And Two Tylenols Later, A Baby Was Born

Guy in Childbirth Class: So…do you think my wife could just take a couple Tylenol and be ok through labor?

I wanted to smack him. Partially because earlier he insisted his punctured spleen from a car accident a couple years ago never really hurt.

I have a pretty high pain tolerance.

Translation: I cry only a little when I slowly peel off a band aid.

Taking this off will be a doozy.

Real Translation: Because needles freak me out, I won’t let the dentist numb me when filling cavities.

I’m that person nearly passes out at blood draws, and afterwards I feel stupid because I didn’t even feel the needle.

So I decided to last as long as I could drug-free and then assess the drug situation because…

• I was a 9-pound (and however many ounces) baby.
• Boo was a 23-inch long baby.
• Radley was a 9-pound baby.
• Our baby measured in the 70th percentile.
• Except for her head. She’s in the 93rd percentile. Our baby has a big head.
• After Sunday’s false labor contractions for over 12 hours, I almost slammed my head into the wall to knock myself out just so I could get some rest.

My birth plan said…

1. Knock me out.
2. Wake me up after the baby arrives.

I wish that had been an option. It actually said…

1. Drugs: Maybe. Not Tylenol.

After laboring at home for 15-16 hours, I decided it was time to go to the hospital. When I got there, I was 7 centimeters dilated…and every nurse seemed concerned I was about to give birth in the hallway, so I asked for drugs that last an hour, hoping that was all I would need.

That resulted in me telling everyone that I made the staff red velvet cookies, and they should get one from the nurses station.

And after that sweet hour of mild relief with barely any more dilation, I asked for the epidural.

Kiefer: Are you sure you don’t want to try walking around first to see if it speeds things up?

Me: Kiefer…I’m done. I want…the epidural.

When you say someone’s name, they know you mean business.

When the anesthesiologist came in…

Anesthesiologist: How are you doing?

Me: I’m done.

Unfortunately for me, the baby hadn’t come out yet, so I wasn’t actually done.

One epidural and 3 hours later, I was 10 centimeters dilated with a bag of water still in tact. The midwife popped it, and we got the show on the road.

Then I noticed that I could see my legs and stuff in the reflection of the lamp light. I think that’s when my coochie snorcher decided it was done despite the baby still being inside.

After pushing for a bit, they turned down the epidural. After pushing for 4 hours with little progress and a baby suspected to be sunny side up, we discussed other options.

Scout finally arrived after nearly 29 hours of labor. The last 5-10 minutes was extremely unpleasant—I’ll leave it at that.

Her head was too big for my nether regions but not too big for this hat.

Don’t F*ck With the Babysitter

Back in December, my doctor’s office screwed up. They were supposed to test my progesterone levels, and instead they told me my blood type.  That was Doctor #1.

In June, they tested for blood disorders. While I was waiting for results, I found out I was pregnant, so I had more blood drawn.

When the doctor called to tell me congratulations, he asked, “So what are you doing about your blood disorder?”

Huh?

Because I really liked Doctor #2 (he was the only doctor willing to test for blood disorders), I overlooked this mistake.

Unfortunately, Doctor #2 no longer delivers babies, so I started seeing Doctors #3-7 at the same practice because you don’t know who will be on call when you deliver.

Doctor #3? Fine.

Then Doctor #4 asked if my insurance would cover cystic fibrosis carrier testing. It did. While I waited for my cystic fibrosis results, I visited my specialist for an ultrasound.

The specialist saw something on the ultrasound that could mean the baby had an infection or cystic fibrosis, so he wanted to take blood. And because I love needles and am quite fond of keeping my blood in my body, I said…

Me: Just test for infections. You can skip cystic fibrosis because my doctor’s office just took blood for that.

 That entire week I was a mess. It was the day after our wedding; I was supposed to go to Texas: I didn’t.

The specialist’s office called me 4 days later with the infections results: All clear.

It had been 6 days since the OB’s office drew my blood, so I called for my results.

Doctor’s Office: Your neural tube birth defects test came back fine.

Me: And my cystic fibrosis test?

Doctor’s Office: We didn’t test for that.

Me: Doctor #4 said you were going to.

Doctor’s Office: We can draw that at next month’s appointment.

Me: No. The specialist is concerned about something on the ultrasound; I’m not waiting 3 more weeks.

I will gut you like a fish!

Bitch, I will cut you.

Needless to say, I’m done with that office. I understand people make mistakes, but three times is too much for me.

Tomorrow I’m going to a completely different doctor’s office. Wish me luck!

