I wasn't going to write this post.
Not because I didn't necessarily want to share my experience of birthing my first child, but because I didn't believe it when women said that they can barely remember the details of labor, because the emotion following the event eclipses it so thoroughly.
Well. The days and weeks following the birth of our daughter were so fresh (nightmarish?) in my mind that I found myself thinking "maybe we really DO only want one child!" The 60+ hour marathon was so unbelievably exhausting, intense, and emotionally draining that I refused to believe that I would EVER forget even the smallest detail.
But mysteriously enough, the details of the day ARE starting to fade. I guess it's not surprising, the Bible even references it:
"When a woman is giving birth, she has sorrow because her hour has come, but when she has delivered the baby, she no longer remembers the anguish, for joy that a human being has been born into the world." [John 16:21]
So before I "no longer remember," let me reminisce:
But instead of boring you with a story that started on a Wednesday night and didn't end until a Saturday afternoon, let's make this post for the prospective dads by breaking it down into some friendly rules. Er, that is to say, advice.
But seriously they're rules.
Rule #1
Don't take a nap while your wife is in labor.
Take it from my husband.
I am sure--at the time--that he thought his "short nap" (which incidentally lasted at least 2 centimeters) was innocent. I am also sure that he was unaware that I would be documenting his treachery with my iPhone whilst I was in the throes of labor*
I hope his momentary lapse of judgement will serve other new dads to grasp the fact that while your wife is attempting to stretch her cervix from the size of a coffee bean to the size of a bagel, you should probably stay awake for moral support.
And please, please DON'T YOU DARE utter the words "I'm tired."
In fact, go ahead and wipe the phrase from your vocabulary. It doesn't belong in your immediate future. Because I don't care how tired you really are—your wife is always. ALWAYS. More tired.
Rule #2
Be sure you are on the same page with your wife about her wishes.
My husband did good here.
We had many conversations leading up to the birth of Sarah about what kind of birth experience we (that is to say, I, wanted). Top of the list was a vaginal delivery. I won't get into details of questionable American medical practices and how our C-section (and maternal mortality) rates have skyrocketed in just my lifetime. But let's just say it was important to me that I avoided any kind of intervention that wasn't absolutely necessary.
See, had I not specifically and repeatedly told my husband during my pregnancy that I did not want an epidural (even if/when I asked for it), I'm sure he would have chased down the doctor in the hallway the moment I started to show signs of giving in.
It was a great plan we had...But you know what they say about plans...
I had been having contractions for about 36 hours before we finally went to the hospital (and I was going on day 2 of no sleep). A Jamaican nurse who looked about 90 years old examined me, announced that I was 4 centimeters dilated, and proceeded to offer advice over the next 6-7 hours that was bizarrely condescending and motherly at the same time.
When my midwife, Elizabeth, arrived early the next morning to check me, my husband (who finally decided to wake up) and I were excited that I might be close to start pushing. But as she finished her exam, I saw her throw a glance towards the nurse as she was withdrawing her gloved hand.
"Is she 8 centimeters??" The nurse asked excitedly in her thick accent.
The midwife didn't say anything. Total poker face.
"She's 9 isn't she!?" The nurse cried, throwing her head back and clapping her veined and knotted hands together.
The midwife threw her a look and shook her head almost imperceptibly, like a "stop-talking-now" kind of look.
"Well? What!?" I demanded, my excitement being quickly replaced by fear.
Elizabeth looked at the floor before she finally glanced up at me and said,
"You're still at 4 centimeters."
I exchanged confused looks with my husband and the nurse.
"What do you mean?" I said, my voice shaking.
...a short pause...
"I mean you're not in active labor."
It was good that my husband had read up on how to be a good birthing coach, because I pretty much had a nervous breakdown at that point. I sobbed quite hysterically in the adjoining bathroom while I heard the midwife telling my husband that we "might as well go home" and wait it out there. Since he knew how defeated I felt, and how exhausted I already was, he asked about other options and we eventually decided to break my water to speed things up.
And speed up they did.
See, the entire night before while I was valiantly having contractions (alone!), I was having a sort of internal monologue. While I was practicing my breathing, swaying my hips, getting in and out of the shower, and walking the hospital halls (ALONE!) I found myself thinking "this isn't as bad as I imagined," and even "I can DO this!" and eventually, "I was MADE for this!" I even haughtily thought "I'm so much tougher than all those other women! This seriously isn't that bad."
