I am currently doing my nursing rotation on the pediatric ward. Of course, within the first 15 minutes of my shift, I fall in love with two of the four children I was caring for.
One seventeen month old little guy captured my heart when he insisted I smell his stinky feet…come on, baby feet are ke-u-te!
The other little girl, two and a half months old, would cry whenever I would try to put her back in her crib. Of course, I spent the remainder of my shift performing my nursing duties with this little princess packed snuggly under my arm.
Just thinking about these two babies makes my uterus bulge.
I came home and updated my Facebook status to this:
“If I stay on the pediatric ward, one of two things is going to happen: 1. I’m going to want another baby or 2. I’m going to want another baby.”
I got a few “likes” from people who know I’m already a lunatic with four kids so what’s a couple more.
And I got a comment from a woman who said that I should reread my blog before I make that kind of decision.
To which I replied, “What do you mean by that?”
Because really, what does she mean?
Did she not realize I was kidding?
Did she mean that according to my blog I’m stretched as far as I can be?
Was she insinuating that I couldn’t handle another baby?
Does she mean that another baby would cut into my blogging, and she would hate that? “No, please! No more babies! I love your posts far too much to have to go without them!”
That’s probably exactly what she meant.
My friend Sandy, however, pointed out: “Maybe she means the post where you sneezed and peed a bit, no telling what would happen after another baby!”
Sandy is so smart. There is no telling what would come flying out of me after a 5th pregnancy and delivery: Aaaaaachoo!
There goes my spleen!
This of course got me thinking to the changes my body has endured from four pregnancies and four deliveries.
1. I have no more boobs…I’m pretty sure I had some before, not big ones, but enough to fill out the A cup.
2. Peeing my pants whenever I sneeze and cough.
3. The inability to sleep deeply or through the night because I wake at every little creak, whisper, or mouse fart, because I’m still conditioned to fear that my baby will stop breathing in the night, even though the last baby is now seven years old.
Then that got me thinking to my actual labours. I’ve not yet gone into great detail about my labours, but I have mentioned that they were pretty easy.
My worst one was the first, and that’s mostly because my ex apparently didn’t realize what I meant when I
shrieked calmly said, “My water broke and I can feel the head.”
I honestly don’t remember pushing the child out of me, but I remember that when I told him that we had to leave for the hospital, the ex turned over in bed, and said, “In a few hours. I need more sleep.”
I remember finally getting him out into the vehicle for the 30 minute drive to the hospital, and while I was gripping the dash during contractions, he looked at me and asked, “I’m stopping for a coffee. You want anything? Donut? Hot chocolate?”
And because I was concentrating on not pushing the windshield out with my bare hands as I “hee-hee-hoo-hoo-ed”, I did not tell him that he should:
1. pour burning hot coffee over his retinas
2. shove that donut up his donut hole
Labour with my fourth baby, and a different husband (’cause I like variety that way), I had a different experience.
When I told Wayne that my water broke, he immediately sprinted to the vehicle and backed it right up to the door of our house, taking out entire flower beds and leaving a big ol’ skid mark in our lawn.
But the bottomline is, when that baby is crowning and you want the pain to go far far away, it doesn’t matter who the man is.
When you look at him and he pats your hand, and reassuringly says, “Almost done,” the urge to shout, “I’ll tell you what’s almost done! Your life is, asshole!” is stronger than the urge to push.