Where Do Babies Come From?

This is my birth story. Or, Gianna's birth story, I should say.

It's long...and it's detailed...and sometimes there's information you just didn't want to know and information that I am just embarrassed to put out there, but it's part of the story and I think that's important. Like why Gia is so much of what I consider a miracle baby...a baby that was just meant to be.

So, give it a read...and just give it a laugh if you think you've read a little too much...and enjoy knowing the long, nerve-wracking story leading up to the birth of the sweetest baby I've come to know :)

I found out I was pregnant five times. And, five times, I denied it. I denied it throughout my entire pregnancy! Through dopplers and ultrasounds, the visual of hands and feet pushing along my stomach…I took three at-home tests, and two doctor’s office tests and just denied, denied, denied. It wasn’t pregnancy as I had always imagined it.

All my life, I knew I was destined to be a mother. I can’t say how or why, besides the fact that I was born with child-bearing hips, but I always knew I was supposed to have children. I also thought, though, that I’d be married first—that I’d have a high-paying career, a house with a white picket fence, and a dashingly handsome husband (in a little over eight months!). I thought that we'd look like one of those picture-perfect couples where the future dad happily rubs the preggo belly and the wife is madly in love with the idea that she's carrying his baby (the first half of which happened, but the second turned out more like "hands off!"). I also thought I’d be thirty.

But there I was, 25 years old, standing in a Buy Buy Baby with two friends, shopping for a baby shower, thinking to myself “Wait…when was my last period?” Not to give information that you just don’t want to know, but I’m not exactly what you could call “regular,” so I don’t pay the closest of attention to it. Late two weeks? Big deal. At this point, it was December, and I was trying to remember if it had even made an appearance in the last two months. So, you know, alarms went off. Baby toys closed in on me. I secretly hyperventilated.

I still didn’t think it was possible, though. I’d been taking oral contraceptives since I was 17 (don't get all huffy; I started them to reduce pain) and you know how effective those are…99.99 percent, right!? Plus, not to give too much information again, but I didn’t think Immaculate Conception was real. Yet, I went home, took an E.P.T. test and it was positive. Then, I immediately took another; positive. Later, I bought a third and when I took it…positive. The entire apartment complex may have heard my reaction ;)

My next move was to get this big secret off my chest. So, I took a photograph of all three tests and messaged it to my best friend…thus commencing weeks of secret, obsessive texts and freaking out. We attended the baby shower together, just a week or so later, and nobody knew the crazy thoughts going through our minds or noticed the secret looks we shot each other as other mothers told horrifying (to us) pregnancy and birth stories! All the pregnant girls (yes, there were several!) were asked to get together for a photograph and we just awkwardly smiled at each other, the only two to know that one pregnant girl was left out. The shower was actually really enjoyable aside from my secret trauma as the unexpected expectant, but I couldn’t wait to get my butt out of there to rush over to Planned Parenthood for my fourth pregnancy test. I figured, this is it; this one will tell me for sure.

Here we are at the baby shower, Secret-Keepers 1 and 2 on either end!

“You’re definitely pregnant!” Okay, lady, act a little more excited. I walked back into the waiting area where my friend was anxiously staring at me, clearly thinking “Well, are you?” and all I could do was grin nervously and nod my head. On the car ride home I told her that she was the godmother. I didn't ask, I told. And that was it! I had a baby in my belly and a godmother by my side, still the only person to know…and still, I denied I was pregnant.

December 30^th was my first prenatal appointment—just a test to confirm, yet again, that I was pregnant. And, yet again, I had my friend with me. To this day we say she’s the real father! Anyway, she waited in the lobby as I sat, secretly horrified, while a nurse gave me pamphlets and magazines, guidelines on diet and which fish are okay to eat, lists of approved medications and Xeroxes about just saying ‘no’ to caffeine, alcohol, and drugs. My heart never beat faster. I can remember my intense fright, but I can't feel it anymore. Now that the baby’s here, I feel like “A baby? Big deal...That's easy.” Haha.

