It's a Boy!

The radiologist’s face hovered an inch from the screen. "So," he said. "Do you want to know the sex of the baby?"
            My mouth fell open. "Really?"
            My husband's eyebrows rose. "Right now?"
            The doctor rolled his stool around to face us. He rubbed his thighs briskly.
            "This is West Virginia," he said. "I don't want to start a family feud. Do you, or don't you? Want to know?"
            I nodded. My husband shook his head. I huffed.
            My husband shrugged. "I like surprises. So does my family."
            I clasped my hands in front of my face and opened my eyes super wide.  "Pretty please? I won't tell anyone inside the state."
            My husband sighed. "Oh, all right."
            The doctor wheeled the stool back to face the screen. He tapped it with his pen.
             "See that right there?" he said. "That's what makes your little guy, a guy."
             I grinned and clapped. "I did it!  I made a boy!"
            The doctor gave my husband a little shove. "You okay, Dad?"
            My husband leaned closer to the ultrasound screen. His breath fogged it. 
            "It's a boy? Really?"
            The doctor smiled and clapped him on the back. "It's a boy, a healthy son. Congratulations.”

~~~~~

  

Fluid, surprisingly warm, gushed from inside me. I glanced down. A puddle formed on the back porch, between my flip flops. I shut my eyes and groaned.
            The girls were swinging. "Watch how high we can go," the older one said.
            The younger one squinted at me and slammed her feet down to stop. "What, Mommy?" she said. "Why's your face all funny?"
            I toed the splat on the porch. "Someone bring me the phone please."
            "Mommy, you wet  yourself."
            I shook my head and spoke louder. "Just get me a phone."
            "Right now?" my husband said. "It's coming right now?"
            I exhaled my answer. "Yes."
            "My dad's in the hospital with a bleeding ulcer and I have someone here in the office with me. It’s really right now?"
            I nibbled my lip. "Last baby was born 20 minutes after my water broke."
            "I'll be right there."

~~~~~

"You could stimulate your nipples," the nurse said as she glanced at her watch. "Since your labor doesn't seem to be progressing."
            My eyes bulged. I touched my cheeks. Hot. I crooked my finger to bring her closer, so the whole world wouldn't hear.
            "Excuse me?"
            "Stimulate your nipples," she said. "It makes the body release oxytocin which can move the process along. Just slide your arms inside your gown." She busied herself tucking the sheets around me, adjusting the monitor beside my bed. I tapped her shoulder.
            "Can you close the door, please?"
            "Sure thing, honey. Your doctor's been paged. He'll be here any minute.” She pointed at the control panel near the bedrail. "That's the nurse call button if you need me. Don't forget, stim—"
            I pressed my finger to my mouth. She laughed as she eased the door shut behind her.

~~~~~

I had my birth plan for my little guy all figured out. I'd asked for an epidural with child one, liked it a lot. On delivery number two, the nurses talked me into going natural.

“If you’re cracking jokes at seven centimeters, you should have no problem going all the way, sweetie.”

So I did the I-am-woman-hear-me-roar thing that time around, thought it pretty cool the way I could walk to the bathroom to pee right after. Even so, given a choice, I wanted drugs on my third and final labor and delivery.
            "Can you write it in my chart now?" I said to my doctor. "Put it in all caps: PATIENT WANTS EPIDURAL AS SOON AS SHE ENTERS HOSPITAL.”
            Dr. Davis had laughed. "We'll see."
            "What do you mean I can't have an epidural?" I said to my labor nurse. "It's in my chart. In all caps. Look it up!"
            The nurse fussed with my sheets, patted my hand, avoided my eyes. “They said the anesthesiologist has a more emergent situation right now." 
            My fingernails bit into my palms. I gnashed my teeth. "What is more emergent than a baby emerging from my body?"
            The nurse cringed. Her hands were like nervous butterflies in the air between us. She moved toward the door.

"Let me try to get a hold of your doctor. Again."

Within five minutes I was speaking in tongues, or so my husband says.  I'm pretty sure the Mardi Gras documentary on TV was to blame. I remember one minute focusing on the drums—their primal beat—and the next, how my head started flopping side to side, to match their rhythm.
            I began to chant under my breath. "I want drugs. I want them now. I want drugs—"

             When another contraction started, I stopped my head flopping. My stomach churned. My eyes wouldn't focus. I heard someone enter the room. I turned toward the door. The person seemed to be moving in mist. Something was in his or her hand. I squinted at it, wary.
            "How about some Nubane, honey?" It sounded like my nurse.
            I snarled my nose. "What's that?"
            She brushed a stray hank of hair from my face. "I think you'll like it," she said. "It'll take the edge off, help you relax."
            I shrugged. "Okay."
            Prick. Ow!  Warmth. Oooh! I collapsed against my pillows. A moment later a noisy breath leaked out of me.
            "That's nice," I told Nurse.
            I grinned at the corner of the room by the door, thinking that was where my husband was. 

"I'm the queen of Mardi Gras. And I'm floating. See? I'm on a parade float on 

Bourbon Street. That's in New Orleans, right? Want some beads?"

            I felt as if I might pour off the edge of the bed. I attempted to purr. Nurse’s teeth flashed white as she swabbed my arm. On the other side of the room she deposited the needle in a red box on the wall.
            "Hey!" I said. She glanced over. I smiled coyly, blinked a couple times. "Some more, please?"
            She chuckled. "Sorry, no.” She perched on the bench at the end of the bed and nudged my knees apart.
            I stuck my tongue out at her.
            "You're almost ready now," she said. "I'll call Dr. Davis. Again."

           "You sure you want me to stay in this chair?" my husband asked when she left.    

           "Yes, please. It feels like you're stealing my breath when you come closer."            

