Labor of Love

My birth plan was pretty simple. 

Drugs. I wanted all the drugs. 

During nine months of pregnancy, I took exactly zero child birth classes. I read no books nor blog posts about labor and delivery. I basically entirely ignored the fact that I would eventually be an active party in getting my daughter's body out of my own. I truly figured I would go to the hospital the instant my water broke, immediately ask for the biggest epidural on the menu, spend a few hours unable to feel anything below the waist, and welcome my daughter into the world in a blissfully loopy state. 

My child, however, had other plans. 

It was an hour before the coin toss on Super Bowl Sunday, and I just felt...off. Off enough to warrant a call to my doctor, who suggested I swing by his office. He assured me it likely was nothing, and I'd be home by kick off. That “nothing” turned out to be the very earliest possible signs of labor, which meant I wasn’t going anywhere. I sent Justin home to get some rest, anticipating he'd need it for what was sure to be a long next day. Mum came in and sat with me and we spent the next 12 hours gossiping and laughing in a seriously slap happy state when we really probably should have been sleeping.

Around 5 a.m., my water broke. Two hours of manageable discomfort after that, I opted to get my birth plan under way and requested many drugs. Just as the anesthesiologist started sliding that needle into my back, Justin, a.k.a. "Mr. I Generally Hate All Things Hospital-Related," came strolling through the door. I couldn't move, but managed to croak out a, "Leave. Now!" before he saw some things he couldn't unsee.

By the end of it, the sight of that needle piercing my spine wouldn't have even made the top 10 list of terrifying things he saw that day.

For the longest time, I stayed at just a few centimeters but finally, around 7 p.m., Doc announced it was time to push. I'd been napping most of the day, and the epidural was doing its job nicely, so I was ready to do the damn thing. Mum grabbed one leg, the nurse grabbed the other, Justin grabbed my head and I pushed and pushed and pushed and....

Nothing.

Turned out that while I thought I was really throwing myself into this whole pushing business, the epidural had made my body so comfortable, it wasn't really interested in listening to any demands. So while my brain was thinking, "I'm pushing really hard!" my body was on a beach in Mexico sipping a margarita with its phone off.

The only solution, Doc explained, was to back off on the drugs.

"OK, let's try it," I remember saying.

Every memory from that point on only comes to me in the form of PTSD-like flashback. I remember waves of pressure, as though my guts were trying to turn themselves inside out. I remember agony, like a vice around my midsection, pulling tighter and tighter until even drawing breath became sheer torture. I remember making noises usually reserved for wild animals.

Turned out "back off on the drugs" meant pulling my epidural entirely. So the chick whose only birth plan was "Be Numb" ended up having a natural, drug-free child birth and delivering a 9 pound, 4 ounce baby who was in no rush whatsoever to enter into this world.

This is what I looked like when we checked into the hospital:

This is what I looked like after the birth:

I can honestly say I lost all sense of myself. The pain made me so crazy, I couldn't think. I just remember looking at Justin, who was doing all he could to help while memorizing the wallpaper pattern on the wall behind my bed rather than look at anything happening south of my waist.

"I can't do this," I said to him again and again.

"You can," he'd say. "I know you can."

I loved him for trying to help, but I couldn't believe him. I told the doctors as much over and over again and begged for a C-section.

"We're so far past that point," one doctor said. "But you can do this! I know you can!"

At this point, I gathered every ounce of strength I had, sat up and made eye contact with him.

"Listen to me," I said as calmly as I could. "When I tell you I can't do this, I mean it. I'm not being dramatic. I don't need a pep talk. I'm telling you my body is not capable of this. I'm going to die. I know it. This is what dying feels like. I. Can't. Do. This."

Everyone went silent for a moment. Then another contraction wrenched me back into the world of pain, and another doctor said, "Just a few more pushes!"

"YOU SAID THAT FIVE PUSHES AGO!!!" I screamed.

But he was right. A few pushes later, her head popped out. I heard a doctor start to say her shoulders were stuck. That was unacceptable.

"GET HER OUT OF ME!!!!" I screeched, and praise God, he did.