Well. Once my water broke and I was in active labor, I found myself writhing on the hospital bed confessing my internal monologue of the night before to anyone who would listen. "I'M SORRY!" I bellowed. "I ADMIT IT, OKAY?!? I USED TO JUDGE WOMEN WHO GOT EPIDURALS!! I TAKE IT BACK! I TAKE IT ALL BACK!!"
When I think about the contractions of the night before compared to ones after my water broke, it's like comparing a paper cut with a having both of your legs crushed by a tank WHILE having root canal AND being devoured by fire ants.
So, just like we rehearsed, I gasped to my husband (in between contractions) "I changed my mind. I want the epidural."
He smiled encouragingly and said something vaguely motivating. I don't know for sure because I wasn't listening.
"NO." I hissed. "I haven't slept in over 2 days. I am exhausted. I can't do this"
He continued to offer reassuring support, and I couldn't argue because I honestly didn't have the energy. After a particularly bad contraction passed, I asked my husband again for the epidural. He began, "But you've got this! You're doing so... "
"DID I STUTTER?! GO GET THE ANESTHESIOLOGIST!!"
Feeling that his own safety may be in jeopardy, my husband promptly left the room and returned with the new midwife on call, Natalie. A no-nosense, give-it-to-you-straight sort of woman with blazing green eyes. Randy clearly felt it was time for professional mediation.
She knew my wishes of not wanting an epidural, but admitted that I still had a long way to go, not to mention the energy it would require to push. I reaffirmed that I couldn't do it, and the doctor was paged.
By the time he got there, Natalie had me on my hands and knees, leaning over the inclined head of hospital bed; my husband feeding me ice chips out of his hand. Like a bird.
A most humiliating position.
Probably in her last ditch effort to change my mind, Natalie said "well... he's here. Are you going to go through with this? Or do you want me to dismiss him?" She said it with the slightest bit of smugness on her face. Almost like she was trying to piss me off.
So knowing that I must be getting close now, and how much I would regret the decision afterwards (after all, I did tell everyone that I didn't plan on having an epidural), I roared "DISMISS HIM!!!!!"
Rule #3
Become a professional masseuse.
No seriously--massage therapy school takes a little under a year to complete. So to be on the safe side, you should ideally enroll while you and your wife are still trying to concieve.
Because when the soon-to-be mom is thrashing around the hospital bed, a back massage (the motion of which most closely resemble trying to dig a hole with your elbow) is an absolute must.
The fact that your forearms and hands may be feeling like they're going to shrivel up and die is irrelevant: Your wife is about to make you a father. You can deal with the pain!
Rule #4
Do some research to make your wife's recovery easier.
Had my husband or I known beforehand little facts, like how painkillers make you constipated, the first few post-partum days may have not been so horrific.
Alas, I was unaware.
I won't go into details, because I don't want the dudes to faint, but you can probably use your imagination to visualize what may happen when... let's say... things aren't wanting to move down there. And you have half a dozen stitches in your nether regions from pushing an 8.5 lb baby through the birth canal. I'll give you a hint: the stitches don't stay in.
Even if I had known, I don't think I was in any state of mind to remember to do anything (like eat. Or sleep. Or take some Miralax).
As a grateful husband, make it your priority to do this research for your wife.
Support her and encourage her in breastfeeding.
Tell her she's beautiful and amazing and how proud you are of her.
My husband may have been unaware of the effects of certain prescriptions on the human body, but he pretty much knocked everything else out of the park.
Rule #5
Announce the sex of the baby
My husband and I decided not to find out whether we were having a boy or girl thanks to some awesome advice from Randy's cousin; much to the chagrin of family and friends. And after pushing for over and an hour and a half, screaming and moaning through the pain (in positions any contortionist would be impressed by); at one point I believe Natalie shouted at me "control yourself!" or possibly, "stay in control!"), Randy glanced in between my legs at the insistence of the midwife, and said he saw a head full of hair.
With a thrill of anticipation and a rush of adrenaline unlike anything I had ever felt, I gave a final push and heard the cry of our newborn baby. The baby was placed on my tummy and the midwife asked "well, dad?? What do we have??"
He said with the biggest grin on his face I've ever seen "It's a girl!"
I'll never forget those words, or how he said them, in my entire life. However much of that day was a total blur, I will always remember how I felt at that moment.
You did a great job, dad.