~~~~~

A half hour later I scooted myself up on my elbows. "I want more Nubane. Now!" I glared at the med student behind my doctor. "And I want Doogie Howser to go away, immediately."
            "Be nice," Dr. Davis said. "He's just observing. I won't let him touch you."
            I snorted. "Is he old enough to hear cuss words?"
            The med student cowered. Dr. Davis gave my ankles a squeeze.
            "You ready to do this?"
            I winced as another wave of pressure and pain seared me.
            "Can't you just grab its head and yank it out?"
            "Easy," my doctor said. "Don't hold your breath. Breathe. That's it."
            When the fire started in my girl parts, I headed for my pillows, determined to escape it.
            "Will whoever has their hand on my— Dang it!  I can't even say the word 'cause Doogie—"
            Dr. Davis stood. "Keep pushing!  You're so close!"
            The med student approached me from the side. His hot breath steamed my cheek.

“Ma'am? Do you want me to pull the mirror down, ma'am?" he said, "from the ceiling? So you can see?"

            I took a swing at him. "Ew! No!"
             A fresh more urgent pain arrived. I fell back on the pillow stack and sobbed. Doogie slunk back to his corner. I wanted it over. Now. I heaved myself forward once more and clenched all my muscles and shoved, forced everything inside of me down between my legs. The skin on my face felt tight. And I was so hot. The sprinkler system would trigger any minute, surely it would.
            I panted. "Someone fan me!  Fan my face!  I’m serious! And where is Nubane Lady? Get her back here this instant!"
             Suddenly the pressure in my groin dropped, diminished. I squeaked, attempted to sit up.

             "What happened! What's going on?"

           "We have a head!" Dr. Davis said.
            I felt my nose drain, then my eyes. When the stretching sensation returned, I arched my back and moaned, dug my fingernails into the mattress. More flesh of my flesh slipped out of me.
            "And we have a baby, a perfect baby boy."
            Everything in me softened, went limp, as if I had no bones. I hung in the moment, concentrated on the freedom from pain, listened to the pounding in my ears slow.
            Dr. Davis brought my boy child to me, still slick with his white icing of vernix.
            "Tell him, 'hello,' Mom. He's a little blue. He needs oxygen."
            I stroked my son's face with my pointer finger. Tears spilled onto my cheeks.      

"Hi, little guy."
            "Gosh, he looks like his dad," Dr.  Davis said. "Dad, come over here. Check this little guy out." After a minute Nurse gently pried him away from my husband. "He needs oxygen and a belly button, Dad."
            "I made a boy," I declared.
            Dr. Davis laughed from across the room. "You get what you get, you know."        

I shook my head. "Nope," I said. I tucked my husband's hands inside my own. "I made a boy, with some help, just a little."

*Forever Changed*

On the steering wheel, my husband’s knuckles shown white. I leaned forward to watch the pink dawn illuminate the Cincinnati skyline.

            He glanced over. “May I speed?”

            I winced and nodded. “I reckon this is the only time you can.”

            He snickered as he ran a red light. I stared out the window and murmured. He kept his hands on the steering wheel and his eyes on the road, but leaned his body toward me.

            “What’d you say?”

            I spoke louder. “Nothing’s ever gonna be the same, is it?”

            My husband shook his head as he skidded to a stop in front of the emergency room entrance at Christ Hospital.

