Waiting for the other shoe to drop

Abby will be one week old tomorrow. She has slept long and peacefully every night so far. Owen was a great sleeper, but there were some fussy nights (and early mornings) out of the gate. This, we learned, was typical newborn behaviour. All first-time parents soon learn that the expression "sleeping like a baby" is a cruel hoax. But Owen settled into a good sleeping pattern, with two short feeds, within a couple of weeks. That became one feed by about a month. Abby seems determined to one-up her big brother already. Two short feeds last night, only one the night before. It can't last. Can it?

I bet that really smarts

Or, a father's reflection on Labour, part I

We were lucky this time, as Abby's birth was as easy as could be imagined. Which is to say, Sue was lucky, as there's not much for the father to do about it other than offer a hand to be squeezed painfully. And offer lamely encouraging words as your wife attempts to emit a baby through what seems to be an impossibly small chute. Somehow, 'You can do it,' sounds hollow.

All of which is to say I'm always baffled by stories of fathers who actually feel they should be giving orders in the delivery room. Sherrise, our lovely and helpful nurse, told us she had a patient last week who was in tears and begging for an epidural, while the father essentially thought mom should really just stop the blubbering and suck it up. He thought Sherrise should have tried to talk the mother out of the epidural before OKing it. I wonder what words one would use in such circumstances.

"Listen, I know the pain is excruciating, and I know there's this procedure that would make the pain stop with only the tiniest of risks to yourself and the baby, but, well, your husband would prefer you stick to the natural method. Because he's an idiot. Good? Good. Let me wipe the tears off your face, and here's a towel to bite down on."

You want a natural birth, bub? Because it's traditional, like our ancestors used to do? I don't see too many dads these days trapping furs up the St. Lawrence or ploughing meagre fields for 14 hours a day.

It's progress, you see. Works for everybody.

Baby has landed

I've always thought it cheesy when people talk about the "miracle" of childbirth, but the arrival of Abigail Rachael Leigh Stinson at 1:28 in the afternoon on Feb. 21 was, if not miraculous, pretty darn startling.

A brief recap:
10 p.m., Feb 20. Sue feels serious contractions, as a result of prepping for a planned induction the following day. We call the hospital at about 11, and they tell us to come on in, as the contractions are about 2 minutes apart.

Turns out that means nothing. Sue is no more dilated after several hours of contractions than she was a week earlier. We are expected back the next morning at 8, so decide to just bunk down at the hospital.

This does not lead to the greatest of sleeps. The fold-out chair provided for fathers appears to be designed so as to give daddy a crippling back ache, which helps him empathize with the spouse.

8 a.m, Feb. 21. The contractions having stopped long ago, Sue is given an IV of oxytocin. That fires things up. Within a couple hours she is given an epidural by a helpful chap, Dr. Cooper, who points out that no one ever remembers the anesthetist. I just did, so there.

By noon, things are really cooking. When Owen was born three years ago, the oxytocin took the better part of a day to get Sue fully dilated. Not this time. She is more than halfway there after a couple of hours, and by 1 p.m. is ready to go. She tells the nurse that she is feeling very uncomfortable, like something is pressing against her insides. That would be the baby, we're told. The nurse makes a prediction: the baby will be out at 1:28 p.m. This seems like crazy talk. It took more than 2 hours of pushing to shove Owen down the chute, and she's telling us it will all be over in less than half an hour? Nutty.

The memory is a bit fuzzy about the rest. Dr. Chouinard arrived, and Sue pushed for, oh, 10 minutes. Through four or five contractions. And out came Abby. At 1:28 p.m.

We're taking the nurse, Sherisse, to Vegas.

As Tom Petty once noted...

The waiting is the hardest part.

Nothing to see here. Move along. Nothing to see.

Hopefully something worth noting soon. Sue has busted out the heavy artillery — evening primrose oil. Whatever that is.

And so it begins

It's my first-ever blog entry, and already I have nothing to say.

The idea here is to create a journal that begins with the birth of our second child. She (we think it's a she) is due in six days. Owen, aged 3, has named her Marvin. This journal will also follow his (mis)adventures.

For now, though, we await Marvin's arrival.

And go Mike, go.