The Birth of Mr. Always Random the Youngest

The 9yo informed me a couple weeks ago that he thinks he should be called Mr. Always Random. And that is probably a more fitting name for him rather than for my husband ...who was so named because I am Mrs. Always Random…not necessarily because he is random. He sometimes is…but not ALWAYS.

It’s a bit of a misnomer.

But at this point, I’m too committed to the names (maybe I should be committed in general) and I don’t really feel that I can really switch who is called what ...except in the cases of the PBA's ages which clearly will change.

Which brings me to the why of why I am actually writing this post.

When I informed my 9yo the reason why I could not refer to him as “Mr. Always Random”, he asked if I would write about how I met him; I’m not sure if he is surreptitiously reading my blog, but he was aware of a post in which I explain how I met my beloved Mr. Always Random. Two posts, actually…

When I reminded him that we met when I gave birth to him, he then suggested (very astutely, I might add…he’s in the gifted and talented program at the PBA) that I write about when he was born.

And who doesn’t love a good birth story?

Well, lots of people, quite frankly, so if you’re one of them, I suggest you pull the rip cord on reading this now. But before you do, I must assure you, however, that I don’t get too graphic on this one.

So…that's what I'm writing about today: The Birth of Mr. Always Random the Youngest. In honor of his birthday. Which is this month.

Today actually.

Happy Birthday, Mr. Always Random the Youngest!

Which means lots of things, but mostly the celebration means we get to eat some more "Piece of Cake" cake.

We also had some on Friday night.

It’s all from one big cake…don’t worry. I didn’t buy multiple cakes. I’m cheap, remember?

And yes, if this cake bakery name rings a bell, it is because I may have mentioned it once or twice before...

So…it all began on a beautiful March day...obviously it was March because it is March today, when I am sharing the story of his birthday. You’re a quick audience...I don’t care what other people say about you.

I was to have a scheduled c-section. Due to the trauma from his brother's birth ...details of which will be in his brother's ode to his special day…my doctor encouraged me (and really it didn’t take much encouragement…I wasn’t at all interested in a v-back) to have a scheduled c-section for baby #2.

The day, as I recall, was pretty normal for a stay at home momma with a 20-month old, and who was hugely pregnant with her second child ...which basically means the day was long and tiring.

I can’t recall with any level of preciseness, but I imagine it was consumed with the last minute details of having a baby. (I didn't have time for that with his brother either…details forthcoming in June…I’m certain you can’t stand the suspense).

I do remember one thing out of the ordinary: heating up my crock-pot o’paraffin wax (not a real crock-pot, mind you, but a container specially designed for such an event…lest you be concerned if you’ve ever eaten anything out of a crock-pot at my house) and dipping in my hands and feet for some at-home mani/pedi action. I don’t do any pedis outside my home, just to clarify.

And for the record I could still paint my own toenails at the end of each pregnancy thank you very much. It is a contest and I want to be among the winners.

I’m certain I’ll get an award in Heaven for it someday. And yes, I said "award" not "reward". I said what I meant.

I also remember, on this most-blessed of days, that my parents come up to sit with the toddler who was napping when Mr. Always Random picked me up to go to the hospital.

I do not, however, remember being nervous…since I’d already had one baby, how different could this one be? I was an expert by now.

Don’t get me wrong, I mean…I probably was nervous and everyone else around me would probably correct me, but I don’t REMEMBER being nervous.

And I"m not asking anyone to proof this before it goes to "print" so I will continue to maintain that I was not nervous. All those who may think (or know) otherwise: feel free to put your comments in the comment section, where they may live indefinitely or be deleted if I disagree.

Since I’ve had two children I don’t remember many things, and this very well could be one of them.

But if I wasn’t nervous, I should have been. This baby could not have been any more different from his brother. Well, I suppose physically he could have been. But in terms of personality: night.and.day.

I remember walking in calmly to the hospital and having some small contractions on my own. I met with the anesthesiologist and informed him that I WOULD NOT be receiving an epidural, but only a spinal. I proceeded to share with him the details (which, again, will be forthcoming to you in the birth story of my eldest) of my previous delivery, and he agreed whole-heartedly that a spinal would be sufficient.

I’m sure I have you more-than-intrigued about the birth story of my 11yo…I hope it lives up to the hype.

And I hope I remember to write it, come June.

I walked into the operating room on my own power, and climbing (I’m certain it wasn’t graceful in any way) up on the bed/table/whatever you call it. They (a nebulous “they”…probably the anesthesiologist but I couldn’t see, as I had my back to him) stuck me with the needle and I went numb from the waist down almost immediately.

Fortunately there were people there to help keep me on the table.

They set up a large mirror next to my feet so I could watch the birth. Yeah, it’s gross but I wanted to see it. Frankly I was so doped up (all legal drugs, thank you very much!) with the first one that it’s all a big blur. Well, that and I was nervous, excited, exhausted, and feeling a whole range of emotions that I don’t really remember his birth at all. At that point, I had labored enough, I was overloaded and I was ready for that baby to be outside of my body.

I believe the words, "Get it out...get it out now!" may have escaped my lips during labor with my first one.

All that to say, I wanted to ensure that I remembered this one if at all possible.

After I was all prepped and ready (as ready as you can ever be for a doctor to take a knife and slice across your stomach), they made the incision. And no, not in the same place as the first one due to this baby’s location (being difficult from the get-go, I noticed); this meant that I would have a double-decker c-section scar. Awesome.

As an aside, both those scars are now gone due to another surgery from about 3 years ago...details for another time.

So, they sliced open my belly, and for whatever reason, they couldn’t pull him out. He was stuck in there, up under something. I can only assume he was stuck under something…why else would he not have popped right out?

One of the nurses pushed on my belly to try to force him out.

It was to no avail.

She was, more than once, completely up off the floor, with all her body weight pushing down on my stomach, trying to pop him out.

Nope. Nothing.

And fortunately I had enough pain meds that I didn’t feel a thing.

In fact, I was laughing. Mostly because this seemed so ridiculous.

And it was.

As it turned out, they ended up using forceps to get him out.

Forceps. On a c-section. Have you ever in your life heard of such a thing?

I hadn’t either.

I still haven’t.

And it’s not as though he was very big. At 38 ½ weeks, he was a whopping 6 lbs 9 oz. and 20 inches long.

Of the two boys, he was my brute. Which tells you just how tiny the other one was.

Again…saving that story for his next birthday.

And that is how my now-10yo made his debut into this world.

This is when he was still "fresh"...maybe an hour old. I still get that look from him sometimes.

One of the best days of my life. I won’t delve too much into how he made the next seven months Hell-on-Earth because he wouldn’t eat with any consistency, or sleep except in the car or in his swing (which ended up causing torticollis and we had to receive service and therapy from First Steps for his stiff neck and somewhat-flattened head. Fortunately we didn’t have to use a halo, but the stretches we had to do made it sound like we were torturing the poor child. And we probably were.)

It was lots of fun.

OK, that’s a lie. It was awful. But totally worth it, for all the blessings we receive from having him in our lives.

Happy Birthday, Mr. Always Random the Youngest. We love you, Buddy, and we thank God for allowing us to be your parents!