MY BABY-HAVIN' EXPERIENCE.

Since it’s been awhile since my last blog entry, I figured I would come back with a BANG. Buckle up those glorious tits of yours, because I am about to publicly explain, in wonderful detail, my child-birthing story from start to finish. Great, right? I know. Fun stuff. I’m excited. You’re excited. It’s going to be magical.

• One big ol' party. •

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CHAPTER ONE: THE PREPARATION.

October 16th, 2018.

8 o'clock in the evening.

It's dark outside. Wet. Quiet. Cold, yet warmer than the days prior. Ethan and I are seconds away from walking into the hospital to begin the induction process. Before approaching the large sliding doors, It felt as if we were on top of a sky scraper with a helicopter on fire in the background, seconds from exploding (the helicopter, not us). With my aviator sunglasses mirroring the sunset, I look at Ethan, he looks at me and nods as he hooks his leather jacket with his finger and swings it over his shoulder, behind his back. He takes the toothpick from his mouth and throws it to the ground. The helicopter finally explodes simultaneously as the toothpick hits the ground. All in slow motion.

The sliding doors rushed open. After filling out mountains of paperwork and answering 3.2 million questions, they tag me with my very own personalized white wristband. While my mind is running in a million different directions, We’re led like cattle into a small room. Here's where things get bullshitty. I've never stayed in a hospital before. The closest I've gotten to being admitted to the hospital was watching episodes of Grey's Anatomy. I'm metaphorically shitting my pants at this point because I can't wrap my head around what's going on. Things are definitely not in slow motion anymore. Everything around me is going super sonic speeds as the nurses explain to me that they are going to set up an IV and draw some blood. I’m almost 30 years old, and I cry like a little bitch every time I have to get my blood drawn. The nurses were practically orgasming over my prominent veins, so that helped calm my nerves. I felt a rainstorm of confidence shower all over my lumpy excuse of a body. I achieved a calmness. And soon after that, I realized that I was deceived. Because apparently, my veins were SO great, that they blew four times.

Yeah.

Four. Fucking. Times.

I was not happy.

I'm sitting there, trying with all my might to remain calm and not rip off the left boob of each nurse in that god damn room. Good thing Ethan (my boyfriend/baby daddy) wasn't close to me, I'da ripped his tiddy off, too. Because at this point, I was in a tiddy-rippin' mood, and I was prepared for no survivors. All of this fuckery in a short amount of time was beyond overwhelming. But my mom raised me to be a badass bitch, so I had my game face on the entire time, I think.

The entire time, all I could think was:

"No seriously, it's fine, you're doing great, it's so totally okay. Yeah, no, I'm...haha...I'm good. So good. Just keep doing you, girl. So cool."

The nurses had to call in two additional people to establish an IV. I was about ready to take that god damn needle and give it a try, just for fucks and giggles. After what felt like 40 days and 40 nights, they finally were able to get it into in my right hand. I mean, she blew that, too, but managed to make it work somehow. So here I am laying in this bed, with the weight of a pregnant belly hindering my breathing (moms: you know exactly what I'm talking about), and they pour a jar of salt into my open wounds by tightly strapping two monitors around my fat belly. I felt like one of those huge chunks of ham, tightly wrapped in white string, flesh bulging everywhere.

One monitor tracked my contractions, the other tracked the baby's heart rate. They both beeped constantly and loudly, like a large truck backing up. The only thing more annoying than the beeping, was the blood pressure cuff. Every time that stupid cuff filled with air, the failed pokes pulsated with an intense, burning pain. I'm already so over this whole hospital thing. we’ve only been at the hospital for TWENTY MINUTES at this point.

• The real party hasn't even started yet. •

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CHAPTER TWO: THE INDUCTION.

October 16th, 2018.

8:20 in the evening.

It's quiet. The last nurse just exited the room. I could finally bitch to Ethan, who has made himself comfy on the uncomfy chair next to my uncomfy bed. My complaining ended as quickly as it began, as a nurse comes in to give me a Cytotec pill to dissolve under my tongue. This tiny, itty bitty pill is designated to 'ripen my cervix'. (Their words - not mine). And, for some unknown reason, for the life of me, I could NOT keep this pill under my tongue. Somehow, that son of a bitch kept migrating north, ending up on top of my tongue instead of underneath. I couldn't keep a fucking pill under my tongue, and I'm about to be in charge of a tiny human being. Great. Makes perfect sense.

Once I wrangled that piece of shit pill, they began administering Pitocin into the IV. Pitocin is the medicine that gets the ball rolling.

Pitocin is the game changer.

The true MVP.

• The party starter. •

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CHAPTER THREE: BED TIME.

October 16th, 2018.

9 o'clock in the evening.

Let me paint the scene:

It's 9 o'clock at night. My arms hurt from the stabs. Each monitor beep seems louder than the last. I'm tired. Uncomfortable. Hungry. Nervous. The tight monitor straps scratch me with every move I make as I attempt to find any sort of comfort in that stupid bed. Nothing I did was satisfying. I put the blanket on me, I'd get too hot. Take the blanket off, too cold. Cords are everywhere. Contractions are starting. The nurse shuts off the lights, and tells me to get some sleep.

Okay. Yeah. Excuse me while I fall the fuck to sleep with all this bullshit going on. And, to make matters worse, I can't even complain to Ethan because he's already asleep somehow.

