J's Birth Story; Subtitled 6 Years Ago Tonight I Was In Labor With A Hobo Ninja

      I've always thought that it would be a good idea to write down my children's birth stories.  I remember right after I had PG, I used to retell her birth story over and over to myself in my head.  The experience had left such an impression on me that I felt compelled to reiterate it to myself.  I think it was because I realized that my life now reflected a bold division of "before" and "after" and remembering the details on both sides of that wall became important.  Mentally recording that transition made it easier for me to let go of my "before" and slip into my new role.  It was a goodbye, my closing chapter on a dog-eared, well read book.
    So with that in mind, tomorrow J is turning six.  Tonight, I'll write his birth story for him (which is why I write all these posts- for my kids, should the future "them" ever want to read these silly diaries.)
     J's birth is actually the least dramatic of my three experiences.  Pg and Roo?  I could write pages and pages about the interesting events surrounding their births.  J's was much more low key.  It was basically "I went into labor, we drove to the hospital, I had a baby by the next day."  That's not to say however, that there weren't details that I'll always remember.  I'll share them with you here, starting with the first contraction (Don't leave!  It was only the first contraction that was memorable.  I won't be dragging you through every single one.  I'm nostalgic tonight, but not mean).
     The first contraction was at 7:45.  I remember standing by my bed and upon feeling my stomach seize u, grabbing the mattress and looking across the bed at the opposite nightstand where the digital clock sat.  7:45 p.m.  I wanted to mark the time, not for contractions, but because I was suddenly aware of that feeling one gets when something important is about to happen.  I knew that when we went to the hospital that we would be admitted, they wouldn't send me home, and that this was the real deal.  (The nurses unfortunately, didn't possess the same level of confidence that I had.  They made me walk around the maternity floor for an hour and then kept me in triage for another 2 hours before they admitted that I was actually in labor.  Why they gotta be like that?  Can anyone tell me?)
     I remember the drive to the hospital.  It was dark and the night air whipped around the front seat.  It felt like the exhaust from a jet engine.  We turned the AC all the way up and kept the windows down because the fresh air, hot though it may have been, felt good while I breathed through my contractions.
     We watched "TransAmerica" in triage on Mr. C's laptop.  Weird choice of movie for laboring in the hospital, but the Netflix Gods had arranged it so that was what had been mailed to us from our Netflix que. So it is that Felicity Huffman will always remind me of green curtains and hospital beds.
     At one point in the night, I got the shakes so bad that I worried that I would bite through my tongue.  I had had shakes before when I was in labor with PG and knew that it just meant that I was transitioning into a deeper phase.  I completely lost faith in my hospital care however when a young nurse came in, saw me rattling around on the bed and asked "Are you cold?  Would you like a blanket?"  And I thought "Have you not seen this before? Not only am I shaking so hard that I am literally about to explode a baby out of my body, but I am in a head to toe hormone and adrenaline rush, and you want to know if I'm cold? You think a blanket is going to help me?  What kind of medical facility is this?"

      Luckily, I wasn't so far into labor that I couldn't see the fact that I may need her in the near future, so I kept my mouth shut.  I was rewarded with an epidural (which I no longer recommend, but that's another post.)  I fell asleep and was awakened by a nurse at 5:30 a.m.  It was time to push, and at 5:48 a.m., there was this:

And that turned into this:

Which then turned to this:

Which became this:

Then this:

And finally this:

     That's you, J, on your last day of being five.  I know how excited you are to be 6, and I love that you're getting older, but I've got to be honest with you, bud.  It's hard for me to see you leave five behind.  Thank you for making it such a fun year.  I'm grateful that I logged most of your funnier moments here on the blog.  And while I can't say that I'm completely on board with your dream of becoming a Hobo Ninja, I can tell you that I believe with all my heart that if anyone could make it happen, it'd be you.

(The dream of being an unmarried father to 60 children and training them to be part of your Hobo Ninja army, however, I do forbid. Props to you for creativity, though.)

Happy Birthday, Monkey Boy!