The pains started Monday night. I was asleep and I had to get up thinking I needed to use the bathroom. Blearily, I struggled out of bed and tried to obey the pain’s demands but it didn’t work. So I went back to bed thinking if I laid down again it would go away. Or if I went back to sleep then maybe I could sleep through it.
Ten minutes later I was up and in the bathroom again. Again, no joy. I had the presence of mind to poke Mike and say I didn’t feel very well, but that’s as far as my thought processes went. I fell back into my pillow and didn’t think about it again.
Until ten minutes later when it woke me up again. Dayum, I thought, shifting position. Mike, having been roused by my earlier poke, was the one who suggested maybe I should time the pain. It hadn’t even occurred to me. Holy shit, was I in labor? I timed. I realized that yes, the pain went away and came back regularly. Dude, I was having contractions. After two, three, then four times when Mike told me to time just one more and then we’d see where we stood, and each successive one was between six and eight minutes, I finally said, “I’m not your fucking snooze button. Get out of bed and call your mother.”
That was six years ago yesterday. After thirteen hours of labor, our son made his first appearance into the world. Today is my son’s sixth birthday. He’s come a long way from the cone-headed baby to the chatty curious boy he is now, the one who throws his arms around me with abandon and says, “I love you, Mommy,” with the heart-meltingest smile on his face.
Happy Birthday, boy. I can’t wait to see how you blossom in the next year.