Live Blogging a Live Birth

For my wife, who was busy.

July 10, 2011

@ 7:30pm: Oh dear. When Darby stood up to accompany me to dinner her water broke. I guess this is gonna happen. Darby is calling our midwife Jaymi.

8:00pm: The fluid is greenish yellowish. A quick perusal of the web says this is likely Meconium, which is a fancy word for poop.* It’s not necessarily serious, but the baby can aspirate it and this is not good. Jaymi is on the way.

We planned for this moment for months and somehow it has still managed to sneak up on us. We bought medical supplies and special teas and stocked our fridge with Gatorades (which were, apparently, off limits to those who are not with child, as though my thirst might not also need quenching) and all of that seems extremely small when confronted with the fact that a human baby will soon be trying to exit my wife’s body.

I’m not sure what we’re supposed to be doing at this point, but it seems clear we won’t be going for pizza after all. At a loss, I offer Darby a Gatorade and am told to shut up.

8:15pm: Darby is on the can while her fluid drains. I’m sitting in the hallway just outside the can. I was sitting in the living room reading about the American soccer team’s brilliant ouster of Brazil earlier, but then I realized this would seem callous if the midwife walked in.

9:00pm: Jaymi just informed me in sotto voce, “This is going to go fast.” Darby is already 5cm dilated. For the uninitiated and those that don’t use metric, this is about 2 inches and about half the size you need it to be. While that sounds big to me, it also sounds like the baby’s head needs to be only about four inches across to fit comfortably. This seems unlikely. Father’s hat size: 7^5/8 inches.

In the time since my last entry the parents were called. I wondered if it was too soon to sound the alarms but I decided it would be better than having the baby while they slept and having them feel like they missed it. Both sets live in the Eastern Time Zone, so they were just about asleep. My father-in-law in particular sounded less than pleased to be answering the phone but he softened somewhat when I told him the news.

I also ran to the corner grocer to buy maxi-pads (I guess there will be some bleeding). Gosh, there are some witty people at our local. The guy in line ahead of me saw that I was carrying only two packages of pads and let me cut in front of him.

“Husbandly duties?” he mused.

“You have no idea,” I said.

The cashier, looking at his watch, then said, “I’ve been there.”

I doubt it but I just laugh politely.

Presently, Darby is barfing her brains out. This is normal. Sadly, the puking started between the time the pizza was ordered and delivered, and the order was not without contention.

“I’m gonna order the pizza.”

“Will you get cheese?”

“Ok. What about—“

“Just. Cheese.” Darby said with a withering look.

Now her pizza is sitting uneaten on the counter. It sure could use some mushrooms or green chile.

9:15pm: “Do you need anything?”

“My Gatorade. It’s on the red thing.”

Fetches it from the brand new hutch. Sweeps water ring away. Hands the drink over.
“I see you didn’t use a coaster…”

“Give me the damn Gatorade.”

I don’t mean to illustrate these events as though Darby is being cruel or unfair. For one thing, I am a terrible smart aleck, a quality that intensifies when I know I am supposed to be serious (alas, we don’t even own any coasters). For another, her body is preparing to expel an infant and this, I imagine, requires a lot of concentration, leaving little room for the appreciation of subtle jesting.

Darby looks very preoccupied, understandably so. She goes from standing, arms akimbo, panting like she just ran a long race, to sitting, stupefied, like a drunken sorority girl with no hope of making it home tonight.

9:30pm: Into the pool. Given that it’s so hot in our apartment and she’s already covered in sweat, I can’t see how laying in a warm water can feel good.

…and it doesn’t, according to sources. Not that I blame her, but she seems pretty unhappy. She just asked when she can start pushing. Jaymi told her her body would start pushing when it is time.

While stroking Darby’s arm I was informed of the unbeknownst-to-me No Touching policy. Calmly, Jaymi informed me that if I am going to touch, stillness would perhaps be preferable to stroking.

“No touching!” Darby repeated.

Next, Jaymi picked up the camera. Between contractions, Darby recedes into what looks like deep relaxation. Her eyes shut and her breaths slow and deepen to a rate a yogi would be proud of. However, the moment she hears the very identifiable sound of a camera strap quietly jangling as it is slowly lifted from a table across the room Darby springs to life.

“No photography!”

“You can always delete them.”

“No photography,” she repeats, flinging her hands outwards.

