A parenthetical part of life between the births of Adam and Ingrid was the loss of a baby through miscarriage at 10 weeks gestation. I still don't know the cause, but it was very sad. On the other hand, it was God's good pleasure to instead give us Ingrid!
My OB thought he could control the size of my babies by putting me on the diabetic exchange diet -- or perhaps get me to take up smoking, but I wouldn't go for it. Consequently, I had a very healthy diet during my pregnancy, but still gained 42 pounds. Still no ill effects of blood pressure, blood sugar, etc. Just the normal achies, nausea, and sciatica.
This was the first of the three births where my own mother was going to be visiting us and helping with the boys. They had been out of the state and the country for the other births, and Mom came back from Germany this time; in fact, a week early, since no one exactly can predict a birth date.
This baby was due January 20, which came ... and went. My OB was convinced that this baby would be smaller (how could they get much bigger?). In fact, he was willing to bet that I could get by without an episiotomy this time.
On the evening of January 23, we all went to bed as normal, but I was awakened at about 1:15 a.m. with contractions -- and vomiting and diarrhea. Nothing like a few good contractions to clear out your digestive tract. My previous experience was enough to convince me that we should probably get to the hospital. I woke up Mom to tell her we would be leaving.
When we got to the hospital (Mark was a veteran now and I could count on him to go into delivery with me, even though we hadn't taken Lamaze this time -- we figured we could wing it), I was still feeling nauseated, and the doctor checked me and ruptured my membranes in the process. Contractions began in earnest then, and within a short period of time I felt like perhaps I needed to use the restroom. Wrong! As I reached the bathroom to sit down, I could feel a pressure that was all too familiar. It was a baby!
I quickly called for Mark to tell the doctor. Being the middle of the night, the doctor had to be called (the nurse didn't believe I could be ready that soon) and in the meantime, the nurse called the emergency room doctor to come upstairs. He did NOT want to deliver a baby. Upon entering the delivery room, the ER doctor was checking in to make sure my own doctor had arrived. I had to push by then, and there was no time to see whether an episiotomy would be necessary or not. Too late, and I ripped. Not that I was noticing. My doctor (actually, his associate -- again!) arrived just in time to catch the baby.
Mark was very interested in who this little one was. At 3:16 a.m. on January 24, he yelled, "it's a girl!" and I couldn't believe it. She was a healthy 10 pounds and 2 ounces, and 22 inches long. Not as small as the doctor had predicted. I cried, I shook (but not as much as with Adam), and I talked to her as she was placed on me and the doctor tried to patch up the "chopped meat"... thanks so much. It was Super Bowl Sunday, so while Ingrid and I bonded and slept, Mr. Dad watched the game. The next morning on the radio he dedicated a song to our newest little one, our little miss pris... Isn't She Lovely?
And now our baby is having a baby. Generations are flying by, and I feel like I'm going through this all over again. But this time I get to be the encourager, the care-giver, and the doula. Just call me "Nana."
