"Are you sure you aren't carrying twins?" my hr person says to me.
I resist the urge to knock her candy jar into next week as I reply, "Yes, I'm sure. There is really only one in the oven." Skinny blonde bitch. I wanted to kick her, too, but my boss was there, and I know better than to do something like that in front of a potential witness. (Why do people think it's perfectly ok to comment on your belly size just because you are knocked up? I mean, it's expected that you will look different, but does one really need to hear that they are approaching the size of a zepplin? While their hormones are chanting "kill, kill"? I'm just curious.)
Well, the blessed day for Ben's arrival came. And went. WTH? Ben, my second child, was a good pregnancy, for the most part. I took naps in the afternoon when I got home from work, with Nolan. I felt pretty good. I was thinking that this time, I'd go into labor on my own, and things would be fine, I'd VBAC, and be uber-Mom within a week or so.
There's a reason that book is called "What to EXPECT While You're Expecting" and not "This is EXACTLY What Will Happen When You Have a Baby, Everytime."
Nothing humbles you more than realizing you are not in charge of the show, this alien kicking your ribs is, and there's nothing you can do about it, so sit there and let your ankles swell in peace. Go ahead, have the proverbial pickle with your ice cream, you'll feel better.
Oh, and was I ever impatient. He was due on a Monday. Every day, every twinge, I was certain was THE ONE. By Thursday, I was a wreck. Anxious, uncomfortable, and getting pre-eclamptic. When my doc suggested being induced on Friday, I was all over it. Get him out, get him out, put me out of this misery, and get him out. Of course, I knew the induction wasn't gonna be pleasant, but what part of labor is?
Off we scoot to the hospital. The labor and delivery nurse that was responsible for checking me in was a piece of work. She managed to both insult Mr W, implying that he was sitting on the stool next to my bed "with his thumb up his butt" and make me cry within 15 minutes of getting us in the room. (She checked me, even though my doc said he'd ask that they not, because he just did, and as I was at a negative 2 station, he figured why put me through it...but she insisted. And I cried, because it hurt like hell. I should've kicked her.) If I'd known better, I'd have insisted on a new nurse immediately, but she was leaving soon, so we elected to suck it up, in light of the fact that I'd be there for a while. This was around 5 pm.
At 2:30 am, or so, my doc comes in, leans against the wall and says, well, you're not going anywhere with this, and in light of the last labor, I think we should just go in and get him out. Bring on the OR, I said, if it means you'll take this nasty mag sulfate out of my system. That stuff is just vile, and if you've ever had it, you understand what I mean here.
Once again, the sweetest sound on earth, was the sound of my boy crying loudly. He hasn't shut up since, my little chatterbox.
Actually, he wasn't little. At 9lbs, 7oz and 22 1/2 inches, he holds the record in my household as the biggest baby. I swear, he looked 2 months old when we brought him home. And the uber-Mom thing? Well, that was a not as easy a maneuver as I thought it would be. He wouldn't nurse well for about 2 1/2 weeks, but I didn't give up. And adding an infant to my 2 1/2 yr old's world was a bit of a challenge. Thank goodness for the debut of Blue's Clues.
Ben also holds the record in my household for the biggest heart, and for being the biggest social butterfly. We used to refer to him as "our little politician" because he was always shaking hands and kissing babies. He is a sweetie, he's fun to be around, and you can't imagine how quiet my house is when he's not here, because, I'm really not kidding here, he talks alot. ALOT. "ben. Ben. BEN!!" is how I have to get his attention, because he can never hear me the first time around. He used to call me "Mom-mom" and I used to call him "Ben-ben," but he never does that anymore. :( He still hugs me all the time. And now, he pays me compliments, which I try to take with a polite "Thank you" while I resist the urge to ask him "What is it that you want?" Of course, I'll never forget the time we were in the grocery store, right after he started kindergarten, and this little girl (and her sister) from his class saw him and it was like shopping with a rock star: whispers: "That's Ben." "Ben?" <louder> "Ben, oh, it's Ben," girly giggles and sighs as they run over to him. Yup. I am anticipating dating nightmares with this one. And the girl that decides to break his heart better enter the witness protection program, because his Mom will not have his gentle, sweet spirit trampled by some, some, girl. (Isn't there a 12 step program for this, lol, I need to get a handle on this before they all start dating...)
I think all the boys resemble Mr W to a fault, through my Mom's-eye-view, but most people home in on Ben being Mr W's clone because they have similar coloring, and Ben has his father's amazing blue/green/gray colored eyes. My dad refers to him as "ojos azules" (blue eyes) which coincidentally, is what he used to call Mr W (well, with a few other choice words thrown in).
Yesterday, my nine-and almost half-pounder turned nine.
Happy Birthday, to my Ben-ben, the commentator of my days.