Recap

It was a dark and stormy night.

The last of New England's late coming winter was spitting out snow all during the day and I finally concluded I'd have to plow. "Just in case," I told my husband, who, perhaps himself feeling some kind of pending anxiety, was busy clearing up the nursery. So I went out to plow our driveway, nine months pregnant, on our John Deere tractor. Talk about a bumpy ride.

It wasn't until 10pm, when the snow had turned to a sleeting rain, that things started happening.
"Is this it? Do you think?"
"Let's time them."
"On what?" Neither of us wear a watch. This is one of those things you're supposed to keep handy at just this precise moment but they haven't quite caught up with the digital age yet; who the hell has watches with second hands any more? After some scrambling I remembered that the iPod had a stopwatch feature. I doubt Apple had this particular use in mind when designing the extra features of their mp3 player.

Sure enough, the contractions were coming at regular intervals, about 8 minutes apart. We called the hospital.

"Take a bath, wait until they're 4 minutes apart, and call us back." The nurses at the hospital didn't think it was true labor, and I didn't either. After all, I'm supposed to just know, right?

Two hours later, after a long bath and increasingly regular contractions, we headed out in the storm. The normally 40 minute trip took us an hour and half. We were admitted through the emergency entrance, ushered to maternity, where the nurse proclaimed me truly in labor at 3 centimeters dilated.

See? From nothing to 3 in 4 hours? This'll be easy!

Or, maybe not.

We paced the halls of the hospital all night, as walking was more comfortable then sitting still. The morning came and went and someone fed my husband. Then midday came and went and another meal was served. Things were progressing but I was fading; I wasn't hungry but I hadn't eaten anything since the day before. Mostly I was just tired. The midwife suggested a morphine mix drug to dull the contractions and let me sleep.

"Okay," I said, at that point willing to try any new approach. For one thing, the halls were getting very familiar and for another I was beginning to alarm people when they heard me moaning. So I spent the next few hours in a beautiful drug induced sleep, unmoved by the contractions which, supposedly, were still occurring and still progressing me along. Which they did, nicely, now I was at 7 centimeters. But I forgot something: morphine kicks my ass.

Dinner arrived and my husband convinced me to eat something. I did, munching gamely on tuna and sipping on beef barley soup, but soon after it all came up again. A few minutes later I innocently sipped apple juice and couldn't keep that down either. I broke down and asked to have the intrathecal, thinking that the really hard part of labor was going to start any moment now and I had nothing in reserve. I just needed a few more props to help me through.

Maybe I should have halted this process when the first attempt at an IV failed. Or maybe I should have halted it when the second attempt also failed. But I didn't, and for another four hours was pain free. But also, alarmingly, sometimes, contraction free.

"Uh oh." We started pacing the halls again in an effort to get things going. Finally everything came back, stronger than before. It was midnight on Tuesday, and I was still at 7 centimeters.

The obstetrician suggested pitocin (for inducing) mixed with a drug called Newbane which supposedly would take the edge off. I nodded, forgetting again: morphine kicks my ass.

Now I was falling asleep between contractions. There's probably a secret CIA manual on just this kind of special torture; let your victim fall completely, deeply asleep for about two minutes, and then give him severe stomach cramps. I'm pretty sure the victim would tell you anything, because about an hour later I finally called uncle and asked to have what was likely inevitable anyway; a c-section.

Things moved quickly after that, although not fast enough to my taste, as now I was enduring what were, pretty much, completely useless contractions, I was falling asleep where I stood, and my husband, who had been pretty stoic through the whole thing, was suddenly panicking about major abdominal surgery. At one point he decided he wasn't going in to the delivery room with me. The doctor and nurses persuaded him back from the edge, and after assurances from the doctor that I would not die on the operating table, agreed to put on the scrubs offered to him.

I didn't care; I just wanted the damn spinal.

The rest of it? Kind of a blur. I was apparently grinning widely after the spinal was administered, happy that at last something was happening, even if it wasn't the way nature intended. I remember hearing my daughter's first cry. I remember my husband leaving briefly to cut the cord and returning. I remember, paradoxically, the nurse, giving my daughter her first bath and talking to me through it, as though I would remember these instructions through a haze of anesthetic, morphine and pure exhaustion. Maybe she was just trying to keep me awake.

Finally, my daughter was placed on my chest, where she was supposed to be, and everything was well again. And the sun was about to come out for the first time in two days. Things were definitely progressing now.

Please Welcome....

Stanley Hilarius, nee Sydney, a girl weighing 8 pounds 2 ounces, and measuring 20.5 inches long. She was born April 17, 2007 at 2:07 am.

Ready...Set....no?

Okay! Today's the day! Out you go!

Oh well... I guess not. Although technically as I write this there are still six and a half hours left to today, so it's still possible if not particularly probable.

Luckily there have been millions of years of pregnancies and remedies for this very problem, so we can begin to work on those natural ways to induce labor. Which, if they don't actually do anything, will at least keep all those hormonal overdue pregnant women busy and off the streets. Here's a sampling:

Go for a bumpy ride: Great! I live in New England and it's spring time, otherwise known as Frost Heave Season. My entire commute is bumpy! All I have to do is get in the car to go anywhere and I'll be in labor in no time!

Go for a walk: Why walking will suddenly induce labor now that I'm overdue and didn't before baffles me. How do they think I transported myself for nine months? By Segway?

Eat Spicy Foods: Perhaps this one comes about in the mistaken belief that heartburn and gas are connected in any way to the reproductive system. In any case I'd have to down entire case of Tabasco sauce to notice the effect, as spicy and I have an ongoing competition to see who'll beat who. So far I've been winning this competition, and Stanley's been in on part of the ride. Me and Stanley can best any spicy food.

Have Sex: Neat! What got us into this predicament can also get us out! Of course, having sex is maybe the last thing on our minds right now. But at least it will pass the time.

Perhaps if none of these work, pure ornery Fate will have a hand in the outcome, as apparently they've started a pool at work on when I'll go. Hopefully Fate will pick a random date within this pool that is sooner rather than later, and hopefully my co-workers will have mercy on me and not pick dates too far out into the future. Because as much as this whole pregnant thing has been an adventure, it's time to disembark now.

Asking for it

Here are the warning signs of impending labor:

1)Engagement: AKA the baby dropped.

2)Pelvic Pressure

3)Vaginal Discharge
4)Nesting Instinct: AKA impending mother suddenly gets the urge to clean everything in sight.

5)Braxton Hicks Contractions: AKA false labor

6)Shivering or Trembling
7)Diarrhea

8)Mucus Plug or Bloody Show

9)Rupture of Membranes: AKA the water broke

and finally...

10)Regular Contractions

You'd think the questions couldn't get any dumber, nosier or riskier but here's the new one, heard only in the last few days: So, have there been any warnings?

What they mean is, do you think you'll be going into labor any time soon?

"Well, let me see," I can imagine telling random co-workers at lunch, "Yesterday I woke up with a whopping case of diarrhea, and then all day I was having these irregular contractions, and then the mucus plug came out and I had a bloody show, and all day I felt like cleaning the entire house and rearranging the furniture, plus for a week I've been having all this vaginal discharge and major Braxton-Hicks contractions, but other than that, no, I haven't had any warning signs. Hey, you don't seem to be eating your lunch, can I have it? I'm eating for two, you know."

Or, maybe I should just keep all that in my head and answer the question as I have been, which is, "Warnings for what?" Someday they may just figure out it's none of their business, though by then it will be too late. For me, anyway.