Hello

We woke up knowing our newest baby was coming…because we had scheduled an appointment.

Maybe that lulled me into a false sense of security. Maybe it was my wife ignoring the first two or three alarm clock rings. Whatever it was, we not only left the house a half hour late, but I found myself Sunday driving to the hospital. Even my wife–the slowest driving, most often tardy person that I know–had to pipe up about my speed. Thus, we arrived about five minutes before the induction was supposed to begin.

Three weeks ago, our obstetrician told us that our newest baby had dropped into position, and that my wife had dilated 1 cm and effaced 50 percent, indicating that our newest baby could come at any time, though the doctor hoped that she would wait a week. My parents, having already planned to come to town that weekend for Marcel’s birthday, had begun to hope that they might also get a birth, too.

That was too much to ask for and, apparently, we were punished for even thinking it because the next obstetric appointment revealed that our newest baby had flipped into a breech position. Fearing a breech delivery, our obstetrician scheduled an inversion appointment and, fearing that our newest baby might invert the inversion, an induction soon after. Fortunately, our newest baby is feisty and inverted on her own, making the inversion unnecessary.

However, the doctor on call that weekend is new to our obstetric practice. My wife was concerned about starting a new relationship under such a stressful situation, and didn’t want to risk going into labor over the weekend with the new doctor. Fortunately, the doctor that delivered Marcel was scheduled to handle the induction appointment, so we decided to induce even though our newest baby was no longer breech. Thus, we picked our day and time of meeting her.

And we were late.

It wasn’t all of our fault. My wife and I did arrive at the hospital 10 minutes before the scheduled procedure. However, the paperwork took a long time. Actually, we had to wait to even start the paperwork. The admissions desk gave us one of those light-up/vibrate beepers and told us to wait in the lobby. Then the admissions clerk kept inputting my wife’s name incorrectly but kept redoing it because, apparently, it had to be just right in order to avoid a hassle from the insurance company. Eventually, though, we got upstairs to Labor and Delivery Room 5.

As before, our nurses–Lorna, Tammy, Amy and Amy–were great. Lorna joked with the technician that lifting heavy objects was off limits because of a shoulder injury received from “ballroom brawling.” And, after the anesthesiologist left my wife with instructions to please wait an hour before increasing her epidural dose, Lorna instructed my wife to use it if she needed it. About halfway through that hour, my wife started using it.

It only works after 15 minute intervals, so we kept time of when she used it. Her last time using it was about 11:55 am. Then our obstetrician arrived and, completely surprising us all, informed us that it was time to push.

I quickly called my parents to make sure that they were in the waiting room and not in the cafeteria getting coffee or breakfast. I then realized I could more quickly text the rest of our family, instead of trying to call and direct a phone tree. That was the hardest text I’d ever written, because the pressure to get done and get in position by my wife’s side was so intense. I can only imagine if I tried to start dialing numbers and holding conversations over and over, again. I can only imagine my wife’s reaction to me having those phone conversations!

But that didn’t have to happen. We had text, and at 12:18 pm, I informed as many close friends and family as I could that pushing was about to commence. Then, I, and some nurse in training, got into position as human stirrups.

The epidural, and my wife’s two self-administrations, must have kicked in pretty good because she didn’t even flinch at a contraction that the monitor said was off the charts. Further evidence was that, after that first push, I saw what looked like hair. I shrugged that off as impossible, though. Then, I was distracted with the final piece of evidence.

Presumably assuming a long delivery but low stamina from her novice stirrups, our doctor instructed us to put my wife’s feet back into the real stirrups after that first push. Our nurse in training, though, must have been less then perfect at that because her leg–well the leg that that nurse was holding–slipped and fell with a thud. Fortunately, that was all that fell and we all quickly recouped and went back to the business at hand and I resolved to hold that leg ’til the bitter end.

My wife gave another push and our doctor commented on our newest baby’s hair, confirming my earlier suspicion, which is crazy because that was only the first push and this was only the second push. We all took a collective breath, or at least I did, and when that third contraction came, we got my wife to pushing, again. This time there was no denying it. There was hair–and a whole half of a head–sitting right there in all of our laps!

