Today is Laszlo’s 7th birthday. I decided to re-publish this post from my blog, Being Laszlo’s Mama, that I published the night before his fourth birthday.
Four years ago tonight, at 9pm–right about now–I was noticing that the, um, “tightening” in my abdomen, which I’d experienced on and off for about four months, was becoming more and more regular and was actually, um, hurting. Not like it had been hurting for the past few hours, which was the kind of hurting where, if I discreetly practiced deep breaths and methodically rubbed my belly, I could actually keep it under wraps. This was more like, Jesus Christ, something is going on and it’s not the black bean soup I ate for lunch. This was the real deal. My sister called and I went into the bedroom. “Is anything going on?” she asked. “Um, no, not really,” I lied–more in an effort to convince myself, and also in an attempt to protect myself from disappointment in case nothing really was going on.
We’d had a few false alarms–thought labor had started, thought water had broken–and I’d naively notified people. The word would get out and phone calls would start. I’d return home, dejected–still pregnant, not in labor, still huge and miserable, the baby still isn’t ready to come out. I’d have to make phone calls and hear the disappointment when I wasn’t calling with the exciting news of delivery. So, this time, I just wanted to wait until I knew for sure.
But when labor decided to really start (or, more precisely, when Laszlo really decided to come out), it, well, started, and never stopped, for 15 solid hours… I had back-to-back, double- and triple-peaking contractions, barfing, out-of-my-mind, I-think-I-might-actually-die-from-the-contractions contractions. I forgot why this was even happening to me, and I think I pretty much forgot who me was, or even what kind of animal I was… I did know that I was an animal and that’s pretty much what labor was like for me: very animal. “Ride Dottie’s wave,” Mike would tell me, trying to remind me of a conversation I’d had with someone–not Dottie, as he mistakenly thought, and I desperately wanted to tell him, to correct him, “No, it wasn’t Dottie, it was…” but I’d lost pretty much the ability to speak in anything other than single syllables–grunts at best–and so, to this day, the guy still doesn’t know that it wasn’t Dottie who told me to ride the waves of labor, and I’ve since forgotten who it was anyway.
Epidural? By the time I finally got my wits about me enough to get out something which slightly resembled language and murmur that “I needed something”–more like a drink of cold water, but when Mike asked, “Do you want the epidural?” I was like, “Oh, God, yes, that’s exactly what I need. What idiot thought I could do this without drugs? Oh, wait, yes, that idiot was me. Um, anyway, yes, yes, oh, please, God, yes, give me an epidural,” But actually, instead of saying that, I only made a grunt of a “Y” sound and breathed the second half of the word “es” and Mike asked the nurse to see if I could get the drugs.
They’d have to check me first–see how far along I was.
Sorry, it’s too late for that. You’re going to have to ride it out.
Ride the wave.
What? What wave? Why am I here? Am I dying?
But, anyway, four years ago tonight, I prepared myself to no longer be a pregnant woman, which I actually loved being up until the last two weeks, and to become someone’s mother. The nurses marvelled when I pushed him out in less than half an hour. When he was ready, he just came right out, all purple, wide-eyed, beautiful, and ready to be in the world. My son.
Whew. I wish I could do it all again.
Happy birthday, Laszlo.
