That probably sounds odd considering I’ve given birth three times. But… it’s just not the same. When you’re out of your mind, delirious with pain, you’re not really present. You just don’t know it until you see it from the other side.

When I had my third baby, I had my mom in the room with me. I remember, when it was all over, she thanked me, her face lit with joy and wonderment. I was puzzled then, thinking she’d had six of her own and had a dozen grandkids. How had this been anything special?

She’d delivered six in a haze of delirium and welcomed a dozen– from the waiting room.

It is most definitely special. I cried my own tears of joy and wonderment.

~~*~~

When Jes and I headed up to the hospital that Friday night, neither of us even suspected that she was in labor. She wasn’t having any contractions and that’s not even the reason we were told to go. She was just supposed to have something checked. So, those bags that we’d so carefully packed and left waiting in the corner some few weeks ago? Remained in those corners.

A week overdue and heading to the OB floor? Who needs supplies? Because– we are dumb.

When we got there, of course the first thing they do is hook her up to a monitor. Almost immediately, she spiked into a big contraction. The nurse glanced at her. “How long have you been having these?”

She shrugged. “All day I guess.”

*blink blink blink*

All day? I knew then that we were in for a long night. :)

After checking out the reason we’d come in the first place and declaring that problem solved, the doc decided he’d just monitor her for a little while- just in case. So while Jes sat happily texting away on her cell phone, oblivious to the monitor, I sat and watched the contractions take on a pattern. Finally, Jes glanced up and frowned. “That one hurt.”

That’s about when I called Master and told him that this was it.

Things progressed fairly quickly after that. At about 2am Saturday morning, the nurses urged Jes to walk the halls to help things along. We did. Up and down and up and down. I was practically sleeping on my feet by then. I’d been awake since 5am Friday morning and I was T I R E D.

We walked until a contraction came that was strong enough to double Jes over and have her grabbing the handrail. The nurse put her to bed, and we started the labor coaching.

I had no idea how to be a labor coach. I took a Lamaze class some 17 and a half years ago. I didn’t remember a thing.

I wasn’t supposed to be Jes’s labor partner anyway. Baby’s Daddy was. I did not prepare for it. He… wasn’t able to make it.

I’d encouraged Jes to take a childbirth class several times, but she waved it off. Not only was she too self-conscious thinking she’d be the only teen in the class, she kept telling me she wouldn’t need it because she was going to have an epidural.

I also kept telling her not to bank on getting that epidural.

She didn’t listen.

She never listens.

Guess what she didn’t get?

An epidural.

Guess what she DID get?

Nothing. Pain. And eventually, lots of stitches.

Around 4am, she was just beginning to get really uncomfortable. There’d not been much ‘coaching’ to do up til then. I rubbed her back a little bit. I fetched ice chips. She was still texting.

The nurses talked her into trying a whirlpool bath the first time she asked for that epidural. After she was in, and had covered her nakedness with a towel (still modest), she asked me to sit in there with her. She was getting scared.

I sat on the edge of the tub. “It’s been some number of years since I’ve given you a bath.” I told her.

“I’m glad you’re here.” she said, and then gripped my hand through another contraction.

By 5am she was back in bed and in significant pain. She began begging in earnest for the epidural. The nurse kept stalling.

Labor coaching ramped up. That part of me that knew I’d struggle with having to watch MY baby in pain kicked in. She gripped my hands, she rolled, she cried out.

She called me Mommy.

She hasn’t called me Mommy since she was 4 years old.

The nurse was intently watching the monitor and completely ignoring Jes asking for pain relief. Pretty soon another nurse joined the first at the monitor. There were whispers as they pointed at something. Then the doctor came in. Then another. There was a long murmured conference between them.

It was about 6am then, when the conference around the monitor broke up and the doctor and nurse approached the bedside. Jes immediately asked.. begged.. for the epidural. Forcing positivity and cheerfulness into her voice, the nurse explained to Jes that she just wasn’t going to be able to have any pain meds right now. That the baby’s heart rate was too low and not bouncing back inbetween contractions like she’d like to see and they just couldn’t risk it.

Jes was absolutely NOT comprehending. For the next hour or so, both the nurse and I coached her through contractions, through breathing, explaining again and again why she couldn’t have anything. She felt betrayed, said that she’d told them hours ago that she wanted that epidural and that nobody was listening to her.

Finally, when I realized that she just getting hysterical, and she- again- asked why she couldn’t have her epidural, I took her face in my hands and said “Because you don’t want to have a dead baby, Jes. Now BREATHE.”