It felt like as soon as I fell asleep, a nurse would come to check my blood pressure. Every. Single. Hour. The cuff fills with air. Puncture wounds pulsate. I'm wide awake.

As the night goes on, I fade in and out until the contractions get worse. They are not fun. Men: be god damn fucking thankful that you will never experience contractions. They build. It's like a roller coaster. The pain intensifies slowly as you ascend to the top of the steep hill. Then you get to the top, and it's incredibly unbearable for an unforeseen amount of time that feels very close to forever. And then the pain slowly tapers down as you descend from the hill so you can prepare yourself for the next hill, which is guaranteed to be steeper than the ones previous.

Fellas: do me a favor. Close your eyes and imagine your balls are in between a clamp. I'm not talking about one of those hand-held vise grips. I'm talking about those large industrial woodworking table ones. Each 360º turn of the handle brings a wee bit of pain. Each turn hurts more and more. You start to grit your teeth. The handle keeps turning and there's nothing you can do to stop it. Ouch. Your knuckles are white from clenching so hard, and your jaw hurts from gritting your teeth so hard. Shit. It's getting worse. Holy shit. (We're not even to the worst part.) You start to sweat. You can't breathe. God damn it. The handle keeps turning. The pain is the worst you've felt. Your eyes water.

And then it happens:

....POP.

Your balls explode.

That, my friends, is a fraction of a contraction.

Whoa, did you catch that last line? Ha. I'm a poet and I didn't even know I was rhyming.

Let's get back to the story.

The contractions were getting bad. I used the "mind over matter" method, and that actually worked pretty well. I held on as long as I could before asking the nurse if there was any type of medicine to help dull the madness. She gave me Nubain.

OH

MY

GAWWD

Nubain was my new best friend. It was a high unlike any other. I still remember exactly what it felt like. My whole body became warm and fuzzy. I was on Cloud Fucking 9. I felt so amazing. I felt like I was on an episode of Cheech and Chong. (I would definitely be Cheech in this scenario because we have the same body type).

My eyes half open, big smile on my face. "Contractions? What contractions, am I right?", I said out loud, laughing to myself. But, as the saying goes, all good things must come to an end. Contractions are back. And they angry.

• Party poopers. •

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CHAPTER FOUR: IT'S GO TIME

October 17th, 2018.

12 o'clock in the afternoon.

We're just going to pick up the remote and fast forward through the morning. Nothing has changed from overnight, except the moon and the sun have traded places. Everything else is still the same: The beeps. The contractions. Pulsating wounds. Ethan (STILL) sleeping peacefully. Blah, blah, blah. So fast forwarding a bit won't hinder the structure of this wonderful story about my vagina that you're surprisingly still reading about.

We'll push play and resume at normal speed at Noon. That's about the time I opted for an epidural. I'm 5cm dilated at this point. I've still got another 5 more to go. The nurse said it's generally 1cm per hour. Now, me and my fruit (that's what I call my vagina, so I don't have to use weird words like vagina) don't always agree on things, but we are definitely on the same page when it comes to patience. We have none. I wasn't about to sit here for another five god damn hours, and Fruit wasn't either.

Being a first time mom, I asked the nurse what to be expecting when I was fully dilated. She explained that it feels like you have to poop really bad. And holy shit (pun intended) she wasn't wrong. It was bad. Like, really bad. I was stepping into the Danger Zone. I was frozen. One small move and we've got ourselves a whole mess of problems. But all my poop worries wiggled its way back up inside when she told me I was fully dilated. What was supposed to be five hours, turned into only two hours.

It's 2 o'clock in the afternoon, and my fruit was ready for harvest season.

• The party is about to begin. •

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CHAPTER FOUR: PUSH IT. PUSH IT REAL GOOD.

October 17th, 2018.

2 o'clock in the afternoon.

"Oh yeah, you're dilated. Are you ready?", the nurse asks me as she's wrist-deep in my love cocoon. Holy shit. It's happening. I felt every single emotion known to man. Every single one. Things are getting pretty crazy at this point, and becoming a blur.

It's time to push.

For those of you that don't know, once a contraction reaches its peak, you take a deep breath, push for ten seconds, and release it. Then immediately take another huge breath, push for ten seconds, and release it. You have to do that every contraction. And it sucks.

TWO.

AND A HALF

HOURS.

OF PUSHING.

The epidural was wearing off on my left side, and I had maxed out the dosage. The pressure was unbearable. And it was beginning to be absurdly painful. Like I was shitting out a a dull knife set on Walmart's clearance rack. I want to push this baby out NOW. I was so exhausted from lack of sleep, that I almost fell asleep in between contractions.

"Okay, stop pushing while I go find your doctor because you're crowning."

What. In the holy FUCK. Do you mean STOP PUSHING? No. You're not the boss of me and I'm ready for this to be over. It hurts and I'm DONE.

Easily the longest wait I've ever endured. Fuck.

I wasn't drenched in sweat like the ladies in the movies, but I was definitely crying like them. The doctor finally showed up after what seemed like forever. After a few more pushes, Milo Addison Johnson EXPLODED from my....I'm just kidding, she came out at a normal speed. That second she came out was the best feeling in the world for many reasons. I no longer had 8 pounds and 5 ounces of weight bearing down on my lungs. I could breathe finally, after 9 long months. Ethan and I were no longer a relationship. We were now a family. All because of one little girl.

The first words out of my mouth after they laid her on top of me?:

"Thank fucking god she isn't ugly."

• She is the life of our party. •