            “Nope,” he said. “Today everything changes.”

~~~

The beautiful, willowy brunette nurse perched beside me on the hospital bed. She picked up my hand and flipped it over, traced the creases of my palm with a maroon fingernail as she talked.

            “Did no one give you an enema?”

            My eyes bugged out. “No, ma’am,” I said. Kinda glad about that, I thought.

            She huffed. “I swear. So many nurses think it’s old-fashioned, but I don’t want my ladies pushing out poop with their babies. It’s not sanitary.”

            I heard a gagging noise. I peeked in my husband’s direction. He stared at a spot on the ceiling and cleared his throat.

~~~

When Dr. Lum arrived, I immediately noticed the peace signs on his socks. He'd rolled up his scrub pants so they'd show. He patted my cheek before he sat down at the foot of the bed.

            “Sorry I’m late. Had to finish recording a Pink Floyd concert.”

            He stood suddenly and struck an air guitar pose.

            “We don’t need no ed-u-ca-tion.”

            He grinned as he tugged on latex gloves.  “You feeling okay, missy?

            I felt fine. I’d had my epidural. Tall, pretty nurse made sure of that as soon as I hit four centimeters dilated. I hadn’t checked out the needle, but my husband did. When his eyes bulged, I gulped and leaned over the bedside table, did snifftas like our Lamaze teacher had taught us. Sniff in with the nose, ta out through the mouth.

            “Husbands,” the instructor had said, “you can use this technique too. Like when you’re in line at the grocery store and you have to go to the bathroom—number two.”

            I liked my epidural. A lot. Too much really. Because of it I never had the urge to push.

            Dr. Lum waved stainless steel tongs like a conductor’s baton. “These are forceps,” he said. “If need be, we can use these to yank baby out.”

            I squeaked. “Fine!  I’ll push.”

            I couldn’t feel pain but I could feel pressure, and its absence. I was fully aware when the baby slicky slid out of me.

            “It’s a . . . . girl!” Dr. Lum said. “Nancy’ll take her over and shine her up, bring her back in a jif.”

            I reached down to touch my belly—empty now—after almost a year. I pressed my fingers in as far as they'd go. My flesh felt like a pouch of Cool-Whip, all wooshy and gooshy.

            “I need you to bear down one more time,” Dr. Lum said, “to deliver the placenta.”

            I wrinkled my nose. “Ew!”

            I pushed half-heartedly. Surely the exodus of an empty membrane sack didn’t require the effort a seven pound baby did.

            The blob Dr. Lum held up resembled a large man ’o war jellyfish. “What’s your baby’s name?”

            “Josephine Joy,” my husband said.

            Dr. Lum pounced the placenta from side to side—first left, then right.

            “This is the house that Josy built, Josy built, Josy built. This is the house that Josy built—” He paused to look at his watch, “on December 7, 1991 at 12:34 p.m. on a Saturday.”

            I tilted my head and squinted. Thought him a bit odd but didn’t say so out loud.

            He peered at the giant Jell-O jiggler. “If we were in—can’t remember which country—we’d cook this puppy and eat it for dinner.”