He placed her tiny body on my chest and I pawed at my sweat-soaked gown, now bunched up in a ball around my neck, so I could get a look at her. I was just able to register the feel of her warm body against my own when the doctors scooped her up and took her to be weighed. I watched as Justin studied her, then stepped back and announced her name: Libby Renee. 

When I finally could hold her again, I remember having this feeling of, "Oh, right, there you are." It was as if I'd been waiting for her my whole life to meet her, and now she was finally here.

That being said, I will never, ever forget how awful that pain was. I know many women who have said they instantly forgot all about the labor the instant they saw their babies. Eff that. I love my daughter more than I could ever imagine, but I will think long and hard about giving her a sibling without expressed permission from my doctor ahead of time to get an elective C-section, if that even is such a thing. Or maybe I can get him to sign some kind of contract promising to never utter the words "back off on the drugs" in my presence ever again.

People have asked me if it was worth it, and of course, the answer is yes. I mean, look at this face:

She's amazing and capable of making me feel happier than I'd ever imagined.

Then again, so was the epidural. 

Rob Lowe is Getting Gypped

Thanks to DirecTV’s latest ad campaign, we’ve seen the backwards behavior of Painfully Awkward Rob Lowe, the arm hair curtains of Crazy Hairy Rob Lowe and the general jerkiness of Meathead Rob Lowe, among others.

No doubt Mr. Lowe has enjoyed a few nice pay days for each of the spots. But I wonder if he knows there’s another product out there using his name and likely not sending him a cent.

I heard it two seconds after I fired up my breast pump for the first time. Each turn of the motor said his name so clearly, I expected to see it stamped on the handle.

I called for Justin, who came over, listened for half a second, and said, “Oh my God. Rob Lowe.”

We’ve played it for nearly every person who’s come to the house to visit Libby in the last month. All but two heard it instantly.

I give you Breast Pump Rob Lowe.

I fully anticipate a day years from now when my adult daughter attempts to explain to her therapist why she’s obsessed with an actor who’s old enough to be her grandfather. 

And why hearing his name makes her crave dairy.

Introducing Libby Renee

This little love bug came into our lives on Feb. 3, 2015, just minutes after midnight, saving her from sharing a birthday with the only holiday I know of that celebrates a rodent. This was a close call, as my mom threatened multiple times to nickname Lib "Punxsutawney Phyllis" should she be born on the day otherwise dedicated to determining whether Groundhog Phil sees his shadow. Though her timing turned out to be perfect, Libby's arrival into this world was a tad more dramatic than anticipated, and I can't wait to tell you all about it. But for now, as we adjust to our new normal, here are just a few photos of her doing her thing, which these days involves nothing more than being absurdly adorable.

To Dye For

Baby prep has me reading mommy blogs the way I used to read restaurant wine lists: frequently and with great anticipation. I can’t get enough of real women telling me what I’m in for. I tend to avoid the Pinterest Mommies - women whose lives are just as perfect as the likenesses of Queen Elsa they frosted onto three dozen individual cupcakes that morning. I relate more to the “my kid pooped in the cereal aisle of Target...again” kind of blogs, as I fear assume my own experience will be much more in line with these.

A common theme on these sites is “you will NEVER believe what my child did this time,” often supported by a tale of whatever shenanigans their little one was up to that week: painting the kitchen walls with marinara sauce, giving the dog a “bath” with a bowl of instant pudding, usual kid stuff.

I read these parents’ gripes and wonder what outlandish scenarios my own little mischief maker will find herself in. It all got me thinking about my own childhood. What did I ever do to get into trouble? The answer, I will tell you, is: Not much. I wasn’t exactly a hellraiser. Up until I was older and acted like every teen in every sitcom by throwing a house party when my parents were out of town, I kept things pretty tame. 

I can truly only really remember one time when my mom looked at me the way I imagine the mommy bloggers look at their own misbehaving children. You know the face - that mix of rage and incredulity when you think your mother is going to simply walk away from you, board a bus to Wichita and assume a new identity as an apple butter maker with a roadside stand. And I swear, I didn’t even know what I had done was that bad.

OK, maybe I had a hunch.

