Eight years ago today I was in the hospital. In labor. Actually, I had been in labor since 11 pm the night before, but Sweet Son #1 had decided to take his sweet time, and I didn’t go to the hospital until about 5 am. They admitted me, and he chose late afternoon to make his grand entrance.
The fact that I absolutely hate needles kept me staunchly in the “No epidural, thanks.” camp, a stand which I rescinded (regrettably) with The Manimal. With SS#1, I felt every contraction, every twinge, and every push. That could explain why, when they didn’t immediately place him on my chest after delivery, I didn’t completely freak. I simply didn’t have the energy.
I didn’t really have the energy to notice the new doctor coming in and the nurses huddled around my little bean. Diva Husband stood next to me the whole time, just as oblivious to the situation.
After he was cleaned up and checked and back in my arms, the new doctor came and introduced herself. Turns out my little guy’s heart wasn’t quite up to snuff when he first made his appearance, and he wasn’t the pinkish color everyone expected to see. All was well, though, and his heart was beating normally again, so no worries.
Never a problem after that, and now, it’s my heart that seems to stop periodically. Like when he straps on his bike helmet and rides off by himself. Or when he heads off to school (is my baby really old enough for that?). Or goes to soccer camp. Or spends a WHOLE WEEK with the Diva Grandparents (by himself-in another state!). Or prepares for his first solo airplane ride.
But I’m so proud of my baby boy. My eight-years-old-today baby boy.