After I was dropped off at home, I finally broke the news to Billy, who didn’t believe me until I dumped out my giant bag full of baby paraphernalia from the visit to my new OB’s office. I think he was actually happy too. This is the guy who used to take me by the hand and drag me to the motherhood and baby section of the bookstore, declaring, "Here's your section!" not even a year into the relationship! But, then again, my boyfriend was 30...his biological man-clock was ticking. I, on the other hand, was a mere twenty-five. Twenty...five. Maybe that doesn’t sound so young to some of you (especially those who were married and had babies by this age), but all my friends were (I should probably say 'are') out travelling the country and sweating it up at dance clubs, staying out all night drinking on the weekends and enjoying work-week happy hours. Nobody was having babies. Nobody is having babies. So, this just wasn’t something I had exactly prepared for. Yet there I was...pregnant five times over.

The next step was an ultrasound to determine the age of the fetus. Nurses kept asking when my last period was and I had to continually tell them “I don't know......” I don’t see how that determines your length of pregnancy anyway, but that’s beside the point. So, Billy and I ventured to the hospital for our first look at the baby and let me tell you...there was a head...and a body...and little, tiny, bendy legs and arms...and I still wasn’t pregnant. It just wasn't real. There I was, 11 weeks pregnant, lying on a bed with the gel on my belly. There was the monitor in front of me with a picture of this itty bitty, 11-week-old, future baby...and I was not pregnant.

It was exciting to tell everyone, though! Informing my parents was a little freaky because I felt like a knocked up teenager, but once that was over, I allowed myself to have some fun on Facebook. I posted the ultrasound photo, making our announcement, and the congratulatory comments flooded. Everyone seemed so excited, I couldn’t help but catch the bug! At least for those few moments. When reality returned, however, I still wouldn't be pregnant.

Weeks passed and everything remained the same. I was scared, but I wasn’t pregnant. I seemed to be gaining weight, at least enough to appear like I'd just eaten a very large meal and needed to unbutton my pants, but I wasn’t pregnant! Despite my non-pregnancy status, though, I was frantically making lists of baby names. Girl’s names, specifically. See, if we were to have a boy, his name was already official: William Frederic IV (aka Liam; don't steal it, ladies!)...but I knew...I knew with no doubt, whatsoever, that my baby was going to be a girl. And girl she better be because I had no clue what I’d do with a boy! So, list upon list, upon list I made, eagerly awaiting week twenty-one when I’d finally have my gender identifying ultrasound.

When that week came and I found myself lying in a bed, again, gel on my belly, monitor before me showing my baby’s slightly bigger head, body, legs, arms, and fingers and toes this time (not to mention spinal cord and bones--crazy!)...my heart beat the second fastest it ever has...waiting for the technician to just tell me! He showed us all sorts of things, “Here are the kidneys...here is the brain...here's the heart...there's a ventrical...here's the spinal cord...” but I could not have cared less. When was he going to tell me boy or girl!? Then he said, “Do you want to know the gender? I could tell right away...” Yes, just tell me the freaking gender! I think he must have enjoyed keeping us in suspense...He must have felt like Ryan Seacrest about to announce who was kicked off of "American Idol." 


So, he points out the butt and says something like "See this area right here? The legs are parted...and I can definitely see.........that there is no penis." And I was so…so, so, so, so, so, so…happy! A girl, a girl, a girl, a girl! Take THAT Mom and future godmother! The two who kept saying boy--one telling me she just knew it was a boy and the other simply wishing it upon me because she, herself, wants all boys. In...your...faces! Haha. 

After running into a friend on our way out and excitedly hugging him, exclaiming “WE JUST FOUND OUT THE SEX AND I CAN’T TELL YOU!!” (because we decided to keep it a secret until the baby shower) the first thing I did was purchase a celebratory green tea frappuccino and tiramisu cake pop and then call my best friend to rub, rub, rub it in her face! A girl...a girl...a girl. After that, we went straight to my parents where I’d do the same to my mother, of course. A girl...a girl...a girl!

You’d think, at that point, I’d acknowledge that I was pregnant. But no! I was having a girl, I could make list after list of names to my heart’s content, I could shop for all things pink and purple, but I would be doing so for an imaginary, future baby that I was not currently pregnant with. It just wasn’t real!  And my stomach continued to expand. It was a slow development; my coworkers kept wondering when the heck I’d show...and when I did, it was slower still (and even at my biggest, you couldn't tell from behind--ha!). 

Pre-Pregnancy: 4 months...

Pregnant: 21 weeks...25 weeks...33 weeks...35 weeks...40 weeks...

Pregnant? Who's pregnant?

