AKA, how I had a baby on my bathroom floor.

 

I guess it started with his nickname, we chose it soon after finding out I was pregnant. As an English major, I should have seen that for what it was, foreshadowing.

His birth day started with brunch. A delicious sweet potato biscuit topped with pork belly and perfectly cooked eggs benedict. It was wonderful, I’m still thinking about it. As my very pregnant self scarfed down every scrap of food on my plate and chatted with my girlfriends, I ignored the occasional contractions I was having. At this point I had been having them for weeks and was 0 for 2 on false starts; these contractions were not going to ruin my meal.

When I got home from brunch I decided to lay down and see if the contractions would become something more. Sure enough, they began to occur regularly. For a frame of reference, Superman’s birth was just over 24 hours long, while Batman’s was 2 hours start to finish. So while I was excited that these contractions indicated I would have a baby soon (soon being a relative term in the world of labor and delivery), I consigned myself to the fact that I wasn’t going to get another super fast labor because it had already been a few hours.

I began the process of working through my contractions. I napped and Superman got in bed with me to snuggle, a rare occurrence these days as this 5 year old doesn’t believe in naps. Then I took a shower and ate lunch. John kept the boys busy and away from me while my mom packed up boxes for our move in a week. I tracked my contractions, irritated that they weren’t following the “typical” progression. In between I was texting friends and my doula and scrolling through Facebook.

If you aren’t familiar with labor, it’s a general rule of thumb that if you’re still talking and interacting with the world around you, the baby isn’t ready. At least that’s always been my big indicator. I know things are really rolling when I’m ready to punch someone during a contraction because they’ve deigned to speak or allow their phone to vibrate in my vicinity. This hadn’t happened yet, so I knew it wasn’t go time. My husband kept checking on me and I kept putting him off saying that I wasn’t ready to go to the hospital yet. I was going on 7 hours of early labor, so I took another shower and laid down. Again, my contractions didn’t do what they were supposed to do. They got more painful but started spacing themselves out even more. I was flat out frustrated and getting crabby as I dreaded the thought of another 24 hour labor. The Flash had other plans.

Eventually, without my input, John decided that we would go to the hospital (I would have told him no.) He had already called our friend to watch the big kids and was preparing to load the car. When my 5th truly painful contraction came I decided to stand up assuming that being out of bed would lessen the pain. As I stood, John walked in the door and tried to tell me something. Now I wanted to punch him, alas I could not. John stood in the doorway waiting for me to finish my contraction. But this contraction was different. It was awful. It was a full body contraction, the kind that made me scream and bang on the closet door in pain, the kind of contraction was actually my body bearing down and pushing without consulting the rest of me. This contraction came hard and fast, it was a level 12 compared to the 8’s I had been dealing with. It came without warning, and it broke my water (thank God I had gotten out of bed!)

My husband jumped into action, he had a towel faster than I thought possible and was cleaning up the floor while I stood there and cried. He reassured me, everything was fine, “We are leaving for the hospital right now.”

I quickly stopped crying as I stepped on the towel, wiped my feet, and mentally prepared for what I now knew was imminent. “No,” I told him, “I’m pushing.” We weren’t going anywhere, this baby was on his way.

“No! Don’t push!” He told me. Like that was a choice. I internally laughed at him, but I’m fairly certain the only sounds coming from me were those of pain, and some curse words. This was a shock to my mom, as I make a conscious effort not to use foul language. Apparently when I’m about to birth a baby in my house my effort is lacking.

My husband left me for a moment to yell to my mom the change of plans. Scratch the car, call 911 instead. In his absence, I wandered away from my bed and into the master bath. I processed my options for birthing a baby— somewhere easily cleaned, but I couldn’t step into the tub, there was no place to sit in the shower, and I was unable to get to the floor unassisted… The toilet seemed like the best option, which is where John found me.

“Why are you on the toilet? Get off the toilet!”

“I couldn’t go anywhere else.” I am not sure if words came out of my mouth or if I just thought them. I shook my head. “He’s coming,” I yelled.

“Get on the floor.”
“I can’t!” Likely communicated with a head shake rather than actual dialogue, I was preoccupied at the time.

At that moment, my mom came running in the room with her arms full of beach towels. John had her grab my arm, she dropped a towel on the floor and the two of them pulled me upright and immediately lowered me to the floor. The Flash has them to thank for not being born in a toilet.

The moment I reached the floor my body was ready to push our little boy out, and began to do so.

“His head is out!” John told me, voice half panic and half excitement. I, however, knew this already because it came out of my body.

I felt one more strong (read: incredibly painful) contraction coming on, and with more cursing and screaming, because I’m not one of those calm and collected birthing mothers, I pushed the baby out. According to the other people involved, my husband and mom, I did not give a proper warning. I’m fairly certain that screaming and having already pushed out a baby head were warning enough, but it’s not like any of us are birthing experts so I won’t argue. Either way, my husband caught our little boy like a football as I laid on the floor of our bathroom. As my mom describes it, he came out so quickly he was a blur.

When we heard his tiny voice cry for the first time we all breathed a sigh of relief. With my baby safely in my arms I was able to feel all the emotions beyond the panic and intensity of delivery. I was overwhelmed, amazed, exhausted, thankful my floor was clean, and instantly in love with my little Flash.

*In case you’re wondering, the picture of me holding The Flash is truly right after birth. I fussed at my husband to take a picture, because I was not going to have a baby on the floor of my bathroom without a picture to go with it! That man is a trooper!