midwife is back and it's showtime! I assume the position, half-sitting, back up, legs up, supported by WBH  and a nurse, and start pushing--three rounds with every contraction.

3:00 P.M.
Still pushing.

3:30 P.M.
Still pushing.

4:00 P.M.
Still pushing. The phone rings. It's my best pal, wanting to know how things are going. Can't talk now. Kinda busy.

5:00 P.M.
Still pushing. The baby’s sunny-side-up position is evidently complicating matters. The midwife checks the pong machine that monitors our heartrates, and says the baby's doing fine--how am I? I'm pretty tired, but motivated to get this sucker out, and a cesarean after all this would suck. Great, she says. Keep going. Um, do I have a choice?

5:30 P.M.
Still pushing. New nurse holding my leg. I shift onto my side between contractions to maximize the oxygen to the baby. Also to give WBH a break from holding the overstuffed sausage that is my right leg.

6:00 P.M.
Still pushing, but getting closer. I know this because the midwife dons the adorable little green robe and eyeshield to protect her from whatever ick might emerge forcefully from my hooha. Would madame like a mirror to watch the action? Madame would not, thank you. Madame is perilously close to losing her lunch (what lunch?) as it is. Madame has no desire to watch as she is split nearly in two by the cherub.

6:20 P.M.
I hear WBH saying, "Oh my goodness! Oh my goodness!" over and over. (That is not what I am saying.) Suddenly, baby's head is out! I can still feel feet up against my ribs, and let me tell you how weird that feels. The midwife asks if I want to touch it. Um, not really. There’ll be plenty of time for that over the next, say, twenty years. I’ll wait ‘till it’s had a bath, thanks.

6:22 P.M.
Suddenly the room is full of people, who I learn are the "neonatal team." This scares me a little at the time (and much, much more later, when I learn more about shoulder dystocia.) The midwife assures me that everything is going to be fine, they're just there in case baby needs some help "pinking up." This does not exactly reassure me, but I’m too focused on the task at hand to panic too much. Unbeknownst to me (thank goodness!) the baby’s shoulder is stuck behind my pubic bone. It is not getting any oxygen as the umbilical cord is being compressed between the baby’s body and the birth canal. (So much for the wisdom of Nature.) With outward calm (but inwardly enjoying the effects of the shoulder-dystocia-sphincter-pucker-factor, as she later tells me) the midwife shoves her hands into my crotch, and a nurse is pushing hard on my belly, neither of which I recall as very painful, but things are a bit fuzzy for me on this point.

6:24 P.M.
I feel a whoosh, and suddenly, the baby is out! WBH yells out, "It's a boy!!" And I feel incredibly, unbelievably, overwhelmingly happy and grateful and blessed. Proud Papa cuts the cord and they hand me my gorgeous little guy. What was I thinking when I said those babies looked like shriveled aliens? This is the most beautiful thing that has ever been! He gets weighed (8 lbs. 11 oz.) and measured (20.5 inches) and cleaned off. He also gets some oxygen, and a quick exam by the neonatal team. They give him a seven on the APGAR (grades? already?) and tell me he has a small dimple at the base of his spine. It's nothing to worry about, since he's moving his legs fine and there's no fluid coming out, but he'll need an ultrasound to make sure there's no actual hole there. (There isn't.) His five-minute APGAR is a nine. (Is that like an A-minus?)

6:30 P.M.--ish--
While the midwife delivers the placenta (the DOD ought to buy that stuff from hospitals--it's indestructible) and puts me back together, I nurse my little guy. Family and friends arrive, along with a pizza. MMMMM. 

Pizza. I eat a slice, and have a few sips of the champagne (Veuve Cliquot Grande Dame!) WBH brought, but the drugs have sapped my appetite.

The Next Day All is well. The dimple is nothing, and SquidBoy is healthy and happy, and nursing well. I am healthy and happy--and sore, and exhausted. When they come to take the baby for circumcision, we quiz the frighteningly young-looking doctor about his credentials. He's a Yalie, like WBH, and will be working with a very experienced pediatrician. And he will make sure my precious one feels no pain. OK for the doctor, but I've got your name and badge number, pal. I make WBH go with the baby. Hey, it's his decision, let him suffer through it. Meanwhile, I get into my first shower since two days earlier, and have a good cry. Those hormones have kicked in. Also, the idea of anyone coming near my perfect little angel's pristine little tinky with anything sharp sends me into near apoplexy. By the time I'm dressed and somewhat presentable, they're back, and the little prince is fine, and sucking on a sugar pacifier. (The bribes start early, don't they?)

Fast-Forward Seven Years
SquidBoy is a happy, healthy seven-year old, who loves boats, cephalapods, and makes me love him just a little more every day.