Hutton and the Drive-Thru Delivery

“I feel like we just went through the hospital drive-thru. We drove up, they handed us a baby, and that was that.” – Taylor, moments after the birth of our son.

I don’t want to say my boys have the best timing ever, but son #1 had a seizure in an urgent care waiting room, and son #2 decided to start the labor process just a few hours after my parents drove into town last week. So, basically, my boys have the best timing ever.

Last Friday morning, I had my first “yep, this might be it” contraction in the bread aisle at Kroger. Instead of sitting at home waiting during early labor, my mom and I did some retail therapy to pass the time. We saved the best store for last, and in the Target Dollar Spot around 4pm, I had a contraction that made me stop in my tracks. It was time to head to the hospital.

One Bueno stop…
…and one hospital selfie later…

…we were admitted at 6pm. I was already at a 6.

The contractions were getting more intense, but I was still able to play Candy Crush while I waited, so when the nurse asked if I wanted an epidural I told her I’d think about it and get back to her.

Nurse: Well, since you’re at a 6, so you need to decide pretty quickly.
Me: The thing is, I got one last time and it didn’t work. So. I kinda want to see how bad it really is before I decide.
Nurse: I’ll ask again in a few minutes.

But before she could ask again, the contractions turned up a notch. And by “turned up a notch” I mean I started planning my own funeral. I started wondering who would take care of my boys and if Taylor would remarry. (And if he did how he could ever find a replacement as beautiful and amazing and witty and…)

I started to get panicky. The contractions were coming so often and were so deadly. There was no end in sight.

In the .13 seconds between each one, I kept yelling for Taylor to “GO FIND THAT MAN. FIND THAT EPIDURAL MAN RIGHT NOW.”

Taylor replied with some calm reassurance and other crap. I couldn’t pay attention because UTERINE DEATH GRIP.

Said “man” finally came in the room. He sauntered in like we had all the time in the world. Sure, sir, just come on in whenever you get a chance. Maybe after a 4-course meal? Or perhaps after you do your taxes? Just whenever. It’s not like my life and/or sanity is depending on the heavenly nectar in your syringe or anything.

Me: {said in an angry growl} ARE YOU THE MAN.
Man: Uhhh, mayb–
Me: THE MAN. THE MAN! WITH THE EPIDURAL. WHAT TOOK YOU SO LONG I HATE YOUR FACE ARE YOU HIM??
Man: Yes. I am the anesthesiolog–
Me: WHATEVER. GIVE ME THE PAPERWORK.

I can’t vouch for whose name I signed, if anyone’s, but I made enough scribbles on his stupid papers for him to hook me up with the meds.

Except the epidural didn’t work. Again.

The nurse said, “Sometimes when you’re too far progressed, the epidural won’t work. Let’s check you again. {…discomfort…} Yeaaa…you’re at a 10 already. So…”

(By this point, only about 30 minutes had elapsed since I was admitted. From a 6 to a 10 in 30 minutes.)

The “man” chimed in (in an annoyingly calm voice) and said, “Well, we’ll give it 20 more minutes and then we’ll try something else.”

During the next 20 minutes, half of my attention was on the second hand of the clock, the other half was on that man’s face. I was in so much pain I started to see red as I looked at him. He was supposed to make the pain stop. Instead, he was in the corner of the room chatting all jovially on his cell phone to someone. I began to wonder if he had a family. I hoped not. I’d feel more guilty about murdering him if he did.

But finally the 20+ minutes was up (a.k.a. he ended his weekly phone call with Great Aunt Ruby) and he set me up with different meds. And they worked. (So well, in fact, that my legs turned into 300lbs of dead weight.)

The murder was put on hold for the time being, but I still hated him.

And since I wasn’t in pain anymore, we took more ridiculous selfies because why not.

My water miraculously still hadn’t broken, so they called the doctor to help a sister out.

My doctor wasn’t on call, so we had another OB from the practice. Side note: it’s kinda weird to meet someone right before they get all up in your lady parts.

Anyway…she introduced herself, broke my water, and told me to push all in the same sentence. She stopped me mid-push and said “Hold on just a second. I’ll be right back.”

She said it so calmly I assumed she was grabbing a Starbucks bev or something. Taylor and I were joking about something or another as she left the room and the nurses started casually transforming the room for delivery. The doctor came back in with her gown and gloves.

Still not rushing.

We chatted about her kids, the Superbowl, etc. It was pleasant.

Then she switched gears. Still casual.

Doctor: Ok, so whenever you’re ready, give a good push and he’ll be here.
Me: WHAT? Like…one push? Right now? I don’t feel like I need to push. Then again, I can’t feel my legs.
Doctor: Yep. I can see him. That’s why I had you hold off for a minute. So whenever you’re ready, I’m ready.
Me: Uhhh…ok. Is…now a good time?
Doctor: Sure. Just whenever.

It’s like we were talking about when to eat lunch, not the impending birth of my second child.

I’m glad I hadn’t sneezed when she left the room.

It’s an odd thing to just “push whenever”, knowing your baby is on the other end of a slight grunt.

But, indeed, one push later and:

Hutton Smith Brooks was born. 8lbs 5oz, born at 9:51pm. (Yep. Admitted and birthed in less than 4 hours.)

Another Brooks boy that is fearfully and wonderfully made for our family.

All of the praying and waiting. All of the heartburn and peeing and kicks and pokes. All of it lead to this perfect little boy.

We now have multiple children. I have boys. Two boys, perfectly knit together inside of me.

I can’t even handle the awesomeness of it all.

Hutton is easily my favorite 85-year-old newborn.

He’ll be your favorite once you meet him, too.

And, in case you’re wondering, the second epidural (hereby known as the “horse tranq”) worked SO well that I had to stay in the delivery room an extra 2 hours until my left leg started working again. But, when given the option, I’d take “bum leg” (as the nurse called it) over death contraction every time.

Welcome to the world, Hutton boy. We’ve been waiting for you.