Not because I didn't necessarily want to share my experience of birthing my first child, but because I didn't believe it when women said that they can barely remember the details of labor, because the emotion following the event eclipses it so thoroughly.
Well. The days and weeks following the birth of our daughter were so fresh (nightmarish?) in my mind that I found myself thinking "maybe we really DO only want one child!" The 60+ hour marathon was so unbelievably exhausting, intense, and emotionally draining that I refused to believe that I would EVER forget even the smallest detail.
But mysteriously enough, the details of the day ARE starting to fade. I guess it's not surprising, the Bible even references it:
"When a woman is giving birth, she has sorrow because her hour has come, but when she has delivered the baby, she no longer remembers the anguish, for joy that a human being has been born into the world." [John 16:21]
So before I "no longer remember," let me reminisce:
But instead of boring you with a story that started on a Wednesday night and didn't end until a Saturday afternoon, let's make this post for the prospective dads by breaking it down into some friendly rules. Er, that is to say, advice.
But seriously they're rules.
Rule #1
Don't take a nap while your wife is in labor.
Take it from my husband.
I am sure--at the time--that he thought his "short nap" (which incidentally lasted at least 2 centimeters) was innocent. I am also sure that he was unaware that I would be documenting his treachery with my iPhone whilst I was in the throes of labor*
I hope his momentary lapse of judgement will serve other new dads to grasp the fact that while your wife is attempting to stretch her cervix from the size of a coffee bean to the size of a bagel, you should probably stay awake for moral support.
And please, please DON'T YOU DARE utter the words "I'm tired."
In fact, go ahead and wipe the phrase from your vocabulary. It doesn't belong in your immediate future. Because I don't care how tired you really are—your wife is always. ALWAYS. More tired.
Rule #2
Be sure you are on the same page with your wife about her wishes.
My husband did good here.
We had many conversations leading up to the birth of Sarah about what kind of birth experience we (that is to say, I, wanted). Top of the list was a vaginal delivery. I won't get into details of questionable American medical practices and how our C-section (and maternal mortality) rates have skyrocketed in just my lifetime. But let's just say it was important to me that I avoided any kind of intervention that wasn't absolutely necessary.
See, had I not specifically and repeatedly told my husband during my pregnancy that I did not want an epidural (even if/when I asked for it), I'm sure he would have chased down the doctor in the hallway the moment I started to show signs of giving in.
It was a great plan we had...But you know what they say about plans...
I had been having contractions for about 36 hours before we finally went to the hospital (and I was going on day 2 of no sleep). A Jamaican nurse who looked about 90 years old examined me, announced that I was 4 centimeters dilated, and proceeded to offer advice over the next 6-7 hours that was bizarrely condescending and motherly at the same time.
When my midwife, Elizabeth, arrived early the next morning to check me, my husband (who finally decided to wake up) and I were excited that I might be close to start pushing. But as she finished her exam, I saw her throw a glance towards the nurse as she was withdrawing her gloved hand.
"Is she 8 centimeters??" The nurse asked excitedly in her thick accent.
The midwife didn't say anything. Total poker face.
"She's 9 isn't she!?" The nurse cried, throwing her head back and clapping her veined and knotted hands together.
The midwife threw her a look and shook her head almost imperceptibly, like a "stop-talking-now" kind of look.
"Well? What!?" I demanded, my excitement being quickly replaced by fear.
Elizabeth looked at the floor before she finally glanced up at me and said,
"You're still at 4 centimeters."
I exchanged confused looks with my husband and the nurse.
"What do you mean?" I said, my voice shaking.
...a short pause...
"I mean you're not in active labor."
It was good that my husband had read up on how to be a good birthing coach, because I pretty much had a nervous breakdown at that point. I sobbed quite hysterically in the adjoining bathroom while I heard the midwife telling my husband that we "might as well go home" and wait it out there. Since he knew how defeated I felt, and how exhausted I already was, he asked about other options and we eventually decided to break my water to speed things up.
And speed up they did.
See, the entire night before while I was valiantly having contractions (alone!), I was having a sort of internal monologue. While I was practicing my breathing, swaying my hips, getting in and out of the shower, and walking the hospital halls (ALONE!) I found myself thinking "this isn't as bad as I imagined," and even "I can DO this!" and eventually, "I was MADE for this!" I even haughtily thought "I'm so much tougher than all those other women! This seriously isn't that bad."
