Happy Birthday, Bubba!

Today, December 3rd, is Bubba's birthday. He is five. I cannot believe that my firstborn is now five years old. I can remember his birth like it was yesterday. And in honor of his birthday, I'm going to tell his birth story.

First a little back story. When I was in seventh grade I had appendicitis. Or at least that's what they thought until they did the surgery. Turns out I had a ruptured ovarian cyst and it was bad. In fact, it was so bad that they cut off part of my right ovary. The surgeon (who was my small town doctor) said he didn't know if it would affect my fertility or not. Um. NOT. I am, in fact, Fertile Myrtle. You can practically just look at me with a gleam in your eye and I'll get pregnant. It wasn't until I started talking to other moms and meeting a lot of women who had fertility issues that I realized how fortunate I am.

Anyway, I got pregnant with Bubba right away. Here I am, just barely pregnant:

And this pregnancy, compared with Punkin's, was a breeze. I suffered very little morning sickness, although I can remember clear as day when it struck. I was cooking chicken with balsamic vinegar and had to stop in the middle of cooking and lay my head on the cool tile countertop. Shudder. I could barely eat chicken for the rest of the pregnancy.

As we neared nine months, my grandmother fell ill and I was told she was not expected to live very long. This caused me great distress because I was in Savannah and she was in my hometown 4 hours away. I talked to my doctor about wanting to go home and visit one last time and we talked about inducing me. It was only about a week early and I didn't feel like it was pushing things. My doctor was great and he was very no-nonsense, common sense kind of guy.

So, we scheduled the induction for December 3rd. We checked in around 5:00 or 5:30 and they started me on the pitocin. My doctor came by around 9:00 and broke my water. When making out my birth plan, my plan had basically been to play it by ear. I was going to try to go "natural" but was fully prepared to cave in and beg for an epidural without making myself feel guilty. I think I lasted, oh, maybe half an hour. The contractions just kept coming one on top of the other and I couldn't get over one before the next wave hit. It was truly like no other pain I've ever felt (disclaimer in case there are any first time pregnant women reading: Pitocin makes contractions worse. At least that's what they tell me. I have nothing to compare my experience to, but don't freak out, you'll be fiiiine.)

My hospital had two anesthesiologists just for the labor and delivery floor so I didn't have to wait long for the blessed relief. My mom called to check on me --she was on her way down -- and I confessed that the entire time I had been in excruciating pain, all I could think of was Melanie Wilkes, birthing Ashley's baby in the Georgia summer heat, Yankees on the way, and only a knife under the bed to cut the pain. We both had a good laugh. I could laugh now. I was feelin' no pain.

About lunch time my doctor came and turned off my pitocin. We all sat around and stared at each other.

Around five my doctor came back. My contractions had slowed considerably, so he started the pitocin back up and stepped out into the hall.

"Oh, look!" I said, watching the monitor. "A really big contraction!" I was so busy watching the spike that I didn't notice the red warning lights flashing everywhere until my doctor burst into the room followed by about 6-7 nurses.

Honestly, the rest is a little bit of a blur. They threw my bed back, gave me some kind of shot, hustled my mom and my MIL out of the room, told Mr. Daddy to run into the hall and ask for "Daddy clothes."

I heard the words "c-section" and "fetal distress." There was discussion of whether one of the two operating rooms on the floor were ready. Apparently both had just finished with a surgery and the floor inside both was still wet.

We arrived at screeching halt in the operating room. The anesthesiologist administered the goods in record time and the next thing I know, Bubba was there. Screaming. Healthy. Alive.

From the time my doctor rushed into my room until the moment he pulled Bubba out was eight minutes. Eight. Minutes. By this time Mr. Daddy and I were both sobbing with joy. Fear. Release.

Here's a picture of my little man. I edited out his bits and pieces, which were, um, surprisingly large. I know now that's normal, but it was a little shocking at first.

And Bubba was a good baby. I didn't know it then, but he was a really easy baby. He was a good nurser, despite a few early latching problems. And he got FAT! Good fat. But fat.

And once upon a time, he was a good eater.

We call this photo "I can't believe I ate the whole thing!"

But this. THIS is my favorite photo of Bubba as a baby.

But of course they grow up. We hit the terrible twos. We went through our train phase. Here's Bubba in the Halloween costume I made for him when he was almost two.

Mr. Daddy drew the Chessie system Cat. Mr. Daddy is a from Huntington, WV, a real train town, so he was the expert on making the trail look real.

And now Bubba's five. FIVE! And he's such a sweet boy. He's so good to me and his daddy. He's so sweet to his sister. And he's very funny. And he loves to read. He wants to be a rock star so bad he can't stand it.

Happy Birthday, Bubba. I love you!



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Don't forget to register for my contest. Go ahead and register! If you don't need the Miffy, give her to Toys for Tots. Oh, and Karen and Burgh Baby's Mom? I'm totally registering you. Give it away, but don't disqualify yourself!! It doesn't cost me or you anything to win!