Our story

Two years ago.

It seems like it could have been yesterday.  Or something more like ten years.

I was sitting in the rocking chair in Sebastian’s room.  It was about 10:30 p.m. on July 7th.  I had told Jonathan that I was going to sit up and read until this round of contractions had passed because I couldn’t sleep through them.  “Just go to sleep,” I told him.  “I’m sure it’s nothing.”  I promised to wake him if I needed anything.

I loved the rocking chair in the nursery.  Loved sitting there, imagining.  Whenever I was too uncomfortable to sleep, I ended up in there: reading, rocking, wondering.  I was working my way through the Anne of Green Gables series that I had loved as a child.  I think I was somewhere around the fourth book, but I couldn’t really focus.

By midnight, I was gently tapping his shoulder.  “I’m sure it’s just a false alarm,” I told his sleepy face, “but the contractions have now been regular for over an hour.”  Without a word, he sat up and followed me into the nursery, handy pregnancy planner in tow so he could do the one job everyone unequivocally hands to the “support person” – time the contractions.

For a few hours he sat on the floor as I rocked in the chair, signaling the beginning and end of each one. By now I could tell this was the real deal, but I didn’t want him to call the hospital.  I was sure I would end up being one of those people who gets sent home at least twice before finally being admitted, and every book about natural childbirth says that the sooner you get to the hospital the less comfortable you will be.  So I kept rocking.

Once we passed the official 4-1-1 (four minutes apart, about one minute long, for over one hour) that told us we should call, I agreed at least to let him wake up my mom.  She came upstairs and sat with us as we continued to rock and time.  I still felt like I could handle things at home, but we were getting to the point of having the contractions under 3 minutes apart when the two of them decided it was at least a good idea to call the hospital.

“You need to get her in here now,” the labor and delivery nurse admonished.  End of discussion.  I was still sure they were going to send me back home, so I went reluctantly to get our bags and head out the door.  As we drove to Overlake, my contractions predictably slowed.  I groaned.  “See?” I told Jonathan.  “We’ll see,” he replied.

I arrived just after 5 a.m., checked in, and was told by the nurse who checked my progress that I was staying there.  Five cm, she said.  Halfway there! I thought.  Yeah, not so much.

My sister was hurrying with our three-month old nephew to try to make it in time since it seemed like my labor was progressing quickly.  She needn’t have.  Our little one wouldn’t arrive for over twelve hours later.

Most of those twelve hours are a blur to me.  I remember getting to the point pretty quickly in which I wanted quiet and only Jonathan with me.  I can picture different places in the labor room that were supposed to help me stay comfortable: the tub/shower, the birthing ball, the rocking chair.  None of them worked.  I preferred sitting in bed, doing my focus and relaxation exercises.

I got to 7 cm, then 9 fairly quickly.  Then nothing.  For hours.  Move around, they told me.  I tried, but nothing happened.  Another check and I was told that I was really more like 7.  Yeah, you are NOT supposed to go backwards here!  The nurse who had told me 9 apologized for her mistake.  More trying, some tears, discussion of options.

I finally agreed to let the doctor break my water and then everything seemed to me to happen all at once. In just under an hour, I was ready to push.  At what point my cheerleading section arrived is unclear to me, but by now my mom and sister were there, and we were ready for the finale.

The clock told me I pushed for about 50 minutes, but it felt a lot more like four pushes to me.  I credit this to the fact that I had so many people there encouraging me, counting with me, telling me what a great job I was doing and to keep it up.

Then came the “ring of fire” the books all promised.  The experts had told me to sit back and wait when I felt this.  The doctor said, “One more push and you’re done.”  Forget the experts.  One more push!  She was right.  At 7:49 p.m., it was over.

“It’s a boy,” I heard close to my ear.  I looked up at my husband.  “Really?”  I asked him.  “Yes,” he assured me, “a boy.”

And then there he was.  He was so pink and round and solid, I could hardly believe it.  Shouldn’t he look more tiny, wrinkly, and fragile?  (Later I looked back on the pictures and realized that yes, he was all of those things, but my new mother’s eyes didn’t see them in that moment.)

After a few moments of holding him, they took him to the NICU because one of his lungs wouldn’t inflate properly.  They assured me that it happened often and was just a precaution, but it was one of the longest half hours of my life waiting for my guys to come back.

In the meantime, that final push had cost me a third-degree tear, because the experts had been right.  The doctor called in another who had more experience and they began the part that turned out to be the most painful, but provided the only funny story (in retrospect) of the entire day.  After 21 hours of medication-free labor, they gave me a local anesthetic and went to work.  I shouted at the doctor – yes, shouted, after being relatively quiet through everything else – that he had to STOP.  RIGHT.  NOW.  Which was ridiculous, of course.

The delivering doctor at my side spoke calmly.  “Just breathe through it,” she told me. I looked at her and said with clenched teeth and rays of death coming out of my eyes, “I. am. DONE. breathing. through. it.”  She wisely avoided speaking to me after that until it was over.

Then my baby was back in my arms with the thumbs up on his health.  Jonathan and I conferred briefly to be sure we had the name that suited this tiny person, and we introduced him to the room, which now included his Gramma, Grampa, Auntie Gina, cousin X, Uncle Bill & Aunt Jen on the phone in Chicago, and his Nagymami and Grandpa Marv in Toronto.

This is Sebastian Paul.

I felt exhausted and proud as I held my son and stared at his perfect tiny features.  We did it, I whispered to him.  I fell asleep within an hour of moving to the recovery room, while Jonathan typed an email to send our friends and family who had been holding their breath all day waiting for the news.

What I had been imagining and yet still couldn’t quite foresee was that this tiny baby would, two years later, already be this beautiful, smart, funny little boy:

Two years?  Already?  Sebastian tells me that he is NOT “one, two years old.”  He is THREE.  Why three?  Because to him three is big, and when he is big, he can cross our street by himself.

Not yet, I tell him.  Just two years old.
And still my little boy, for now.

Happy birthday, sweetheart.  You will always be my favorite Sebastian.