Well. Once my water broke and I was in active labor, I found myself writhing on the hospital bed confessing my internal monologue of the night before to anyone who would listen. "I'M SORRY!" I bellowed. "I ADMIT IT, OKAY?!? I USED TO JUDGE WOMEN WHO GOT EPIDURALS!! I TAKE IT BACK! I TAKE IT ALL BACK!!"
When I think about the contractions of the night before compared to ones after my water broke, it's like comparing a paper cut with a having both of your legs crushed by a tank WHILE having root canal AND being devoured by fire ants.
So, just like we rehearsed, I gasped to my husband (in between contractions) "I changed my mind. I want the epidural."
He smiled encouragingly and said something vaguely motivating. I don't know for sure because I wasn't listening.
"NO." I hissed. "I haven't slept in over 2 days. I am exhausted. I can't do this"
He continued to offer reassuring support, and I couldn't argue because I honestly didn't have the energy. After a particularly bad contraction passed, I asked my husband again for the epidural. He began, "But you've got this! You're doing so... "
"DID I STUTTER?! GO GET THE ANESTHESIOLOGIST!!"
Feeling that his own safety may be in jeopardy, my husband promptly left the room and returned with the new midwife on call, Natalie. A no-nosense, give-it-to-you-straight sort of woman with blazing green eyes. Randy clearly felt it was time for professional mediation.
She knew my wishes of not wanting an epidural, but admitted that I still had a long way to go, not to mention the energy it would require to push. I reaffirmed that I couldn't do it, and the doctor was paged.
By the time he got there, Natalie had me on my hands and knees, leaning over the inclined head of hospital bed; my husband feeding me ice chips out of his hand. Like a bird.
A most humiliating position.
Probably in her last ditch effort to change my mind, Natalie said "well... he's here. Are you going to go through with this? Or do you want me to dismiss him?" She said it with the slightest bit of smugness on her face. Almost like she was trying to piss me off.
So knowing that I must be getting close now, and how much I would regret the decision afterwards (after all, I did tell everyone that I didn't plan on having an epidural), I roared "DISMISS HIM!!!!!"
Rule #3
Become a professional masseuse.
No seriously--massage therapy school takes a little under a year to complete. So to be on the safe side, you should ideally enroll while you and your wife are still trying to concieve.
Because when the soon-to-be mom is thrashing around the hospital bed, a back massage (the motion of which most closely resemble trying to dig a hole with your elbow) is an absolute must.
The fact that your forearms and hands may be feeling like they're going to shrivel up and die is irrelevant: Your wife is about to make you a father. You can deal with the pain!
Rule #4
Do some research to make your wife's recovery easier.
Had my husband or I known beforehand little facts, like how painkillers make you constipated, the first few post-partum days may have not been so horrific.
Alas, I was unaware.
I won't go into details, because I don't want the dudes to faint, but you can probably use your imagination to visualize what may happen when... let's say... things aren't wanting to move down there. And you have half a dozen stitches in your nether regions from pushing an 8.5 lb baby through the birth canal. I'll give you a hint: the stitches don't stay in.
Even if I had known, I don't think I was in any state of mind to remember to do anything (like eat. Or sleep. Or take some Miralax).
As a grateful husband, make it your priority to do this research for your wife.
Support her and encourage her in breastfeeding.
Tell her she's beautiful and amazing and how proud you are of her.
My husband may have been unaware of the effects of certain prescriptions on the human body, but he pretty much knocked everything else out of the park.
Rule #5
Announce the sex of the baby
My husband and I decided not to find out whether we were having a boy or girl thanks to some awesome advice from Randy's cousin; much to the chagrin of family and friends. And after pushing for over and an hour and a half, screaming and moaning through the pain (in positions any contortionist would be impressed by); at one point I believe Natalie shouted at me "control yourself!" or possibly, "stay in control!"), Randy glanced in between my legs at the insistence of the midwife, and said he saw a head full of hair.
With a thrill of anticipation and a rush of adrenaline unlike anything I had ever felt, I gave a final push and heard the cry of our newborn baby. The baby was placed on my tummy and the midwife asked "well, dad?? What do we have??"
He said with the biggest grin on his face I've ever seen "It's a girl!"
I'll never forget those words, or how he said them, in my entire life. However much of that day was a total blur, I will always remember how I felt at that moment.
You did a great job, dad.
RSS Feed