Pop goes the Baby
My water broke at Chuck E. Cheese’s.
When I tell people that that was the first time I’d been to Chuck E. Cheese’s since I was about six, no one believes me. Everyone immediately assumes I own a time share there. But it was the first time. Really, it was.
I’d started having contractions the night before. They were uncomfortable, but not debilitating, so I figured I still had time—especially since I wanted to labor at home as long as possible. My husband wanted to hurry to the hospital, but I was calm and relaxed. No need to rush, I insisted. We let Colin finish his game, cash in his twenty dollars’ worth of coupons, and pick a prize that was worth approximately eighteen cents.
On the way home, I remembered I still had one more load of laundry waiting for me. I floated the idea of finishing the load before we left for the hospital, but my husband shut that down. What a worry wart.
When we got home, I hopped in the shower. Afterwards, I thought I’d finish packing my bag, then maybe go for a walk and watch a movie. I could pop in that load of laundry (Andy would come around), read War and Peace, and maybe put in the new deck we’d been planning to add to the backyard.
But before I’d finished shampooing my hair, the contractions got worse.
Not to worry—I’d been practicing my self-hypnosis, so I talked myself through them. Then I congratulated myself for being a meditation genius.
But then the contractions got much worse.
I couldn’t even finish my shower. I barely got the conditioner out of my hair. In my husband’s version of the story, I emerged from the bathroom declaring, “I want the epidural. Right. Now.”
Six months of self-hypnosis training led to that moment. Stupid self-hypnosis CDs. Why did I ever think they would work? Maybe I can sell them on ebay and take advantage of some other naïve, pregnant woman.
That’s when I felt the baby start to push out. And I decided that maybe that last load of laundry could wait.
I really, really wanted to hurry, but it was hard. I had about ninety seconds to be productive before another contraction came. My husband wanted to help me. “Go to your special place,” he told me. And I was trying so hard not to be one of those stereotypical pregnant women who screams obscenities at her well-meaning partner.
We had planned to drop Colin off with my mother in law, but there was no time, so we all piled in the car. It was the longest drive to Walnut Creek ever. I screamed; Colin screamed. Andy pretended to be calm while panicking that our daughter would be born on 680.
When we pulled up to the entrance to the ER, Andy gestured wildly for someone to assist us. Thirty-five contractions later, a woman ambled over, rolling a wheelchair. I sort of stood in the chair, fighting like mad not to have the baby yet. “You have to sit in the chair,” she told me, annoyed.
For the record, when I’m not in labor, sitting in a wheelchair is totally within my skill set.
Once in the hospital room, four nurses swooped in to assist me. Andy ran outside the room and frantically asked another nurse to watch Colin. “Too late,” she told him. “Your baby’s already here.”
And she was. I delivered Annabelle in the wheelchair, less than two hours after my water broke, less than two minutes after arriving at the hospital.
Annabelle was sweet and beautiful—and a very funny color—but after a half hour or so she looked more like a member of our species.
There’s really nothing like that moment when the nurse first puts your baby in your arms. Before I had Colin, I remember thinking it sounded a little gross. The baby comes out a bloody, wet mess, and I’m supposed to cuddle him? But then it happens, and I don’t care. I think it’s because it’s so magical—and also because I’m already dripping with bodily fluids and gore.
When I tell people this story, they sometimes marvel that I had such an easy birth. I respond that I had a fast birth. That easy and comfortable labor touted by the self-hypnosis CDs? I don’t think it exists.
But I do have a confession. When the CDs instructed me to visualize my labor, I pictured it happening quickly, so quickly I’d barely make it to the hospital in time. Coincidence?
I’d say no, except that I’ve been visualizing independent wealth for years now, and nothing’s happened. If the CDs could deliver on that, they wouldn’t have to teach me how to close my eyes and visualize travelling to my special place. I’d just buy a plane ticket.
When I tell people that that was the first time I’d been to Chuck E. Cheese’s since I was about six, no one believes me. Everyone immediately assumes I own a time share there. But it was the first time. Really, it was.
I’d started having contractions the night before. They were uncomfortable, but not debilitating, so I figured I still had time—especially since I wanted to labor at home as long as possible. My husband wanted to hurry to the hospital, but I was calm and relaxed. No need to rush, I insisted. We let Colin finish his game, cash in his twenty dollars’ worth of coupons, and pick a prize that was worth approximately eighteen cents.
On the way home, I remembered I still had one more load of laundry waiting for me. I floated the idea of finishing the load before we left for the hospital, but my husband shut that down. What a worry wart.
When we got home, I hopped in the shower. Afterwards, I thought I’d finish packing my bag, then maybe go for a walk and watch a movie. I could pop in that load of laundry (Andy would come around), read War and Peace, and maybe put in the new deck we’d been planning to add to the backyard.
But before I’d finished shampooing my hair, the contractions got worse.
Not to worry—I’d been practicing my self-hypnosis, so I talked myself through them. Then I congratulated myself for being a meditation genius.
But then the contractions got much worse.
I couldn’t even finish my shower. I barely got the conditioner out of my hair. In my husband’s version of the story, I emerged from the bathroom declaring, “I want the epidural. Right. Now.”
Six months of self-hypnosis training led to that moment. Stupid self-hypnosis CDs. Why did I ever think they would work? Maybe I can sell them on ebay and take advantage of some other naïve, pregnant woman.
That’s when I felt the baby start to push out. And I decided that maybe that last load of laundry could wait.
I really, really wanted to hurry, but it was hard. I had about ninety seconds to be productive before another contraction came. My husband wanted to help me. “Go to your special place,” he told me. And I was trying so hard not to be one of those stereotypical pregnant women who screams obscenities at her well-meaning partner.
We had planned to drop Colin off with my mother in law, but there was no time, so we all piled in the car. It was the longest drive to Walnut Creek ever. I screamed; Colin screamed. Andy pretended to be calm while panicking that our daughter would be born on 680.
When we pulled up to the entrance to the ER, Andy gestured wildly for someone to assist us. Thirty-five contractions later, a woman ambled over, rolling a wheelchair. I sort of stood in the chair, fighting like mad not to have the baby yet. “You have to sit in the chair,” she told me, annoyed.
For the record, when I’m not in labor, sitting in a wheelchair is totally within my skill set.
Once in the hospital room, four nurses swooped in to assist me. Andy ran outside the room and frantically asked another nurse to watch Colin. “Too late,” she told him. “Your baby’s already here.”
And she was. I delivered Annabelle in the wheelchair, less than two hours after my water broke, less than two minutes after arriving at the hospital.
Annabelle was sweet and beautiful—and a very funny color—but after a half hour or so she looked more like a member of our species.
There’s really nothing like that moment when the nurse first puts your baby in your arms. Before I had Colin, I remember thinking it sounded a little gross. The baby comes out a bloody, wet mess, and I’m supposed to cuddle him? But then it happens, and I don’t care. I think it’s because it’s so magical—and also because I’m already dripping with bodily fluids and gore.
When I tell people this story, they sometimes marvel that I had such an easy birth. I respond that I had a fast birth. That easy and comfortable labor touted by the self-hypnosis CDs? I don’t think it exists.
But I do have a confession. When the CDs instructed me to visualize my labor, I pictured it happening quickly, so quickly I’d barely make it to the hospital in time. Coincidence?
I’d say no, except that I’ve been visualizing independent wealth for years now, and nothing’s happened. If the CDs could deliver on that, they wouldn’t have to teach me how to close my eyes and visualize travelling to my special place. I’d just buy a plane ticket.