Jeesh. It’s like we’re at a museum. I wonder what she’ll say about my live journaling…

9:45pm: Darby is having some pretty intense contractions. Her stomach jumps and lurches like one of those fat comedians that can make their flab do The Wave.

I was holding her hand but I wanted to keep writing. Also, it was getting kind of crushy.

10:00pm: I don’t know if Darby is going to remember this real clearly. I’d guess she won’t. But I’d like to just say that she’s doing awesome. The work involved is evident to the guy in the armchair sipping ginger ale. And she may well talk about how difficult this was but, at the risk of oversimplification, she’s kind of making it look easy.

It’s quiet when the grunting subsides. Trying to be a good reporter, I ask Darby what she’s thinking about. “Nothing,” she practically whispers. This seems about right.

10:30pm: The pushing is in full bore. Darby is grunting like a slow-motion replay of women’s tennis. I switch out my writing hand so she can strangulate the left one. This is intense.

Jaymi is sitting calmly on the sofa. Occasionally she will quietly intone encouragements to Darby, but mostly she just watches. And this is fine with me. She does not appear worried, so I’m trying not to worry but I must look a little nervous because she keeps giving me the Thumbs Up.

10:45pm: The things that are happening in this kiddie pool! I think we both believed we’d be soaking our feet in the evenings later this month. Now I’m less sure.

11:00pm: We’re starting to see some head. Jaymi says he’s not gonna have much hair. How is this possible? I trimmed my ears the other day.

I can’t believe the dogs are sleeping through this! I hope the neighbors are too.

This experience is so strange, that you can just make a new person in your own living room. I kind of can’t believe it’s legal, or that you don’t have to notify the authorities.

Jaymi has been continually checking the baby’s heart rate with a Doppler. I feel tremendous relief each time when the whoosh that signifies blood flow is heard.

11:15pm: The belly button is back. It went missing a few months ago. This is little consolation right now, and I don’t mention it, but still, it’s cute.

“How much longer?” Darby wails.

“Until he’s all the way out,” Jaymi says. This seems at once really obvious and incredibly daunting.

As he begins to crown more my pulse rises. I am starting to get the idea of the size of this thing and it just doesn’t look like it’s going to fit.

“It hurts!!” Darby yells. This characterization seems wildly inadequate.

11:23pm: It done! Darby is cradling a short, bald guy. When the head emerged Jaymi had me move around to help catch him. I held his head under the water while Jaymi pulled and twisted him to the left. The shoulders came out suddenly and then the rest of him rushed out too. My heart racing, I held him there for a moment unsure of what to do.

“Hold him up!” Jaymi beams. I hold him up. He’s squishy and grey. His skin feels like a saggy water balloon. I can’t believe this was inside my wife’s tummy.

“Give him to Darby!” Jaymi says, less beamy now. I hand him to Darby who looks exhausted but also greatly relieved.

“Oh my god,” she says, cradling him in her arm. She repeats this several times. She is not even aware we are here anymore. It’s pretty special.

She looks at me and says, “I’d like to call him Elijah.” This is not surprising. It was on the list. But when she says this I agree because, good lord, this is not the time for an argument. I am happy to let her have the final say.

11:30pm: Pending a positive drug test, it’s official. Darby completed a natural birth in just under four hours and I have a son. Full name: Elijah Skywalker Photos. Stats to follow.

July 11, 2011

@ 1:30am: The living room is back to normal. The pool has been emptied, the tarp is gone, the Oriental rug is visible again. Jaymi assesses the baby and reports no irregularities. Eli is 20 inches long with a 13-inch cranial circumference. He weighs 7lbs. 5oz. For being the most beautiful and amazing baby of all time, his measurements are totally average.

Jaymi tells us to get some rest but this seems unlikely. Though we are both tired**, this is way more exciting than anything I can remember. As kids, when we got new Nintendo games I used to set my alarm for 5 a.m. so I would be up before my brother could get to it, and even then I wouldn’t be able to fall asleep.

After some quiet crying in the pool, Eli was dried and swaddled. He is asleep now, breathing in quick shallow sips of air, using his lungs for the first time. He does almost nothing, and we are completely fascinated. We watch him until our eyes grow heavy. We will need our rest. This doesn’t get easier.