            My stomach lurched. I cupped my hand in front of my mouth, just in case. 

~~~

The lovely labor and delivery nurse finally brought us our baby girl. Her face, the baby’s, was alarmingly scarlet. Dark, silky hair wisped out from under her white-with-a-pink-pom-pom beanie cap. The nurse cooed as she tucked the warm flannel package into my arms.

            “Isn’t she gorgeous?”

            I gazed down at her. How long had it been since I’d held a baby? Was it my niece? Six years ago? I stroked my daughter’s velvety cheek with my pinky. 

            “She kinda looks like a Conehead,” I told my husband. “You know, like on Saturday Night Live?”

            Nancy the nurse snapped her fingers. I glanced over at her. "What?"

            She came close and gripped my face, rotated it toward the baby's. Josy seemed even redder than before and her chin was like an ocean wave, coming at me then retreating, over and over.

            I turned to Nancy. “What do I do? What’s she want?”

            Nancy cocked her head. “You really don’t know? Did you never babysit?”

            I shook my head. “No,” I said. “I had a paper route.”

            She grimaced. “Oh, my.”

            Making tsk, tsk noises, Nancy placed one hand on my shoulder, the other under the baby bundle.

            “How do I say this, honey? Nothing’s ever going to be the same for you, ever again.”

(Happy 21st birthday, Beauty!)

Then I Saw Her Face

“Hey lady, did I yank you away from a hot date?”

            That's what I wanted to ask the nurse midwife. She was supposed to be rubbing my back. Spooning ice chips into my mouth. Instead, she leaned against the wall in her periwinkle scrubs. Kept snapping her gum.

            "For crying out loud,” I said. “I’m almost all the way dilated. Think you can get over here and break my water or something? So we can get this party started?"

            She uncrossed her arms and shrugged. "Sure."

            The long crochet hook-looking instrument felt cold against my thigh. The urgent rush of fluids almost burned me. Within moments, hard labor ensued and I wished I hadn't been so eager for the party.

            The tears came. Then the cussing. I gripped the bedside rails. Spoke through the fence of my teeth.

            "I know I said I didn’t want an epidural,” I told Frosty the Snow Midwife, “but on second thought, I do. ’Cause this feels like I'm pooping out a globe."

            My husband petted my hair. "There, there. Won't be long now."

            I heaved myself up on my forearms. Flung eye knives and words in his direction.

            "Get your face out of mine. You're stealing my breath."

            Twenty minutes later, twenty minutes after Mother’s Day 1995 was over in fact, you slipped into the world. Looked like a mini golden buddah. Except you weren't bald. You had heaps of black hair that stood on end once they wiped you dry.

            Later, when I was alone with you, I plucked off your pink pompommed baby cap and twisted your hair into little Billy Idol, standup spikes. Whispered into your wee and warm, almost purple ear.

            “I have no idea what you’re gonna be when you grow up, Flower Doll, but I’m pretty sure you’ll be awesome.”

           

For some reason, when you hit six months, you stopped growing.

            "Is there a history of growth disorders in your family?” The young doctor asked me that. Didn't rest her hand on my shoulder, pat my knee, or anything.

            I lifted you off the exam table. Clutched you close to my heart.

            "I'll ask around,” I said, “and get back to you."

            Thing was, you were such a mellow baby. You never yelled. You didn’t pitch fits. Not for a diaper change. Not because you were hungry. I just fed you whenever I remembered.

            After that appointment though, I did everything everyone told me. Drank fennugreek tea. Set an alarm for every three hours to nurse you. Guzzled a shot of Guinness Stout every day. Bit by bit, you grew. Not a lot, but enough to smooth out the ditches in the young pediatrician's forehead.

           

When you were two, you wore a dress every day. And a high ponytail. That's the way it had to be. And those red glitter Mary Jane shoes from WalMart? You wore them out because you loved Dorothy. And her little dog too.

            You didn't talk much until you hit three and then it was like your mouth was a river and someone released the locks and dam. There was no way we could stop the words from gushing. Sometimes we sat you in the dining room while we ate. To give our ears a rest.

            Right before you started kindergarten, I cut your hair. I couldn't get a brush through it without you needing a timeout, so I located my big, blue sewing scissors and sheared off six inches of brunette shine. I still have it. In a jar, on a shelf, in the TV room.

            When you were in first grade, you let me know where babies come from. Some ornery boy had told you all about it on the school bus. Right after he kissed you, French style. I heard that and thought, "Oh, so this is why some people homeschool."

            I remember your first sleepover. “She’s so funny,” the mom said when I picked you up. “We videotaped her. In case cable ever goes out."

            You’d informed her of your plans to adopt a Chinese baby girl someday.

            "'Cause I know where babies come from, and no sperm’s getting in this body!"

 For five years you wanted to be a marine biologist. "I’ll take my pet rat down in my sumbarine every day and I'll live with you and Daddy forever."