This was decision time: Wait for the next contraction or do something. My wife’s vision showed through at that moment. Our doctor–the doctor my wife scheduled–choose to do something. The nurse in training and I gripped our legs, our doctor grabbed that half of a head and my wife took a deep breath and pushed.

And, after only 11 minutes, there was Tristan.

On time.

 

Changes Abound!

My wife is pregnant!

I’m really looking forward to getting Marcel involved because she’s great with kids. She simply adores her cousins. And she inherently understands that she has to be more gentle with the younger ones. That, however, doesn’t stop her from bossing everybody around. So I know the baby will get a lot of nurturing guidance from Big Sister Marcel. Marcel is going to be a great asset when raising the newest one.

It’s been hard, however, getting her to understand what’s happening. Telling her that mommy has a baby in her tummy just doesn’t register, yet. When we told her that on Halloween, the little dragon said, “No! Daddy’s the baby!”

I can’t wait to take her to the sonogram, though. We’ll be taking her to the second one when the baby’s picture will look more like a person and less like a kidney bean. I’m hopeful that the video and sound of the heartbeat will make it apparent to her what is going on. But, then again, maybe all that won’t be necessary. Maybe it will only take a swelling belly to peak her interest.

What I absolutely need is for her to weigh in on my side regarding baby naming, because I haven’t been very successful in that regard. You see, Marcel has been a great arbiter of family decisions. The first time we employed her deft judgment was when it came time to furnish her room.

My wife wanted an area rug. Moreover, she wanted something new, rather than a hand-me-down. Fine. But this new thing had to be plain and monochromatic. In contrast, I felt that if we were going to get something new, then we should get the perfect thing and the perfect rug for my newborn daughter’s room would be alive with colors and patterns. It would be, in short, fun! So, when it came time to pick from the selection my wife presented, there was big gap in our first choices.

I suggested we show pictures of the choices to Marcel and let her decide. My wife, anticipating that a newborn would hardly react, at all, easily agreed to that suggestion. And for all of my wife’s choices, she was absolutely correct. Marcel just blankly stared. However, when Marcel saw a picture of my favorite choice, which was awash with swirls of yellows, sky blues, navy blues, and whites, she went crazy! Her eyes went wide, her head shook and her arms waved, wildly. Marcel clearly loved what I loved and I loved every minute of that!

Alas, we still got stuck with my wife’s favorite choice.

But this is my blog and I don’t have to consult with anyone about the changes we’ll make here. And so we’re going to change the name. We’re no longer “It should’ve been California: The history of my life in my daughter’s world”. From now on, we’re “It should’ve been California: The history of my life in my children’s world”. And we’re thrilled with what daddy has decided.

 

Welcome to my blog about Marcel!

Marcel was born just over two years ago at the end of May.

After months and months of fighting over what her name would be, and after seeing her for the first time and realizing that she looked just like me and my family–and hardly like my wife or her family, at all–I let my wife pick her name. The wife might as well have something, right?

She picked the name “Marcel.”

I had hoped that we’d name her after my mother. I’m named after my dad. As a child, that I had gotten the name of the biggest, baddest dude in my life was always a source of strength for me. I wanted my daughter to have the benefit of that strength.

To get that strength, I would’ve also added my mother-in-law’s name or my wife’s name or my father-in-law’s last name. Moreover, whichever of those names that we chose could’ve been the first or middle name, I didn’t care, just so my daughter also got her grandmother’s name.

My wife, however, rejected all of that. She felt that family names cheat children out of their own identity and, more importantly, she felt that nine months of pregnancy entitled her to this opportunity to shop for a name. So we settled on Marcel Simone.

Don’t get me wrong. Marcel is a great name. (It’s the French version of “Marshall,” which means “warrior,” and is the masculine version of the French version of “Marshall”, which means “warrior”, because my daughter can have anything that a man can have.) And it fits her. She’s strong and exotic, just like “Marcel” sounds.

But she’s more than just strong and exotic and gorgeous and smart and fearless and charming and flirtatious and serious and determined. She’s also a hoot. Check out the picture. In this regard, the name “California”–where her mother and I met–would have been perfect cause anyone named after that populous state with lots of personalities would be just like my daughter.