That penetrated the pain because she looked at me, nodded, said okay, and then informed everyone in the room that she going to push now. She never mentioned pain meds again.

That was a little after 7am.

I wasn’t tired anymore.

She pushed for all she was worth. She didn’t scream. She didn’t cry. She just.. worked. Hard.

I was so proud of her.

I didn’t have a bird’s eye view of the delivery, and I didn’t want one. My focus wasn’t on the grandbaby. My focus was on MY baby. With each contraction and each push, she gripped my hand and pulled me in, my head close to her’s, my voice in her ear.

I don’t know that I said the right things. I know I didn’t say anything profound or amazing. I told her to push. I told her to breathe. I told her it was almost over. I told her she was doing great.

Lots of times, I said nothing at all. I wiped her face. I gave her water. I watched the flurry of activity in the room. At times, 4 different doctors clustered around the bed, while at least 4 nurses bustled around the room. I watched the isolette being set up, the scale was brought in. The nurses worked together like a well oiled machine, weaving in and out of the doctors’ paths. When everything was set up, they all turned their attention to Jes.

Baby’s head was crowning.

She was born at 7:45am.

She is absolutely perfect.

The most amazing moment came when, just after she came out, they laid her atop Jes’s belly.

Jes reached for her with both hands, such an expression of awe and wonder on her face. Disbelief almost. Surprise.

She started to cry– I cannot even explain the happiness that was in those sobs. She pulled the baby up to her face, “my baby” she repeated over and over, giving shaky little kisses to the wet, wrinkled forehead of her daughter.

That’s when I lost it. I bawled. I’m tearing up right now just remembering that moment. I’ll never forget it. I have never seen such an immediate explosion of love. Jes fell in love with that baby the very second she laid eyes on her.

Jes is completely smitten. We all are.

Am has declared that Babygirl is “the best thing Jes has ever done.”

But B-man’s reaction has been the sweetest. Throughout Jes’s pregnancy, he’d maintained a disinterest-bordering-on-disgusted reaction. His first visit at the hospital, he took a peek, said she was “all wrinkled and red” and then took the hands-off approach.

But when we got home?

He started to hover.

He flits around her, no matter where she’s at. If someone is holding her, he sits next to them. He can’t keep his eyes off of her.

Last night, I was on the couch holding Babygirl, and he was, of course, right next to me, pointing out each time her head wobbled or her arm waved or her brow crinkled. I finally asked him if he wanted to hold her. (It’s hard, you know? To share? Yeah.)

He started to say no, but I handed her to him anyway. Propped up on her Boppy pillow, I laid her in his lap.

And he just grinned.

He held her hand and touched her feet. For a long, long time. Babygirl just stared at him, until she drifted off to sleep. B-man sat still as a statue.

A bit later, when I reminded him that he needed to take the trash to the curb, he admonished me. “Mom. As you can see, I happen to have a sleeping baby in my lap. The garbage will just have to wait.” And he went back to watching her.

Too cute.

~~*~~

It’s been easier than I anticipated it would be to keep the boundaries clear. It doesn’t bother me a bit to go to bed, knowing Jes is going to be up all night with her. She knows she can call me for anything- and it may get worse, but so far so good. She’s stepped up without a complaint.

Yeah yeah yeah. It’s only been 5 days but who’s counting? ;-)

We have all had to help out more than we should because of Jes’s limitations. The good news is that Jes is frustrated by being limited, and wants to be doing it herself. Instead of just doing it for her, I’ll hand the baby and whatever supplies are needed to her.

Not every time though.

I like to feed her. She’s a tiny little piglet trapped in human form. She has no feeding issues and drains the bottle almost before you’ve gotten comfortable in the chair. She hasn’t spit up once. She eats, she burps, she poops.

I let Jes change her. *beams*

I LOVE to rock her to sleep. The whole eye-rolling, contented sighing, complete trust… Yeah. I am in love, too.

So is Master. Yesterday he bought her a cute little pink dress.

Too adorable.

Master that is. Not the dress. There was something too precious about watching his big manly frame walking through the miniature pink baby clothes, holding them up and going “This one is cute, don’t you think, Tess?”

I am so in love with him, too.

~~*~~

Our living room has been transformed into Baby Central. A swing, a bassinet, the car seat, and two other baby seat/bouncer things. Gone is the treadmill. Gone is the Nordic trak.

And I don’t care. Yet. ;-)

~~*~~

I have asked, and been given Jes’s permission to share pictures. However. I won’t do it here.

I will only share her foot. Because.. it’s cute. And because she has monkey toes.