As an adolescent of the ‘90s, I was, of course, enamored with all things grunge. I longed to be angst-ridden. I listened mostly to Nirvana and Hole on the Walkman I took on the school bus every morning. Angela Chase was my hero. There were kids in my school who had embraced this lifestyle full-out, donning Doc Martens and devastatingly thick smears of eyeliner to school everyday. I was so jealous of them. Lacking both the guts and the fashion sense to pull that look off, I envied from afar, wishing I could put my own pain out there like that. You know, all that pain I had from growing up middle class in suburban America with no real problems and a generally happy outlook. Oh, youth.

Anyway. I really wanted a way to express myself but I knew a piercing or a tattoo were out of the question. Even a swipe of that eyeliner would look wildly out of place on me, Miss Plain Jane USA. I knew my mom would never let me dye my hair so that was out. Or so I thought. 

One day, I was standing in the cafeteria lunch line and overheard one of the grunge girls talking about how she’d gotten this awesome shock of blue hair she’d been rocking for the last week.

“It was easy,” she said to her friend. “ I used Ice Blue Raspberry Kool-Aid.”

Genius.

Later at home, I looked over the contents of our pantry. I spied a long-forgotten package of Cherry Kool-Aid tucked back in one corner that had probably been there since I’d finished fifth grade. Jackpot. I grabbed it, a spoon and a plastic cup half full of lukewarm water and hightailed it up to my bedroom before anyone could catch me. I felt a rush of adrenaline rip through me as I slammed my door shut. (I realize now that had anyone spotted me, they probably would have thought, “Huh. Rachel must want some Kool-Aid,” and immediately moved on with their lives, but in my head, I was a freaking ninja.)

I stirred the fiery red powder into the glass and watched it dissolve. I pulled a tiny section of hair out of my ponytail and slowly submerged it in the liquid. I hovered there, neck straining and palms up jazz-hands style to keep my balance, for about a minute. Figuring that was surely good enough, I lifted my hair out of the glass and sprinted to the bathroom, where I locked the door and blew the wet section dry, practically holding my breath with anticipation. I put down the blow dryer and took in my edgy new look.

I couldn’t tell I’d done a thing. The section I “dyed” was barely even noticeable, nothing more than an ever-so-slightly pink tinge that was a far cry from the violent red slash of color I’d been aiming for.

I was disappointed, but the idea of doing it all over again just seemed like a whole lot of work, so I dumped the rest of the drink down the drain and went back to my rule-abiding existence.

The next day, Mum and I headed out for some errand-running. We were in a health food store, waiting for the clerk to check on something we’d ordered, when Mum looked at me like I’d just slapped her silly.

“What!?” I said, recoiling.

She stepped toward me, reached out and took a section of my hair between two fingers.

“Did you….” she started, head slowly swiveling from one side to the other. “Did you dye your hair?!”

Crap. The awful fluorescent lighting must have accentuated the evidence of my clandestine makeover. 

“Well,” I said, stepping back out of her reach. “Kind of.”

“Kind of?!” she screamed, grabbing me by the arm and lurching me out of the store as the gobsmacked clerk watched.

“It’s not dye!” I screamed, sure I’d be able to absolve myself once she knew the truth. “It’s Kool-Aid!”

She stopped and again cocked her head to the side.

“Kool-Aid? What the…!”

“It’s not permanent! I’m sorry! I just wanted to try it! This girl at my school has really cool hair and…”

“Enough,” Mum said. “You’re grounded. And you’re washing that out.”

“Fine,” I said, bidding my wannabe rebel days adieu.

Sadly, my punishment didn’t end with a week stuck at home. For weeks, Mum would sing the theme song from “Pinky and the Brain” to remind me of my ridiculous endeavor. The rest of the family caught on and to this day will still hum a bit of it to me if they’re somehow reminded of the story.

I never really understood why Mum got so heated that day. I asked her recently why one measly streak of hair dyed pink with a kids’ drink enraged her so much.

“I think because you did it without asking me first,” she said.

Fair enough. I’m sure I’ll understand even better when my own daughter pulls something similar. Though I can’t imagine that I’d care that much if she wanted to dye her hair.

But just in case, consider Kool-Aid banned at my house.  

Sock It To Me

All of my mommy-to-be reading material has cautioned that in the few weeks before the baby is born, I’ll start to nest. According to numerous books and blogs, this means I’ll want to clean my house, get organized and generally prepare the premises for the onslaught of chaos.

