NaBloPoMo "C"

C is for Chloe, of course



Here is *my* story, the story of Chloe's arrival.

On March 10th, 1994, I was hugely pregnant and ready to be done. At about 9 p.m., I was tucking an 18-month old MJ into bed. While I was singing to her, I felt the first contraction, so I cuddled MJ an extra long time, knowing it was her last night as an only child.

Then I found Frank and told him I was in labor. Unimpressed, he went to bed. This sounds somewhat, well, heartless until you recall that labor lasted a very long time the first time around. So, I muddled through the first few hours alone. I called the hospital and checked in there, and the nurse cautioned me not to wait "too long." I wasn't worried. I had a bath and paced and tried to doze.

Finally, about 2 a.m., I woke Frank, called Grandma Mary to come and finish out her night on our livingroom couch, and called Grandma Cherie to meet us at the hospital to help coach. By the time we got there at close to 3, things were getting pretty interesting, and I had my doubts about my ability to walk from car to hospital.

In some part of my brain, however, I still thought I had hours—days—of labor left, and the pain was INTENSE, so I let them give me a shot of something. This didn't seem to do much for me except to make me less capable of managing the pain.

But the birthing suites at Group Health Hospital in Redmond are pretty nice places. I spent the next couple of hours in a tub of warm water. When the midwife saw me pushing, she said, "Don't push!" I responded by channeling Linda Blair and snarling, "I WANT TO!"

"Time to get out of the tub," said the midwife.

At this point, I lost control of my birthing experience. Funny how that happens in hospitals. I was firmly encouraged into bed despite the fact that horizontal is not the best position for delivery, and a fetal monitor was strapped across my belly even though I hated the feel of it. But the baby came anyway, as babies will usually do.

Then the big moment. 7:00 a.m. straight up. I let out a scream, which I vaguely remember a nurse rolling her eyes over. And then Chloe was there. They gave her to me to hold for a too-brief moment and then took her over to the table where they did their initial measurements and such. Chloe started to cry. In my woozy state, the exactly right response to this was to sing the Beatles' Rocky Raccoon, a song that we sang to MJ most every night while tucking her in. In other words, Chloe had been listening to that song once a night for months.

The midwife was perfectly delighted with my song choice and joined in. Frank joined in. And Chloe stopped crying. Minutes later, she was nursing for the first time, and all was right with my world.

And now, knowing the person she is, it still seems exactly right that I greeted her with a song.