Posted: Thursday, May 28th, 2009 at 3:28 pm. Permalink
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  1. themoosh reblogged this from tj
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I wrote: The Boy would like everyone to know that 7 years ago TODAY he wriggled into the world by doing unspeakable things to my wife’s happy place. What he really said was “Did you tell them on the computer (that would be “Twitter”) that it’s my birthday today?” I told him I would. Of course that wasn’t exactly how he expected me to word it. Nor was it really accurate. I mean “wriggled” was only partially true. But the real fun was…. well, here’s the story. First you have to imagine a doctor, about 4 feet tall (which may be the ideal height for someone who delivers babies) and with a slight Indian-as-in-from-India accent. My wife was in labor for something like 9 hours, including about 3 hours of the screaming pushing yelling breathing stuff that lasts for 30 seconds on TV. The doctor told me, but not my wife, that the cord was wrapped around the baby’s neck. Whenever she pushed to get him out, the cord tightened. They were trying to reach in and fix it, but, well, that’s not very easy to do. I was to try to keep her calm and not tell her what was wrong because it might cause her to panic. The hope was to avoid a C-Section, which is something I think we can all understand. (I’m not sure what the fuck they thought this news would do to me.) Finally it got to the point of, “OK, well, we need to get the baby out now” and the doctor asked my wife if she wanted help. Excuse the fuck out of me? What? You had something that you could do to help and hadn’t done it yet? Seriously? (She had already had the drugs, so it wasn’t that.) “Well we don’t like to use it if we can avoid it,” said the Little Baby Doctor, “but we can use suction.” “Yes, do it, get it out!” said The Wife. Or me. Who the fuck knows who said it, but the answer was clear enough. I’m sure that my memory of the event is clouded by lack of sleep and anxiety and — well, mostly those two — but I have a clear picture in my head of the doctor: a) putting her feet up on both my wife’s raised thighs (for leverage), b) sticking a glorified plunger into my wife’s Chattahoochee Canal to grasp onto the baby’s head, and c) popping him out. Which was both the most wonderfully glorious and completely disgusting thing I have ever seen in my life. The took him over to this little “warming table” got him cleaned up, checked his vitals (all good), and put this little hat on him. At which point I finally had a clear enough shot to get a picture of him. Happy birthday, kiddo.

I wrote:

The Boy would like everyone to know that 7 years ago TODAY he wriggled into the world by doing unspeakable things to my wife’s happy place.

What he really said was “Did you tell them on the computer (that would be “Twitter”) that it’s my birthday today?”

I told him I would.

Of course that wasn’t exactly how he expected me to word it. Nor was it really accurate.

I mean “wriggled” was only partially true. But the real fun was…. well, here’s the story.

First you have to imagine a doctor, about 4 feet tall (which may be the ideal height for someone who delivers babies) and with a slight Indian-as-in-from-India accent.

My wife was in labor for something like 9 hours, including about 3 hours of the screaming pushing yelling breathing stuff that lasts for 30 seconds on TV.

The doctor told me, but not my wife, that the cord was wrapped around the baby’s neck. Whenever she pushed to get him out, the cord tightened. They were trying to reach in and fix it, but, well, that’s not very easy to do. I was to try to keep her calm and not tell her what was wrong because it might cause her to panic. The hope was to avoid a C-Section, which is something I think we can all understand.

(I’m not sure what the fuck they thought this news would do to me.)

Finally it got to the point of, “OK, well, we need to get the baby out now” and the doctor asked my wife if she wanted help.

Excuse the fuck out of me? What? You had something that you could do to help and hadn’t done it yet? Seriously? (She had already had the drugs, so it wasn’t that.)

“Well we don’t like to use it if we can avoid it,” said the Little Baby Doctor, “but we can use suction.”

“Yes, do it, get it out!” said The Wife. Or me. Who the fuck knows who said it, but the answer was clear enough.

I’m sure that my memory of the event is clouded by lack of sleep and anxiety and — well, mostly those two — but I have a clear picture in my head of the doctor:

a) putting her feet up on both my wife’s raised thighs (for leverage),
b) sticking a glorified plunger into my wife’s Chattahoochee Canal to grasp onto the baby’s head, and
c) popping him out.

Which was both the most wonderfully glorious and completely disgusting thing I have ever seen in my life.

The took him over to this little “warming table” got him cleaned up, checked his vitals (all good), and put this little hat on him. At which point I finally had a clear enough shot to get a picture of him.

Happy birthday, kiddo.