I had been in and out of labor for nine days. I knew that this was the real deal.
I was so eager to have a great birth experience. My first one had been horrendous (ending with a basically abusive OB forcing me to have a c-section). My second had been a good planned homebirth, but not fabulous. The third was going to be the charm.
No one had told T about my plan. He was quite happy where he was, thankyouverymuch, and didn't wish to be bothered.
He was fat and happy in there and this contraction nonsense was interfering with his quality time.
He arrived after a very challenging five hours of very hard pushing, moaning, swearing, climbing stairs, getting in and out of the tub, and doing everything but hang from the rafters. I muttered "shit" about 33,000 times that night (but, only dropped the F-bomb once).
My youngest prince arrived at 8:00 a.m. He made his way into the world forehead first (posterior), which, you ladies who've been there know - sucks. For those of you that don't - just imagine pulling on that really tight turtleneck sweater over your forehead first rather than the crown of your head, then imagine someone's elses backbone attached to the sweater, and now you know what my tailbone thought about this.
My little bouncing boy was surely happy where he'd been - he weighed a whopping 10 lbs, 12 oz. Or, as my father suggested, "hell, that's a really respectable bass - but, if your sister had weighed it - it woulda come in over 15". There he is with me while I call my siblings.
My, little guy, you've come a long way. We love you from here to the moon and back.