I’m kicking around other ideas. A vanilla journal somewhere? A flickr account? Email? I don’t know yet. But if anyone doesn’t want to wait for me to decide and would like some photos emailed to you, drop me a line at kaya (at) underhishand (dot) com. It may take me a while to respond, but I will respond eventually. Make sure and put something in the subject line too, so that I don’t send you to the spam folder.

~~*~~

I skipped a whole section of the birthing story. I have one helluva rant to make concerning Jes’s follow up care, the difficulties and her doctor(s). But I want to keep this entry nice.

Tomorrow I will rant.

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First, I sincerely appreciate both the concern and the support. So thank you.

Is she being induced?

No, she’s not necessarily going to be induced (right now anyway).

On Monday**, if she hasn’t gone into labor on her own, then she’s to go in and have an ultrasound and a non-stress test (among other tests) so they can determine whether or not the baby, or Jes, is under any duress.

If everything is looking good, they’re sending her home for a couple more days.

If something is off (and it might be. I know they’ve been concerned with Jes’s blood pressure the last couple of visits), then they’ll have to induce.

I know inducement comes with possible complications, but so does carrying the baby too long. At some point, it’s a matter of weighing which option carries the least amount of risk.

I was induced twice myself. It’s not risk free, but we all came out terrific in the end. :)

But, the doctor has said that by Wednesday of next week, she’ll have had the baby, even if it means they have to take it. That any time beyond that is too far overdue to be safe.

There are a lot of things that indicate that an inducement is necessary, and less risky than waiting for nature to take its course.

One- though her due date was just a week ago, that date was based solely on her last period, which, unfortunately, she’s not entirely sure of. The ultrasounds have all indicated that the baby is larger than she should be according to that timeline. They said that the due date, based on the baby’s size, could be as much as 2 or 3 weeks off- meaning 2 or 3 weeks BEFORE the 4th. So she could possibly already be 2 or 3 weeks overdue.

Or? It’s just a big baby. Some of this is impossible to tell.

Two- she has low fluid. Not alarmingly low, but low.

Three- the baby’s going to be too big to deliver if we continue to wait and we’d *really* like to avoid a c-section if possible.

Four- fetal movement is slowing. While that’s normal for late term, it can also be a sign of distress.

Five- Jes just doesn’t feel good. She’s not going to be able to withstand labor if she’s not healthy. It’s not just that she’s uncomfortable (which she is. Very very much), she really doesn’t feel well.

We’re trusting the doctor’s decisions. She’s under strict orders to take it easy through the weekend, to pay attention to the baby’s movements and if anything feels off or if she feels bad, then go in.

Right now, my concern is almost entirely centered on Jes. I may be a grandma soon, but first, I’m her mother. Her health and well-being, and her future, is what I’m focused on. I’m willing to believe that the doctor knows what he’s doing but if it starts to compromise her health in any way, baby is coming OUT. ASAP.

I hate to sound cold, but if there’s a choice between Jes’s health and the baby’s health, I’d choose Jes.

I promise if it’s at all possible I’ll throw a note up here before we take off for the hospital. I’m sure that if she starts on her own, it’ll be a slow-moving process. It usually is for the first time.

Otherwise… *SQUEE!!* I’m gonna be a grandma in a matter of days!!

:D :D :D :D

**They’ve changed the date from Sunday to Monday already. I’m not surprised, though. Doctors don’t usually volunteer to work weekends.

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“Next Saturday is July 4th!” she exclaimed, panic playing in her voice.

I had to think a minute. Where the fuck did June go?? But, indeed, next Saturday is July 4th. Her due date.

“You aren’t necessarily going to have her on that day.” I explained for the 15th (or so) time. “You could go a week or two past that. Or, you could have her tomorrow!”

“I know.” she said, looking down. She was quiet a minute and then she spoke softly to her hands. “I’m not ready.”

I bit back such supportive comments as ‘Gee, you should have thought of that about nine months ago!’ and ‘Too bad, chicka!’ I looked at her and realized that in spite of her gruff exterior and the huge chip that seems to be in permanent residence on her shoulder, she is just a terrified child.

So instead of my usual sarcasm, I patted her belly and smiled at her. “I don’t think any first-time mother is ever ready. It’s scary and it’s hard, but you’re not alone.”

She nodded and took a deep breath, blowing it out. “Physically I’m ready.” she laughed. “Kid is squishing my lungs.”

