Now the the boy's favorite thing to do on his birthday is hear about the day he was born and after thirteen years of telling the story I think I have it down pat. No really it is, I swear.
The Boy was born at 10:28 in the am. after a traumatic three hours of labor. Yeah, three hours. That's it. Four pushes. Bam. There's your kid.
Now I know what you women are thinking. THREE HOURS? That's it? Seriously? You hate me right now. Just hold on a minute. What I have left out of the story is the fact that I had to be induced twice. TWICE. With one baby. That's right. The boy right from the beginning let us know who was in charge and clearly it wasn't me. The best I can figure, The Boy didn't want a November 5th birthday. Although it was interesting watching the nurse order the labor inducing drugs for a second time and arguing with the pharmacist that in fact I was still pregnant and he was welcome to come and double check. He skipped the drive by and sent the drugs on up.
So The Boy was born in the morning and The Husband was all in all a good support system expect for that whole distracting the nurse with his chattering, but at least it meant I didn't have to listen it to him. The Husband will tell you that I hurt his arm while I was in labor by squeezing it too hard. I usually roll my eyes at him and point out that only he could turn my giving birth into a trauma for him. By the way, if you're looking for a good hospital to give birth in I highly suggest Hilton Head Hospital. It was like giving birth in resort and if you have a low tolerance for pain they are pretty loose with the drugs.
The Boy, from the beginning, was one of those kids who was going to be independent. He didn't like to wear the little hat that the nurses like to put on the baby's head. He'd somehow get it off within 30 minutes. There was one nurse who rolled him bassinet and all, into my room and gave me hell because he wouldn't leave his hat on. I gave the confused dog look and suggested a stapler. I think that might have been the drugs talking though. Maybe not. So there he was in the room with me and no hat and I'm of course the worst mom in the world with the defiant one day old baby who won't wear a hat. Great, can someone point the way to juvi? I started crying, he started crying and I think poor Husband didn't know what to make of the scene when he returned.
Despite our rocky start The Boy has turned out pretty good so far. His father has decided when he gets to 18 we need to write a book called, "How to not raise an Ax Murderer." I figure that's getting to close to jinxing ourselves so I'll probably skip the idea.
Happy Birthday Boy! Hope you have many more! And that car I promised you if you'd stop crying and leave your hat on, that was the drugs talking.
No comments:
Post a Comment