The Day After Little Little Brother was Born

[To pick up where we left off from the last post, little little brother, Davis, has been born and he is awesome.]

Our newest Taylor tot was born at a hospital that opened earlier this year – the rebranded, relocated version of another hospital in town – which seems great. New hospital, new rooms, new everything besides staff.

And maybe it’s because the hospital is newish, maybe it’s because the staff has been transplanted from a different place…whatever the reasoning, it’s quirky. (Starting with the front desk people being MIA for over 10 minutes when I was first trying to check in/having death contractions/trying to carry on a conversation with a constipated lady in the lobby).

The night Davis was born, we were one of 2 patients total on the floor. And in the baby boom of the century, 2 more came in after us.

4 patients, you guys. It was nuts. MAYHEM.

(Seriously. They kept talking about how busy they were.)

After we confirmed I was, in fact, in labor, they set me up in a delivery room.

First things first, IV.

The nurse tourniquets my arm, sticks the humongous “in case of blood transfusion” needle in, holds it in place with her finger…and then yells at someone outside the room.

Nurse 1: I have the wrong top to this. Go check the supply closet – second shelf, on the right – and you’ll see the other part.
     *nurse 2 runs down the hall and returns with the wrong part*
Nurse 1: No…that’s not it either. Try the top shelf with on the left side. Next to the gauze.
     *nurse 2 runs down the hall and returns with the wrong part*

This happens 3 times. Thrice.

Meanwhile, my arm is not just purple…it’s white. All blood flow has officially been cut off. Now I not only need an IV but an amputation.

Correct me if I’m wrong, but doesn’t every chick in labor get an IV? The parts should be standard procedure…in plain sight, right? Not tucked away between the hospital lingerie that is mesh underwear and nonslip socks.

But whatever. They find the part. They get the IV in. I have a baby. It’s beautiful.

And then comes the recovery room.

The bed they set me up in was miniscule. As in, I’m not a tall person and I couldn’t stretch my legs out all the way. Every time a nurse came in, I’d ask about the tiny bed.

“Is this normal? I can’t straighten my legs out which is a real bummer since there’s a whole lot of other stuff happening on and in and with my lower half and CAN’T A GIRL JUST GET A GOOD STRETCH IN?”
“Hmm yeah that’s weird.” *exits abruptly*

Awesome.

For the first 12 hours postpartum, I mimicked sweet Davis and slept in the fetal position.

Taylor and I both were very underwhelmed with the care in the postpartum wing. Half the nurses didn’t introduce themselves or, if they did, spoke so fast and left so quickly we were confused who they were and what they said.

The first day nurse we had walked in the room saying, “I’m usually just the baby’s nurse but today I’m taking care of both of you. I’ve never had both the baby AND the mommy before so we’ll just figure this thing out! Haha! Now…*scans the room*…what do we do first?”

My confidence plummeted about as quickly as my comfort level on Tiny Bed Nation.

And then the night baby nurse.

She was a large, frazzled woman. Every time she came in the room, she was out of breath and sweating profusely.

“We have a lot of babies tonight and I’m – pauses to catch breath – trying to get to them all. Do you want me – heavy breathing – to take your baby – wheeze – to the nursery?”

I thanked her before opting to spoon with him in my matchbox instead.

Sometime in the middle of the night, Taylor ran home to get some things. On his way back up to our floor, he rode in the elevator with 2 cops and a handcuffed man.

Definitely a notable story but, oddly enough, not my favorite hospital elevator moment.

My favorite is the next morning when Beckett, on his way to meet little little brother, ran straight to the nurse’s desk and yelled, “I just tooted on the elevator.”

As Lady Constipation would agree, a little fumigation never hurt anyone.

After the best entrance ever, my bookends met.

Beckett was enthralled. It was love at first squeeze. (Really, at first sight of his dark hair that “looked like a burrito”. ???)

A few hours later, the newly promoted little big brother came.

When that many cords and buttons and trash cans are in one room, a new sibling is slightly underwhelming to an 18 month old.

He gave it a good effort.

For the briefest of moments, everyone seemed to be quietly revering the new life being added to our family.

I looked at my 4 guys and thought, “We’ve got this.”

And then reality (and a metal toy truck) hit.

And I thought, “We’ve mostly got this.”

And then Beckett, my ever-curious 4 year old, started punching every button on the side of my bed. The bed went up, the bed went down, the bed tilted, and – finally – THE BED EXTENDED. TO A REASONABLE, ADULT-HUMAN LENGTH.

And I thought, “We’ve totally got this.

My preschooler is smarter than the medical staff.”

So look out, world. We’ve 100% got this.

We’re coming for you*.

*assuming I survive the botched IV job. Verdict is still out on whether or not my left arm makes a full recovery.

[Also, in the event that the hospital is looking for a blogger to write a rave review of their services, they probably shouldn’t ask me. Unless they specifically want feedback on the L&D nurses or the decadent brownie from food services. 5 stars.]