She really is getting quite uncomfortable; back pain, swollen ankles, can’t sleep, peeing every 30 minutes, Braxton-Hicks contraction– the list is endless– and oh-so-familiar to anyone who has ever been pregnant. She’s also very self-conscious about how big she is. For someone who once worked at being skinny and attractive, she feels like a, well, like a land-whale.

Just the other day, she was telling me how different it is when boys look at her now. How, when they can just see her face, they look interested- until the rest of her comes into view, and then they grimace or turn away or elbow their buddy.

That’s hard on a girl’s self-esteem. No amount of reassurance that your figure will come back is believable when you can’t see your toes and you’re seeing stretch marks appear by the day. 17 is an awfully young age to watch your looks change forever.

I told her boys are dumb.

Speaking of dumb boys, over the last couple of months, though she’s remained on friendly terms with the baby-daddy, and is still just as determined to have him be a part of the baby’s life, she’s seen what an absolute useless source of support he’s going to be. Time and distance leads to perspective, and because his other baby was born about 6 months ago and she’s seen how he is as a father (and I use that term loosely), she’s pretty well written him off as being useful. When I ask her what she sees in her future regarding him and a possible relationship, she very matter of factly shakes her head. “No. I don’t even like him anymore. He’s not very nice and he treats his girlfriends like crap. I don’t want that.”

So, yay for progress?

(Though let’s not get too excited about that progress. She’s still sleeping with him when she can. Apparently, he is just THAT good. Oy. Is she my daughter or what??)

Anyway, her nerves are on edge. She’s scared. We’ve gone over and over and over my birthing stories. She hangs on every single detail, she’s watched youtube videos of births, she’s googled, she’s read books- and none of that is going to matter a whit when she starts having contractions.

And she, especially, is so much not into pain. Of any sort. She’s never handled it well and as her mother, like any mother when they see their kid hurting, I just ache for what I know she’s in for. They don’t call it labor for nothing.

“I’ve never even held a newborn before.” she told me that night as we sat on the couch. “I don’t know how to change a diaper, I don’t know how to make a bottle. I don’t know what to do when she cries. I don’t know anything.”

This wasn’t the time to detail for her my own fears. Because as she laid out how much she’s going to be relying on me to show her and teach her, I’m slightly panicked that I won’t remember any of it myself.

But beyond being afraid that I won’t remember the details of baby care, is being afraid to care too much. Of being afraid that the lines are going to blur. I’m going to be too involved. By necessity I’ll be closer in role to Mom than Grandma.

I remember when I first divorced my kids’ father and had to swallow my pride and move back to my parent’s house with my kids.

I remember how my mother was unable to maintain the boundary between grandparent and parent. She, from the second I came in the door, assumed the motherly role. She took over, pushing me off to work, pushing me away.

I remember trying to bring it up. To tell her that she’s overstepping her boundaries, that the kids were mine and not hers, that I was Mom.

And, I remember how incensed that made her. How she’d scream “So! What is it we’re supposed to do here, Tess? Are we just supposed to do all this stuff for you and help you out and NOT have any say in things? Is that what you expect?”

While inside I’d be screaming back, “Yes. Jesus Christ, yes. That is *exactly* what I expect!” She would end her little rant with “Because if that’s what you expect, then you can just move on out. Right now.”

If I had other living options, I wouldn’t have been living *there*. So I said nothing and I watched as my kids became more her’s than mine.

Now, I find myself beginning the same journey my mother had; grandparenting in the parenting role. And I can see, I can understand much better, what she was thinking when she said those words to me. How DO you help without trying to control?

But I also remember how *I* felt, too. Helpless and powerless and frustrated and angry and resentful and and and… all because I needed help.

Needing help is not synonymous with helpless. I needed assistance, I didn’t need someone to take over. Jes will need help, a lot more than even I did back then, but I will not, I cannot, take over.

I’m getting a glimpse of how hard that is going to be. I am so in love with this baby I’ve never seen. I don’t know if I can maintain the distance I’m going to need.

Sometimes I’m envious of those grandparents who are able to experience this the “right” way. Where baby will not be in their house 24 hours a day, they can babysit for a night or a day, visit, and then go home. By sheer physical location, the appropriate boundaries are in place already.

I’m envious of those who can shop for a cute outfit for their new grandbaby without having to think also of the coming costs of formula and diapers. Without having to choose between that completely unnecessary-but-darling pink lace bonnet and the necessary new bottle nipples. I should be buying the cute stuff and Mommy should be buying the necessities.

Instead, I’m thrust into the parenting responsibilites- without the parenting rights.

Boundaries, boundaries, boundaries. They’re already blurring.

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