Big Boy

I had pasta for dinner.  Pasta with cheese and butter.  It was warm and comforting and filling and ... completely fattening and not at all what I need a week before I head to the beach.  There will be no fancy tie-in at the end of the blog.  Just thought I'd share.


Big Boy was induced at 41 weeks.  Actually Young Lady was induced at 40 weeks, Big Boy at 41 weeks and Peanut was induced at 42 weeks and still took 36 hours to come out.  It's a good thing I'm stopping at three (in theory) because they're getting more and more reluctant to leave.


But I was sure to be induced at 40 weeks with Big Boy because I thought - no I was sure - that I had lost some water (I won't go into details for those who haven't pushed a human out, have no desire to, or simply can't because they have a penis).  But the midwives said no he wasn't ripe, so I came back a week later where they said - "but the amniotic sac has a tear!  He could get an infection!  He should have come out sooner!"  grrrr.


So they induced and I did my usual gig of waiting til I felt the contractions for awhile before begging for the guy to come and stick a long needle up my spine.  Aaahhh heaven.  Except you have to wait about thirty minutes for the heaven (after waiting for about an hour for the guy to show up).  Thirty minutes of hunching into as much of a ball as your round belly will allow you while a nurse shoves her elbows down on your shoulders, and then you shouting for them to wait because you have a contraction (which is coming every minute), so they have to wait cuz they can't stick a needle in your spine when you're having a contraction.  But then aaah cocktail.  Heaven.  I can get into this breezy dreamy, warm all over state.  I can get into to it all too good (which is why I no longer take alcohol or any other controlled substances).


But then I got a fever.  The kind that could do Little House on the Prairie proud (where they're put in a bathtub filled with ice as they convulse theatrically).  I convulsed theatrically.  For hours.  As I contracted.  And then I pushed him out, my little 9 pound baby.  And boy did I feel it!  I thought Young Lady had paved the way and that I would hardly feel the stretch.  But no.  


It brought me back to the time during our engagement when I came to France and met the Welcomes for the first time.  I browsed through old family photos with an increasing feeling of panic because all five of the sons had very large heads!  Their heads were as wide as their shoulders!  And the problem was those heads had to come out of somewhere.  I almost backed out of the deal there and then.


So my little 7 lb 4 oz Young Lady did not pave the way at all for the ring of fire that awaited me with (very) Big Boy.  But I got him out.  And then he was rushed off and I was alone with my convulsions.


When Big Boy was born he didn't breathe.  They couldn't resuscitate him, but it didn't occur to me to worry.  Mr. Welcome was very worried, however.  He saw this baby dangling unresponsively by the foot as they tried to get him to take his first breath.  He tried to stay positive for me as they whisked him off so I wouldn't worry, but I was in my own dazed world.  We were living the same epic event in two different realities.


After nearly an hour they came to tell us that he was alive, but that his vital signs were not strong so they were going to bring him to me for a little while before taking him to the NICU.  I still didn't worry or think about what that meant at the time.  I had the luxury that every woman expects to have - I've done the work, now bring me my baby.  And as is not always the case, I was given my happy ending.


So they brought him to me, and ... well, nothing could prepare me for the SHOCK of seeing this fleshy purple creature with swollen lips and eyes and a huge nose.  He looked nothing like Young Lady, who came out of the womb bird-like and delicate with nary a bump or a bruise.  He was .. well he was the kind of baby only a mother could love.  


So instinct took over and I took him in my arms, breast-fed him a little bit and talked to him.  I caressed his face and his head, saying, "Hello little one.  You are my prince.  I am your mommy and I will love you forever," and other such things.  Unlike Young Lady who was both sleepy and interested in everything around her, Big Boy was interested in one thing only (and very energetically so).  Me.


I tried to fight sleep and keep talking to him and touching him, amazed that the midwives let him stay with me as long as they did.  His eyes never left my face the whole time I was with him.  The midwives and nurses were murmuring to themselves as they watched us together, and when they finally said it was time for him to go, they said that his vital signs were so much stronger from the time he spent with me that he would be able to go to the regular nursery on my floor and wouldn't need to go to NICU at all.  They had never seen anything like it.  And I will never forget this about him.


Big Boy is a second child, making his appearance with a big sister not even yet two years old.  That miraculous first connection was quickly shoved aside by routine, by a demanding older sister, and by a frustratingly colicky nature where only love could fuel me to continue to meet his demands (sometimes every 45 minutes at night).  As a second child, he generally follows good naturedly in his big sisters' footsteps, going with the flow and demanding nothing.  But sometimes this beautiful side of him that was born needing relationships will come out and break through his sometimes dreamy, sometimes hyper state.  He's not coy.  He just says, "I want yooooou."


My typical response is "I'm here babe," accompanied by a hug of varying degrees of distractedness.  But when I can remove myself from the cacophony of life and really see him, my heart whispers, "You are my prince.  I am your mommy. And I will love you forever."