Turns out, I nest hard. In the last few weeks, I’ve:

• Washed every drape, blanket, pillow, non-nailed down item I could find. Also washed every baby-related outfit and piece of bedding in super expensive baby-safe detergent. Folded and hung everything. Realized my unborn child owns more clothes than I do.

• Organized all the drawers of my desk and re-filed all important paperwork in an easy-to-access system, just in case I should ever need to retrieve, say, my 2004 tax documents, in a pinch. 
• Designed and constructed a family photo wall in my upstairs hallway. Hung up the photo collages and message boards that have sat waiting on my office floor since we moved in almost two years ago.  
• Procured a new rug for the dining room, new drapes for the bedroom and countless items for the nursery (Pregnant women shouldn’t be allowed to enter the baby section of any store without a Shopaholics Anonymous sponsor).
• Scrubbed the grout in my kitchen and bathroom to a white that rivals any toothpaste commercial smile. 

For one brief shining second, all this work created the illusion that the LaBar household was as prepared as possible for its new resident.

It took all of two minutes before my mind started to wander, and when it stopped, it was smack dab in the middle of the basement bedroom.

This particular room, set off from the Man Cave by its own door, has become our home’s own Bermuda Triangle. When we moved, any box that wasn’t labeled with an exact destination ended up there. Half the room was inhabited by containers stuffed with old newspaper clippings from my early reporting days, memorabilia from both my and JT’s high school and college years, assorted sundry from the places we’d both lived prior and just general random whatnot. The other half was used as a makeshift studio for JT, who hung a green screen in front of the mess and would film short segments for his web broadcasts. He had quickly found better spots to do this after a few weeks, so now all that remained was a ton of lighting equipment, all those boxes, a web of extension cords and a bunch of dust. The place also had become a mausoleum for spiders, and their tiny corpses rested in every nook and cranny.

So basically, my hell on earth.

For the longest time, I pretended like it wasn’t there. It was as if closing the door to that room made it stop existing. It was like Monica’s closet in “Friends.” No one but JT and I knew truth.

Somehow, this justified leaving it untouched, growing more neglected and horrible by the day, until the moment my pregnancy hormones decided this madness must stop.

On the day after Christmas, which we had both taken off to relax and veg at home, I informed JT that we’d be tackling the beast.

“Now?” he asked, from our cozy spot stretched out on the couch, where we’d intended to spend the rest of the day.

“Yes. Now. Today. This minute,” I said before I lost my nerve. “It should only take about two hours. I know we can do this. Let’s go!”

Six hours, four garbage bags, one enormous pile of future garage sale merch, and countless moments of “What the hell is this?” later, we were done.

It was brutal. My Type A “OMFG Get Rid Of It All” personality made me want to just throw everything into one big pile and light it on fire, while JT’s “What If We Need It One Day?!” approach made him agonize over every old bill from utility services we don’t even have any more, each press pass from long-over events, and every scrap of paper bearing some long-forgotten reminder from six years ago.

Yet somehow, we made it through without adding to the room’s body count. I showed him how to separate things into three piles - toss, sell or save - then how to organize all the things he planned to keep as either keepsakes or actual usable items. We made a decent team, and things went pretty smoothly, until I came across one particular box.

This box, which bore no label, had been tucked away in a corner of a closet. When I lifted it, I found it to be weightier than I’d expected. I plopped it down in the middle of the room, and without consulting JT, tore it open.

Much like one of those toy cans that shoot out fake snakes on unsuspecting victims, the overstuffed box spewed forth its contents the instant its lid was removed. A sea of black splayed out onto the floor, while my perplexed eyes tried to identify the source.

Socks. So many socks.

An entire box of socks.

Not even folded or paired up in any way. And by the smell of them, not all clean either. It was just so….so….so very like JT to have something so random.

I lost it.

Here was this box, just chilling in our basement all this time, when I’d bought JT socks at least twice in the time since we’d moved, as had many relatives for various holidays and birthdays. Something about this struck me as so oddly hilarious, I started laughing one of those silent, it’s-so-funny-I-can’t-breathe laughs, then exploded into giggles for a solid five minutes.

When I finally got it together, JT eyed me like the batty loon I am.

“Finished?” he asked.