Post-Delivery: 8 weeks :)

Add to that my lack of morning sickness, cravings, mood swings, or swelling of any kind. There was no increased appetite to speak of, but that’s likely because it had topped out well before I got knocked up :) I didn’t even feel like I’d gained any weight because I didn’t notice unless I looked directly down at my belly or into a full-length mirror. An old acquaintance saw me at a store, exclaimed, "You're pregnant!" and I literally said "huh?" and had to look down. It just wasn’t true!

The months passed and I never felt closer to being ready for my baby. We bought tons of clothes, had diapers, wipes, a fully decorated nursery, stuffed animals, bottles, a stroller and car seat. I even bought a scrapbook hoping that filling it would help me feel closer to the baby, maybe actually feel like I was pregnant. I never touched it (just didn't make the time). I had a really tasteful (blazing hot) outdoor baby shower, spent a good deal of time making the cutest pink and purple macaron lollipops that said “it’s a girl!” in edible ink...but I still wasn’t pregnant.

Then came my due date. And then my due date passed, which I knew was going to happen. First of all, a very high percentage of first-time mothers are at least a week late, so I had science on my side. Second of all, each weekly OB appointment showed absolutely zero physical progress ("You are still dilated two centimeters and your cervix is still so far back that I'm about to make you bleed until your appointment next week.") Third of all, that’s just how things go for me! So, my due date came and the results were still the same. This time, though, I had to take a non-stress test to make sure the baby was okay. Non-stress test...you know what that entails? Me falling asleep on the exam table while I spend 45 minutes hooked up to a machine that reads the baby’s heartbeat as well as my contractions (that I never once felt, making me hope it was a foreshadow of my labor!). During this test, one of my doctors noted that the baby’s heart rate would fall, slightly, every time I had a contraction. So, I got the delight of driving straight to the hospital where I would re-take the test...and that’s it. Just re-take the test! I think it may have had a little more detail, but that’s it. So, I watched a little Food Network in my temporary hospital bed and went home.

Three days later, I had another non-stress test at the OB’s office. And guess what...off to the hospital! This time, though, I was able to feel the contractions (which were nothing! So painless.) and they were happening regularly...and often. I thought I had to be in labor...I hoped I was in labor. It was time to get that baby out and, more importantly, time to avoid being induced! So, I went to the hospital, got hooked up to that lovely machine, turned on the Food Network, and waited...and waited...and waited...I think I was there for two and a half hours before someone came back into the room with news for me. News that I thought was going to be “You can go home now,” but news that turned out to be, "Well, we talked to your doctor and she decided she wants to induce." “………………………………………………………………………………………………….You mean now?” "Yes, tonight...You don't seem happy." You think!?

It was nearing six o’clock...I just wanted to go home and relax in front of the television. A full week of work had ended, I’d cleared out my desk (just in case), left the office early for my doctor’s appointment, and thought I was going to be home to kick back on the couch. But no. I got to sit at the doctor’s for an hour. Then I got to sit in an uncomfortable hospital bed for two and a half hours. And now I would get to sit in another hospital bed for over twelve more hours. I wouldn’t see daylight until the next day...

I called Billy and told him the news...informing him of all the different places in the house where he could find the items that should have been put into my hospital bag weeks beforehand. I made arrangements for my parents to check on our dog, letting him outside, feeding him, maybe giving him a little attention. I texted my best friend, giving her the bad news that I was, of course, being induced the weekend that she was out of town. And I ordered dinner...from the hospital. Macaroni and cheese. It sounded tasty...it was under the “entrée” section of the menu...and it was a portion no bigger than your average pudding cup. I had to take a photograph as evidence! My last meal...half a cup of mac and cheese. Please...My mom came later with McDonald’s ;)

Anyway, I was moved to my delivery room...I always thought you wait in some other room and get wheeled to delivery once “it’s time,” but at this hospital you simply stay in that room...that big, dark room...with a jacuzzi bathtub that I couldn’t use because I was hooked up to heart monitors (I had to call a nurse to use the bathroom!)...on a bed that breaks in half to deliver the baby...watching hours of “Criminal Minds” on my laptop with Billy...waiting to have the baby.

I didn't get to sleep that night (nor did I sleep the next night!). We probably stopped watching TV around ten or so, definitely by midnight. I should have been able to sleep, but the contractions had finally become painful enough to keep me awake. They still felt like nothing--I think I rated them a three--but definitely enough to keep me from falling asleep. Joy! I hoped they’d occur frequently enough that I wouldn’t need the induction drugs, but my wish was unmet. I got my first round of drugs at midnight. That was my only round of drugs...thank goodness. The pain that followed...I can’t imagine what I’d have done if it were worsened by more medication. Thank goodness my own labor kicked right in.

