Category Archives: Daddy

Labor of Love Part 2

continued from Part One…

 

Wednesday, August 14, 2013. My sister agreed to take me to the hospital. As I sat at my mother’s kitchen table, all that I was thinking about was how tired I was. I couldn’t wait to get the checkup over with so I could come home and try to get some sleep.

My sister finally arrived at my mom’s, and I quickly whisked her out of the kitchen and we were on the road. It was like any other drive. There was no talk of labor, or babies. In fact, I noticed she had stopped for a coffee on her way to pick me up!

We headed straight for labor and delivery, as they were expecting me. When the nurse took me to an exam room, she explained that she reviewed my charts while I was en route, and the facts weren’t in my favor. Many times pregnant women experience false labor, she said, and since I was previously a failure to progress, the chance was extremely low that active labor had begun on its own. She said she’d do a quick exam make me comfortable and then I’d be on my way home.

There wasn’t much time for introductions. It was early, the staff was changing shifts, and there had been a few overnight deliveries. We got down to business. The nurse hooked me up to a contractions monitor, took both my vitals and the babies, then left to get a midwife. The midwife returned, looked at all the monitors and my medical history, and decided to do an internal exam.

My sister sat to my right, drinking her coffee. We both waited for the midwife to say something. Anything. She remained poker faced, and we couldn’t tell what was going on. She took off her gloves, looked at the monitor again, then turned to me and smiled. “Congratulations! You’re 6.5 cm dilated. Guess you’re staying.”

I looked at my sister, who almost dropped her coffee. We were as much in shock as the nurse, who returned with my admissions paperwork. The nurse said by the way I walked in and m overall demeanor, no one expected me to be in full on labor mode. My little boy would be here by the end of the day.

Reality started setting in. Wally was over 500 miles away, and wasn’t scheduled to fly in until the next day. He was going to miss the birth of his son. I had a few moments to process this information but then my brain shifted to survival mode. Planning, organizing, sorting, whatever needed to be done mentally to get through this.

My sister left the room to report the news to my mother. Needless to say, there was a level of surprise from everyone I had contact with throughout the night, even my other sister’s coworkers. As my nurse began the usual routine of baby delivery, prepping the room, poking me with things, attaching monitors and loud beeping machines to me, we started engaging in conversation. She asked who was with me today, and I FINALLY introduced my sister.

The nurse laughed and said, “oh, she’s your sister!” which it then became apparent she assumed we were a couple. I proceeded to tell her about Wally’s situation, which was becoming more stressful by the moment. He was trying to change his flight, which we all know is usually as simple as writing a neuro-physics dissertation. With the help of his boss, he sat at the Dayton airport, in a desperate attempt to get a seat on the next plane to anywhere in PA.

to be continued…

Daddy?

Kids say the darndest things. At least, thats what they say kids say. Mine just started talking coherently a little while ago, but for every word that is incoherent, there’s one that’s clear as day.

Ive been around kids long enough to know they repeat everything they hear. Despite my sometimes sailor inspired vocabulary, im usually really good with what I say around them.

This post is NOT about how my daughter embarassed me in public because she spewed off a few choice words appropriate only for a dissertation written by the Hound from Game of Thrones.

Instead, the offending word is one that many parents yearn for their child to say: Daddy.

On one of our regular grocery trips to the local Kroger, in which I was quite proud of myself for managing to get both children fed, dressed, and out of the house incident free by myself, my daughter sat in the cart while I carried my son in a black Boba wrap.

One by one we added things to the cart, crossing off items from our list as we toured the aisles. When we arrived at the cleaning section, the aisle was full of other shoppers. I managed to finagle the cart to the area I needed.

I grabbed the Mr. Clean Magic Eraser from the shelf and handed it to Rory to throw in the basket. Instead, in this aisle full of people, she looked at the image of a happy, smiling guy with a shiny bald head and as clear as day she yelled: “that’s my Daddy”.

Knowing my husband, I actually thought the connection was hysterical. Shes often found resemblence to her father in other famous faces. She swears he’s Howie Mandel, and when we spent last summer in Pennsylvania, she assumed Cuban American music artist Pitbull was her dad and he was just away on tour.

Once I noticed the looks on other shoppers faces I started to assess the situation from an outside perspective. This tired, weary mother with two tiny children, shopping alone on a weekday morning, so pathetic that the poor child doesnt even know who her father is. She thinks its Mr. Clean for crying out loud. We must help her. Send her to Maury.

I laughed, told Rory that was not her daddy, which only made her yell “its Daddy!” Even louder and clearer, and threw the box in the cart. Finally I caved and accepted that Mr. Clean was my childs father. “Yes Roar, thats daddy. Lets go pick out some ice cream.”

As the other patrons looked at me with pitying eyes, I finally understood why my daughter can be such a clean freak. Its in her genes.

Mr Clean Logo is Daddy?

Are You My Daddy?