“Yes, I believe so,” I said, wiping a tear from my eye. “What would you like to do with this?” I pointed to the pile.

“Throw them away,” he said.

This made me laugh even harder.

Just so we’re clear, the decision whether or not to keep a Comcast bill from 2011 is worthy of great debate, but a box of socks? Pitch that shit.

God, I love him.

So, the socks ended up in the garbage, for reasons I’m still not entirely sure of, other than the suspicion that JT feared I would lose my mind every time I saw them from that point forward.

He would have been right.

Final Countdown

It was an hour into our newborn basics class, and the scene looked like a case for Child Protective Services. The dad-to-be held the lifelike rubber baby doll by the foot, its head dangling about 6 inches above the table, while he grasped around for a diaper with the other hand. He dropped the baby on top of the diaper, pancaking it. His own head swiveled back and forth as he considered his next move. His eyes darted sideways to his wife, who, if the previous hour had been any indication, wanted to murder him in front of the entire class.

“Not like that,” she spat, snatching the doll from his hands.

I looked to my other side at JT, who also was watching the World’s Happiest Couple in action. Our own baby doll sat safely diapered on the table in front of him. There was no question he’d won the Daddy Diaper Derby, but based on Angry Wife’s wrath, there was no way we’d be pointing that out to our teacher who was on the other side of the room, helping another dad-in-training with his own diaper disaster.

“Remind me again why you said you have no idea what you’re doing when it comes to babies?” I whispered to JT.

He just shook his head and picked up a pamphlet on swaddling.

We’re just weeks away from Baby LaBar making her debut, and while I thought we’d both feel totally insane and overwhelmed by this point, I think we’re actually, dare I say it, doing OK? Neither of us has had any kind of meltdown, least of all attempted homicide in the middle of a parenting class. No one’s stormed out of Babies R Us in a frantic rage (and I shopped there TWICE during the holiday season). We’re getting along, getting things done, making decisions and, at this point, just really excited to meet our daughter.

(Note how I didn’t say the word “ready.” I know “ready” doesn’t exist in the world of preparing for a new baby. I don’t care if the nursery is stocked with enough clothes/diapers/wipes/boogie suckers to get her to her third birthday. “Ready” is a myth.)

The class was money well spent and included three hours of learning about everything from safe sleeping techniques to what to expect in the hospital. This was the only time JT got a little iffy. It was all the vernix talk that did him in, I think. When the teacher tossed in some umbilical cord chatter, he turned a shade whiter than the diaper he’d just put on the doll. I can’t blame him. I genuinely believe he has a phobia of anything related to hospitals, health care and general gross human body stuff. I’ve watched him nearly keel over when my ER nurse mom told a story about a patient with a necrotic toe who woke up to find it missing. The only logical explanation was that the man’s dog had mistaken it for a Snausage. Granted, Mum probably shouldn’t have told us that particular tale over dinner, but JT about passed out in his salad. So basically, labor should be fun for both of us!

Other than worrying that my husband will require more medical attention than me during the birth, I feel pretty good. Getting and staying comfortable is definitely more difficult than it was sans bowling ball strapped to my midsection, but I manage. Work is where I’m least comfortable, when hours of sitting with all that extra weight take their toll on my hips. I try to get up and walk around as much as possible, but when the baby starts moving around, the only thing that helps is getting my body as close to horizontal as possible. I lean so far back in my chair, it would be easier to balance my keyboard on my bump.

In all honestly, at this stage, there’s rarely a time when all my basic needs feel fully met. I’m either tired or hungry or have to pee or feel like I can’t breathe or have to pee or thirsty or have to pee. My mom friends tell me this is just to prepare me for the baby, who will feel pretty much the same way for the first few months of her life. I’ll try to remember to be sympathetic, but for now, I’m really excited for the day when I can go for a long run or even a brisk walk or up a flight of stairs or from the couch to the kitchen without needing to rest immediately afterward.  

But enough complaining. Right now, I'm all about focusing on all the joy happening in my life, and one of my Top Five Favorite Pregnancy Moments happened the other day. I was visiting Mum who was watching my two nieces. Raina, who’s 4, was snuggled up next to me on the couch when I felt the baby kick. Raina jumped back, her eyes wide. 