I made it to about two in the morning when I found myself gripping the handlebars of the bed, writhing in pain, tears streaming down my cheeks. I had to call the nurse twice to bring the paperwork for an epidural (the woman at the front desk was not very reliable--a joy for a woman in labor!) and it wasn’t until about four AM that I got one. I think that was the most frightening moment of my life. I absolutely hadn’t wanted one because I figured, hey, I conceived a baby with a .1 percent chance...how likely is it that I’ll be the one person to get paralyzed? There was no other choice, though. The pain was absolutely unendurable and the contractions were just about every minute. Can you imagine? (I know...some of you can!) I sat up on the side of the bed, fists clenched, trying so hard to stop the uncontrollable shaking. The nurse had to tell me to relax my arms because trying not to shake would actually make it worse. And I’m supposed to sit here while a guy shoves a giant needle into my spine? It took everything not to cry, I was so afraid. And, at the moment the doctor began to prep my back for the procedure, the contractions stopped. No pain. No shaking. Until the anesthesiologist finished and said I could lie down, the contractions had ceased. It was meant to be! As my baby was obviously meant to be conceived, against all odds, I was meant to have anesthetics pumped into my back :)

After that, I felt so relieved. The contractions weren’t completely lost, but they were as mild as they had been from the start. That only lasted so long, though. After a couple hours, the pain slowly began to grow until I finally had to call the nurse to increase the drugs. And increase she did...and nothing that did. I called multiple times and the pain never ceased. They tried an alternate drug...nothing. They debated increasing it even more, but didn’t want to numb me so much that I couldn’t feel the contractions at all. See, that’s the thing. You think the epidural is supposed to numb you completely, that the nurse is going to have to tell you when to push. But, nowadays, they want you to be in on it! To feel at least a little something. But this wasn’t just a little something...this was a lot of something. This was enough to get me back to gripping the handlebars and trying not to scream or cry. My new nurse (shift change! You go through so many nurses through the entire stay...) said the baby’s position was probably creating the pain; she was so low that the anesthetic wasn’t reaching that part of my body. Funny, my left leg was so numb it had to be lifted up to turn me onto my other side...

Anyway, it seemed as if the baby were really getting ready to make an appearance. At some point during all of this, yet another doctor was called in to break my water. Of course, there was so much blood from my earlier OB exam (like I said...cervix was way back there) that he couldn’t tell whether he had punctured the bag of waters or not, but we assumed he was successful! I had a nurse check my dilation a few times, usually not much progress...the widest I reached was five until about half an hour or so later when the nurse checked again...and it was a ten. Ten! The magic number. Time to call the doctor!

So, my doctor came (after stopping to drop off her dry cleaning, I believe! Haha.), checked everything out, and went off to do some rounds...and then, suddenly, it was time to push. And we couldn't find the doctor. The nurse called the front desk several times, the last time sounding very angry, demanding that the doctor be found immediately. Very competent people they had up there!  And when the doctor still hadn’t shown up, we decided to go on without her. Billy took one leg, the nurse took the other, and I pushed. And pushed...and pushed. Don’t think it wasn’t going anywhere, I, apparently, did a very good job! And my doctor did show up, just in time...

The final push came about forty-five minutes later. My doctor told me, “Just one more,” and I (unintentionally) cried out the most cliché birthing line I've ever heard...”I can’t!” But I did. One more push and at 8:58 am, July 30^th 2012, there appeared baby Gianna. I refused to watch because I thought the entire visual would just scare me to death, but as the nurse yelled "LOOK!" I opened my eyes at the very last minute to see my baby lifted up and onto my chest...and I let out a short, sweet, cry of relief and happiness.

I stared at baby Gianna as she lay on top of me, all the while being wiped clean...and she stared right back. From the dark cocoon of my belly to the dimly lit hospital room, that baby opened her big gray-blue eyes and stared straight at me. And I thought, “Ha...she looks just like me!” And she did.

She was the most beautiful pink-skinned, blonde-haired, blue-gray-eyed, eight pound, twenty inch babe anyone could ever see. And she was (and is) all mine.

And Billy's...I guess :)