Asher David Howe: The Beginning

There is a shocking lack of black lingerie in this labor story. Sorry to disappoint.

February 7, noon. I experience The Bloody Show. I react to this about like the morbid medical term suggests--like Gary Oldman dressed as Bram Stoker's Dracula has just appeared in my bathroom. I do whatever I do when I pregnant panick; I immediately look up my symptoms in What to Expect and read that my baby is coming anytime in the next few days. I tell Tyler who immediately dismisses my symptoms as "9 month pregnant stuff."

February 7, 1:00. Lower back pain.

February 7, 1:05. Suspiciously familiar lower back pain.

February 7, 1:15. I tell Tyler I think I'm having early contractions.

February 7, 1:16. Tyler tells me he thinks I'm faking it.

February 7, 1:17. "Don't you tell me I'm faking it. Nine months pregnant stuff, huh? I've had a period a couple times in my life. When was your last period, bucko?" That's what I grumble in Tyler's general direction.

February 7, 4:00. Overhear Tyler on the phone saying, "Yeah, Laura thinks she's in labor. I don't believe it though."

February 7, 4:01. I briefly consider telling Tyler I had an affair with the mailman, so there's no way to know for sure if this is actually his baby THAT I'M IN LABOR WITH RIGHT NOW.

February 7, 8:03. We play Nintendo Super Smash Brothers at Maquel and Clark's house and a few more fireballs that average make it Tyler's way.

February 7, 9:00. Tyler and I watch The Three Amigos. "My Little Buttercup" is funny even when you're mad at your husband. Even when you're IN LABOR.

February 7, 11:30. I clean the kitchen. Tyler asks me when I'm coming to bed. I tell him when I'm done with the kitchen, because people are probably going to be coming in the house to take care of Talmage in the middle of the night when we go to the hospital, given my current state of inlaborness. Tyler indulgently rolls his eyes.

February 8, 3:20 am. My water breaks.

February 8, 3:21. I tell Tyler my water has broken, and it's time to go to the hospital. Tyler asks me if it can wait until morning.

February 8, 3:40. Despite the fact that I have meticulously timed and noted my five minute apart contractions, it's not until we are at the hospital and I've leaked through two pads that Tyler believes my water has broken. AND THAT I AM IN LABOR.

February 8, 5:00. There's nothing like the Scrubs Season 8 to get you over your marital difficulties.

February 8, 5:30 (ish). Begin to receive epidural. I say begin, because this is the longest and most grueling countdown of the labor experience. The anesthesiologist has me sit on the edge of the bed hunched over the small human in my belly, all while contractions that feel like my legs are being pulled in opposite directions old-school torture style continue at regular (and fairly close) intervals. "Don't move!" the anesthesiologist reminds me cheerfully. "That's the key to a good epidural."

February 8, 5:34. I ask the anesthesiologist if I'm supposed be feeling a pain in my hip that is simultaneously stabbing and aching, because if I am, I descend from good Norwegian stock and I can take it, but if I'm not, I'd very much like for the stabbing aching pain to end.

February 9, 5:36. "Hmmm, I'm having a hard time moving around your bones." No kidding?!?!

February 9, 5:38. I tell Tyler he needs to hold me. He tenderly grabs my hand and rubs it gently. "No," I clarify. "I need you to stand up and physically restrain me, because I am about to faint, and fainting would defeat the 'not moving' thing I have going on right now, and apparently not moving is the key to good epidural, not a quick and speedy entry."

February 9, 5:40 but what I swear was 6:00. Epidural is in.

February 9, 7:20. The nurse checks me and tells me I'm at a 7. She calls my doctor who is on her way to a medical conference in Park City and the doctor tells her she'll be there in two hours.

February 9, 7:59. I feel pressure in my lower back. I mention this to my nurse who asks me if I've experienced back labor before. No, I tell her, and it's more pressure than pain.

February 9, 8:00. My nurse checks me again.

February 9, 8:01, and this is to be read in a forced perky manner to hide overwhelming panic and stress. "Okay! Your cervix is gone! And you are stage zero to plus 1! So here's what we are going to do! We are going to call your doctor! And she is going to tell us what we are going to do!"

February 9, 8:02, still very perky, but moving quickly now. "Okay! I called your doctor! And she's in Park City! So we are going to have the doctor on call deliver your baby! And if she's not available, there has to be a doctor in this hospital! So I am going to recline your bed! And maybe gravity will work against the unstoppable pull of nature! And in the meantime, I will be preparing your room! And you just push that epidural button anytime you feel anything! Okay?!"

February 9, 8:07. "It's been five minutes! I think you can push the epidural button again!"

February 9, 8:12. "More drugs! You need more drugs!"

February 9, 9:00 (after drugs that came at intervals more regular than my contractions). The on-call doctor, looking freshly primmed and painted, breezes into the room. She positions herself down by the now crowning Asher.

February 9, 9:01. I push.

February 9, 9:02. I push again.

February 9, 9:03. Asher David Howe is born (two weeks early) weighing 8 lbs 7 oz.