I am going to talk a little about giving birth in this post, and if you think you may be bothered by it, stop reading now.
I’m totally bragging when I say this, but she is the best thing ever, ever, ever, ever, EVER. I love her smell, I love her little squeaks, her scowls, her gurgles, her smiles, her toes, her nose, her lips, her chin. I love the way she cuddles up when lying next to me. I love the way the back of her head looks when Zac is holding her. I love absolutely everything about her. She’s completely stolen our hearts.
She was born two days after her due date and one day after I was supposed to be induced. I had gone to see my doctor on January 17, and she sent me home saying I wasn’t nearly ready to be induced. Fast forward to 2 am on January 18 – I woke up with very mild contractions, but I was TOTALLY convinced it was false labor, so I went back to sleep. Fast forward again to 6 am – I was jolted awake by much stronger, much more frequent contractions. I woke Zac and told him, and he blearily said, “Should we go to the hospital?” And I was like, “Ummmm…..I dunno.” So, I Skyped my mom and she, of course, told me to get going to have her granddaughter.
We got to the hospital around 8 am, and I was shuffled to the delivery room, which had three other miserable looking women in it, at about 8:30. Now this is where the fun starts – I had a fast and furious labor and delivery. It was horrible, agonizing, and humiliating, and anyone who says that the process of giving birth is a beautiful experience is a big fat liar. It’s not at all pretty until that baby comes out. And then you realize that you would go through that pain a million more times to keep seeing your baby. But, really, for me, labor was horrible. They hooked me up to a pitocin drip as soon as they could, and that resulted in there being ZERO breaks in between my contractions and me vomiting several times. I thrashed my head back and forth on the pillow so much that my hair was an afro. I had no reprieve for a good 3 hours. I kept begging the nurses for something, anything, to dull the pain just a little bit, but they had to wait for my doctor to come back. When my doc got there and checked me, she said I was too far along for any sort of pain medication – anything would slow down my labor, which, at that time, was almost over. But that didn’t stop me from almost crying and begging her to please just give me an epidural, PLEASE, for the love of God. Speaking of God, I even prayed to Him to just let me pass out until it was time push.
And, bless my doctor, it was around that same time that she asked if I wanted to see my husband. I’m almost positive I gave her the most pathetic, puppy dog look I could while nodding my head. Ten minutes later, Zac comes into the labor room wearing hospital scrubs and looking nervous. Even though I was so thankful for him being allowed in there, I can only vaguely remember him rubbing my head and telling me everything was okay, and I was doing great. I was doing so great, in fact, that it was only four hours into my hospital stay, and it was time for me to start pushing. The nurses rushed me into what they called the labor court and set me up in the stirrups and all. A big contraction hit, they told me to push, and I pushed while screaming really loud (I recall my thought at the time: “I’m either going to push her out or die, and I’m okay with either right now”). The nurse who was standing closest to my head told me, essentially, to shut up and use all that energy to give a good, strong push. And on the next contraction, with all nurses yelling “Pushpushpushpush!”, and with one nurse pushing down on my stomach, and a doctor waiting and pulling on the baby, out came Evelyn. And everything was worth it. All I did was stare at her purplish, yuck covered body as a nurse carried her out of the room to be cleaned; I had never loved anything or anyone more in one moment than I did her.
A nurse brought her back to me while I was getting stitched up. Her eyes were opened, and I touched her little face and said, “Hi, sweetie, I’m your mommy.” And her eyes went all wonky for a second before she finally, I’m not kidding, focused on me with recognition. It was beautiful.
Now, she’s almost six weeks old. She’s already gotten her first piece of Indian gold (from Zac’s parents…lucky duck), she’s been on a boat (I was terrified the whole boat ride), she’s been massaged and bathed by a Keralite woman (Me too. It was weird), and she’ll probably be a world traveler by the time she’s a year old. She has started smiling and cooing regularly, and she imitates Zac whenever he makes funny faces at her. She’s amazing. I hold her as much and as often as possible, and if she cries, I am scooping her up in an instant. I know she’s not going to be this small forever – I cherish every second that I can kiss her head and still breathe in the newborn smell. As for Zac, well, I already knew he was going to be a fantastic father, but he’s even better than I thought. I’ll just let this photo sum it up.
One of my favorite things is when I hear him singing “Jesus Loves Me” to her. The first time that happened was while I was showering while we were still in the hospital, and I almost cried. It was so sweet. When she gets fussy and is crying, his newest trick is to hold her over his shoulder and bounce around in a way I can only describe as a drunk chicken, and she stops crying. BONUS: her little head bobs around while he’s doing it, and it’s adorable.
We are totally smitten with this little gal and will gladly make jackasses out of ourselves to keep her happy. Whenever she starts cooing, Zac and I spend a good 5 minutes (or until she gets annoyed) cooing, gurgling, and making assorted baby noises back at her just so we can see her smile one more time. Right at this moment, she is sprawled across my Boppy pillow on my lap, sound asleep, after just getting done overdosing on mom’s milk. How lucky am I to be allowed to have this time with her?
An American in Kerala 