…

Special thanks to Jaymi McKay. She was a wonderful and calming influence throughout the pregnancy and, despite what she says, I wouldn’t have been “fine without her.” She helped us accomplish something momentous and made it seem super ordinary. And, after all, it is, but I needed her to reassure me of it.

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* Back when I was in art school, one of us posed the question as to whether babies poop in utero. This was before the internet, so we never bothered to research this. Instead my solution was to sing the words Womb Pooper to the tune of Dreamweaver to the delight of no one. There is possibly a video of this which I’m certain will resurface at an inopportune moment.

** I did work a 12 today, and the day before.

A Fleeting Sense of Accomplishment

What do you mean you don't give A pluses!?


At the end of the first Star Wars trilogy there is a big party—people are dancing, there is some terrible music being played, and the crushing glove of the empire is replaced with a love for all fellow man and Ewok. Good triumphed and we should be very happy, but even as a little boy I can remember thinking, what are Luke and the gang going to do now? After finally vanquishing their enemy, I imagine them waking up the next day, or a few days onward, and feeling, well, bored.

For a while there, the rebellion had been waging an intergalactic war. Fighter jets, light saber battles, disguises and espionage—they were heroes, and spies, and this brought them together. It gave them a purpose. Appointing committees to restructure a new galactic government, and just generally living in peace has to pale in comparison. I mean, Luke could either get a cushy job through Leia's connections, or go back to spice farming. Most likely he'll end up in some craggy hut like Old Ben Kenobi, meditating and reminiscing or telling the same old heroic stories at the American Legion. And Han, assuming he even gets married, would be bored to death with the pageantry of living in a royal family. I give him a year before he cheats on her worshipfulness.

I mention it because I just completed my first semester as a science major and, though proud, I am suddenly faced with three weeks of time off and nothing to do.

The sense of accomplishment that accompanies the completion of a difficult task is both satisfying and short-lived. For about 15 minutes I was elated. I wanted to go jump on my bike and ride around the city crowing at strangers. Instead I just went home and ate some beans and rice.

About an hour after my exam, something like panic began to overtake me. I started checking my email compulsively. I tried to write something. I got out my guitar, but didn't play it. I started eating everything in the cupboard (which was not much—a few chips, some grape nuts, two fistfuls of almonds). And then I realized that I was completely unprepared for my new found free time.

I have been unemployed now for 4 months and though I have been continually looking for work, I am not sorry about it. I felt fortunate that I could devote myself so completely to my studies. A lot of my peers struggled with the work load because they were forced to keep jobs. It gave me an eerie feeling of privilege, like I was from a wealthy family and didn't have to work (which, in a sense is true, though we just live really simply and get by on very little).

To compensate, I became determined to get straight A's (my grades are as yet unconfirmed). This was no small task. Even as a full time student, I had to prioritize my time and study on a schedule every week. Compared to all my previous schooling, where my goal was merely to pass, it was far more stressful to try not to lose any points than it was to just try to get enough.
And the process consumed me. I even did the extra credit assignments when I didn't need to. I became hyper competitive with the other students, and when I outscored them I became competitive with myself. One teacher, while arguing with me about an 'incorrect' answer, pointed out, "You know we don't give A pluses." I didn't know, but I didn't care either. Every deduction from a perfect score was a painful jab at my carelessness. My anatomy teacher grades on the curve, meaning she takes the highest score and makes it a 100, the difference is then added to everyone's score. Twice my test was the curve setter, but I actually felt disappointed when I realized that I had not scored a 100 at all, I had only rightfully earned a 95 and a 98. My perfect scores were tainted. Now I know how Roger Maris must have felt.

I realize that I must seem pretty unsympathetic. Something happened to me this semester in my quest for perfection and, although I felt unable to stop it, suffice it to say that I didn't really enjoy the feeling. I like being in school, and I like working toward a goal, but the singular nature of my goal—to score 100s—was stressful and had a hollowing effect. I do not think it's bad to be devoted to something, especially education, but I think it is important to try to retain a sense of humor and humility about it, to allow yourself to make mistakes and enjoy yourself.

I see the same symptoms when I watch Tiger Woods. I think it is universally agreed that he is the greatest golfer alive, possibly ever. And yet his steely glare, his victorious fist pump that borders on rage, his dull-eyed anguish when he loses—I get the feeling that he's never really having any fun at all. He is only there to win. Well, winning feels good, but as they say, it isn't everything. Just ask Luke.