“Did you feel that?” I asked, and she nodded.

“That was your cousin,” I said. “She must have wanted to get your attention.”

Raina smiled and went back to snuggling, her tiny hand resting on my bump while Mum ran to grab the camera.

It was the sweetest moment and one I’ll never forget. I know so many more are on the way and honestly, at this point, I just can’t wait. 

Best Gift Ever

It was a Christmas morning long after I’d stop believing in Santa, but that year my excitement was as high as if I still thought the man himself had been by my house. I had asked my parents for just one thing - a silver-plated, open hole flute.

(Pause for you to mock my dorkiness. No, really, I’m well aware I was doing myself no favors back in those days. In my defense, marching band was considered kind of cool in my high school. If by “cool” you mean “the football team liked us so the truly popular kids didn’t pick on us that much.” Oh whatever. The drummers were hot. Get off my back.)

I jolted out of bed, rushed downstairs and stopped in front of the tree. I surveyed the stacks of presents my parents had set out the night prior. My eyes landed on The One: a gift-wrapped rectangle the exact size of the busted old flute case I’d been lugging around for the last few years. My heart fluttered as I thought about how great it would be to tear into that paper, open the case and see my new prized possession. Taking that thing to school instead of the dented, tarnished old instrument I’d had since fourth grade was going to be the highlight of my year. (Again, mock away. I’ll allow it.)

“Parents!” I called, as I heard my brother padding down the stairs.

Kip came in from the garage while Mum appeared from around the corner sipping a cup of tea.

“Merry Christmas!” she exclaimed.

“Merry Christmas!” I matched her enthusiasm. “Let’s do gifts!”

“Someone’s excited,” Kip with a smile, as everyone settled into their spots around the tree.

In retrospect, this should have been my first clue that something was up. Kip smiling at anything other than another person’s misfortune is wildly out of the ordinary.

I lunged for the box but Mum stopped me.

“Save that one for last!” she screamed as she fumbled with the camera case. “The camera’s not ready yet.”

Temporarily deflated, I reached for another one instead. For the next twenty minutes, I watched the rest of my family open all their gifts while tearing open the occasional one myself - some clothes, some candy, a few books. All lovely, but nothing compared to what I knew my last gift contained.

Finally, the box labeled for me was the last remaining under the tree. 

“Go ahead,” Mum said, as she turned the camera on me. I grabbed it, feeling the familiar weight of its contents and smiling. I tore into the paper and saw the signature shiny black of the case. I liberated it from the rest of the wrapping and set it on the floor in front of me. I looked up at  my parents with an appreciative smile.

“Well,” Mum said, seemingly as excited as I was. “Open it!”

I took a deep breath, clicked the case’s two fasteners open, and there, amid the lush blue velvet padding, sat…...a pepperoni stick.

“Wha?” I stammered, beyond confused. I looked up and saw each member of my family rolling on their sides, laughing their heads off.

“What...how...why?” I asked, still not quite processing what had happened. Where was my flute? What the hell was with the pepperoni? Why did my parents hate me?

"We got you!" Kip said through tears as Mum continued snapping shots of my perplexed face. 

"You got me?" I asked incredulous. "You got me what, exactly? Lunch meat???"

Then, looking down again at the pepperoni stick stuffed so perfectly into the spot where the flute should have been, I couldn't help but laugh too. I had to give them credit. It was a well played prank. Granted, I'd prefer to be playing my new flute, but hey, what could you do? 

Turned out, I need not worry about that, as Mum reached behind the couch and pulled out my old case. She opened it, and nestled inside was the exact flute I'd asked for. 

I loved that thing, but in all honesty, I haven't played it once since high school. It sits on a shelf in my old bedroom at my parents' house. The story, however, has been told countless times since that Christmas so long ago, and not one year goes by that I don't think of it and laugh. (My parents never let me forget it either - a couple years after the flute incident, I made the mistake of asking for an umbrella. You can imagine what I found in its place under the tree. Some years, they just flat-out gave me pepperoni sticks as presents, not in place of something else. Whatever. Every family has their thing, right?)

I guess some gifts aren't really the kind we can open, but rather the things that stay with us for the rest of our lives. I know, I know. How's that for some holiday cheese? 

Luckily, I have just the thing to go with it.