            "Sub-marine,” I said as I tucked the covers under your chin. “And just so you know, sweetheart, there's no ocean in West Virginia."

            "I don't care."

            One day you didn't want to be a marine biologist anymore.

            "Drama's my thing," you assured us.

            That didn’t surprise us one bit, but five years and a dozen plays later, you squirmed out of the grip the stage had on you.

            “I’ve decided to get a PhD in history,” you announced one night at the supper table, “with an emphasis on World War II, specifically The Holocaust. I’m going to be a history professor.”

            My gaze met your dad's and we grinned. I leaned toward you. Secured a hank of your brunette shine and twirled it around my pointer finger.

            “Whatever you end up doing, Flower Doll, making history or teaching it, I’m pretty sure you’ll be awesome.”

          

Forever Changed

On the steering wheel, my husband’s knuckles shown white.  I leaned forward to watch the pink of dawn illuminate the Cincinnati skyline.

He glanced over at me.  “Can I speed?”

I winced and nodded.  “I reckon this is the only time you can.”

He snickered as he ran a red light.  I stared out the window and murmured.  He kept his hands on the steering wheel and his eyes on the road, but leaned his body toward me.

“What’d you say?”

I spoke louder.  “Nothing’s ever gonna be the same, is it?”

My husband shook his head as he pulled up to the emergency room entrance of Christ Hospital.

“Nope,” he said.  “Today everything changes.”

The beautiful, willowy brunette nurse perched on the side of my hospital bed.  She picked up my hand and turned it over.  Traced the lines on my palm with a burgundy fingernail as she spoke.

“Did no one give you an enema?”

My eyes bugged out.  “No, ma’am,” I said.  Kinda glad about that.

She huffed.  “I swear.  So many nurses think it’s old-fashioned, but I don’t want my ladies pushing out poop with their babies.  It’s not sanitary.”

I heard a gagging noise.  I peeked in my husband’s direction.  He squinted at the ceiling and cleared his throat.

When Dr. Lum arrived, the first thing I noticed was the peace signs on his socks.  He'd rolled up his scrub pants so they'd show.  He patted my cheek before he sat down at the foot of the bed.

“Sorry I’m late,” he said.  “Had to finish recording a Pink Floyd concert.”

He stood up suddenly and struck an air guitar pose.

“We don’t need no ed-u-ca-tion.”

He sat back down and smiled between my knees.

“You feeling okay, missy?

I felt fine.  I’d had my epidural.  Tall pretty nurse made sure of that as soon as I hit four centimeters dilated.  I didn’t look at the needle, but my husband did.  I gulped when I saw his eyes bulge.  I leaned over the bedside table and did snifftas like our Lamaze teacher had taught us.  Sniff in with the nose. Ta out through the mouth.

“Husbands,” she'd said.  “You can use this technique too.  Like, when you’re in line at the grocery store, and you have to go to the bathroom.  Number two.”

I liked my epidural.  A lot.  Too much really.  I never got the urge to push.

Dr. Lum held up stainless steel tongs.

“These are forceps,” he said.  “We can use these to get baby out.”

I squeaked.  “Fine!  I’ll push.”

I couldn’t feel pain, but I could feel pressure.  I was fully aware when the baby slicky slid out of me.

“It’s a . . . . girl!” Dr. Lum said.  “Nancy’ll take her over and clean her up.  Bring her back in a jiffy.”

I reached down to touch my belly—empty now—after almost a year.  I pressed my fingers in ‘til it felt like I hit the back of me.  My tummy seemed like a pouch of Cool-Whip, all wooshy and gooshy.

“I need you to push one more time,” Dr. Lum said.  “To deliver the placenta.”

I wrinkled my nose.  “Ew!”

I pushed half-heartedly. Surely an empty membrane sack didn’t require the effort a seven pound baby did.

Dr. Lum held up what looked like a large man ‘o war jellyfish. 

“What’s your baby’s name?”

“Josephine Joy,” my husband said.

Dr. Lum pounced the placenta from side to side.  First left, then right.

“This is the house that Josy built, Josy built, Josy built.  This is the house that Josy built—“

He paused to look at his watch, “On December 7, 1991 at 12:34 p.m. on a Saturday.”

I tilted my head and squinted.  Thought him a bit odd but didn’t say so out loud.

He peered at the giant Jell-O jiggler.  “If we were in—can’t remember which country—we’d cook this puppy and eat it for dinner.”

My stomach lurched, and I put my hand in front of my mouth, just in case. 

The lovely labor and delivery nurse finally brought us our baby girl.  Her face, the baby’s, was alarmingly scarlet.  Dark, silky hair wisped out from under her white-with-a-pink-pom-pom beanie cap.  The nurse cooed as she tucked the warm flannel package into my arms.

“Isn’t she gorgeous?”

I looked down at her.  How long had it been since I’d held a baby?  Was it my niece?  Six years ago?  I stroked my daughter’s velvety cheek with my pinky. 

“She kinda looks like a Conehead,” I said.  “You know.  Like on Saturday Night Live?”

Nancy the nurse snapped her fingers.  Pointed at the baby.  Her tiny, round face was turned to me.  She seemed even redder than before.  Her chin was like an ocean wave, coming at me, then retreating, over and over.

I looked up at Nancy.  “What do I do?  What’s she want?”

Nancy cocked her head.  “You really don’t know?  Did you never babysit?”

I shook my head.  “No,” I said.  “I had a paper route.”

She grimaced.  “Oh, my.”

She put one hand on my shoulder, the other under the baby bundle.

“How do I say this, honey?  Nothing’s ever going to be the same for you.  Ever again.”