Wow. Thanks everybody for all the birthday wishes, AGAIN. What a wonderful, relaxing, and most importantly, FU N weekend I had. And it’s Tuesday. Nice.
I did get the story that I wanted, maybe not in as much detail as I would have liked, and my dad kept butting in until my mom just came over and sat by me next to the fire and practically whispered the rest to me.
Before I go into what she said, here’s an important detail that I left out of my dad’s version of the story. I didn’t learn this until recently, so I forgot (or blocked it out) about it.
After my dad finally finished the paperwork, he waited for the nurse at the desk to get off the phone. She finally hung up and looked at my dad with a confounded expression and said, “I just have to tell someone this. I was just on the phone with a woman who just had sex with her dog and she wanted to know if it was going to hurt her in any way.” At this point in the story my dad always starts giggling, so I don’t know if he said anything to her or not. But a woman had sex with her dog on the day that I was born.
According to my mom, her labor with me lasted about 4 hours, maybe a little more (did my dad have to read War and Peace as part of the paperwork?). She waited at home until the last possible moment before going to the hospital. She said in those days women were given an enema at the hospital so they could poop before giving birth. Sorry to surprise those of you who are inexperienced with the birthing process, but chances are, if you are pushing with all of your might in your nether region, you are most likely going to poop on the birthing table. When I was born, they had something against poop. These days, I think most hospitals just accept the pooping process with the birthing process. Not only are you giving birth to your little squirmy offspring, you are giving birth to what you had for dinner. My mom discovered that pushing to have a bowel movement involved the same muscles as pushing to have a baby as she was hovered over the toilet, and almost had me right there. She had the nurses come get her “or I’m going to have this baby right here on the commode!” After that, it was pretty much smooth sailing. With a little snip and some understandable screaming, I was out pretty quick. As my mom said, “it’s a piece of cake. Don’t worry about it.” Easy for her to say. My brother and I were both low birth weight kids, somewhere around 4-5 pounds each. Back then it was ok for women to smoke and drink moderately. Chances are, my kid will weigh 9 pounds and rip my body in half from all the pop tarts I’ve eaten.
I actually have lot of work to do today, so tomorrow look out for the photo of what the main attraction of the weekend was. Be happy. It’s not Monday.