The Big Wedding vs. My Wedding

Kiefer and I get married on Saturday. That’s just a few days away…and I’m not panicking.

Years ago, Mephistopheles and I were engaged, and he called it off the week of the wedding. That was traumatizing. Of course, two days later he apologized and wanted the wedding to be back on, but I was done.

After that, I swore elopement was the only way to go.

But when Kiefer gave me that option, I turned it down, and for the last four months, we planned our big day.

I thought that over Labor Day weekend I would worry about Kiefer backing out. When I went to work on Tuesday, I realized the thought never crossed my mind.

To prepare us for any wedding mishaps, Kiefer and I watched The Big Wedding.

We really wanted Robin Williams to marry us, but he was booked.

• For a guy, sometimes his “thing” goes up but may not come down.
• Four and a half years isn’t that long to wait for a proposal. Some women wait 10 years.
• Robert DeNiro is a manwhore.
• “Muffin” can be a person’s name.
• Never have sex with a man unless he reads you poetry first…and brings you flowers for a year.
• Docks have a weight limit. Respect it or you will fall in the water.

Kiefer and I are getting married over water, too (if the weather is nice). I’ll have to look up the weight restrictions.

Favorite Comment From Last Post: “Thoughtsy, here’s your angle for the next time… When confronted with allusions to pooping, explain that ‘Pooping’ may be a bit of a misnomer, as the only thing that comes out or you is glitter. Then if you really want to mess with his head, leave a little glitter scattered around the bathroom.”—BluzDude

Do You Hear the Words That Are Coming Outta My Mouth?

No one listens to me. Ever. I’m not sure if it’s the quietness of my voice or the fact that I sound like a child, but for some reason, I’m constantly saying, “I told you so.” Except I’m too nice to actually say it.

At the end of June, I made an appointment to have my wedding dress altered. Here’s how that phone call went.

Thoughtsy: Hello, I need to make an alterations appointment for my wedding dress.

Seamstress: When is your wedding?

Thoughtsy: September 7th.

Seamstress: Oh my…you need to come in right away.

Thoughtsy: Yeah…that’s not going to happen. I’m about to move, and then I’m headed to Greece. The earliest I can come in is the end of July. Plus…I’m pregnant. I don’t think you want to do the alterations too soon.

Another lady calls me back, and I tell her I’m pregnant, and she’s not sure the end of July is enough time. A third lady calls me and says everything will be fine as long as I come in as soon as I return from Greece.

I take the afternoon off work, put the dress on, and come out of the fitting room.

Seamstress: I see in your file you’re a mother-to-be. Congratulations!

Thoughtsy: Thanks!

Seamstress: We don’t like to do alterations on mothers to be this soon. We like to wait until about 3 weeks out. So let’s make another appointment for you.

Translation: This appointment was 100% usless. Sorry to have wasted your time.

Thoughtsy: W…T…F….

Take That, Lady-Who-Called-Me-the-Town-Whore!

Back in December, a lady at the grocery store called me the town whore based solely on what I was wearing. Good times, good times.

Anyways, the other day, an older gentleman made my day by commenting on my outfit. I wish the old mean lady had been there. Yes, I totally hold grudges forever.

My mom and I were at lunch, and a group of older gentlemen walked by us on their way out. The last one stopped to talk to us.

Older Gentleman: I just wanted to tell you how nice it is to sit across from a young lady who is dressed appropriately and modestly. Thank you. You’re beautiful. Enjoy your lunch!

I was in an ankle-length skirt and white sleeveless top. If you’re dressed in anything else, he’s calling you a “whore.” Sorry about your luck.

I’ll be wearing that outfit every time I go to the grocery store now. Then, when I see the mean old lady, I can get all up in her face, look at her outfit and then look at mine, and be like, “Who’s the townwhore now, biatch?”

That is my totally 100% mature plan.

Anyways, after that compliment, the conversation took an interesting turn.

Thoughtsy’s Mom: Thank goodness he didn’t see what you were wearing when we picked you up from the airport the other day. I could see your bra.

Yes, that’s right. My mom told me I dressed like a whore. Sigh….

In my defense, what started out as a sundress, after 15+ hours in airports and squirming on planes had seriously stretched out and was very revealing.

Oops….

Favorite Comments From Last Post:

• “Ummm, carrot cake is a vegetable. Although, if its not, that would explain a lot about how that Freshman 15 snuck up on me when I was in college.”—PinotNinja
• “In my dream, crudmuffins ™ are a valuable source of daily fiber.”—The Hipster