My Boy

We forced our big guy out of the womb on New Year's Eve after a long, tortuous day that made his arrival doubly sweet.

Farrah's actual due date was around January 4th, so our thinking was, since we're all paid up on our deductibles for the year and we'd like the tax credit, and he's breach, and it's only a few days early, why not schedule the c-section for the last day of 2008. The doctor was bristling at this suggestion, which forced a sort of loggerhead to see who was going to win this battle. Finally, on Dec 30th at around 5:30 pm, we received the go-ahead for birth the next day after an amnio showed the doctors what they needed to see. The surgery would be scheduled for 7 am, but we needed to be there by 5. Pain.

I had begun to feel bad that we were turning our son's birth into something that benefited us, rather than allowing nature to take it's course, so I was somewhat deflated when they said to be at the hospital that early. I had accepted the idea that we would let the experts win this battle. That feeling only got worse over the course of the next day.

So, we arrive at 5 like we're supposed to and Farrah gets in the bed and I take out my ipod and book and begin waiting those 2 hours before go-time. Then came one of those moments you wish you could have back. The nurse asked Farrah if she had had anything to eat or drink so far and Farrah admitted she drank a glass of water. Well, off went the alarm bells! Everything stopped and the nurse went scurrying down the halls looking for guidance. Our doctor had failed to mention no eating or drinking. Farrah assumed the eating part, but caved on the drinking. We were then informed it was off and that we'd have to come back later. The new time was 4:30 pm, but we should get there by 1 in case there was a cancellation. I was irate. Irate at the doctors for making this experience and our decision to do it early so regretful. Irate at Farrah for masterminding this decision and for drinking that blasted water. Irate at "the man" for keeping us down. And, irate at myself for not having the fore site to make my boy's day happier. We went back home and went to bed, and I was sick in my gut and had tears in my eyes feeling lower than dirt.

We went back at 1, but of course, there was no early window and then we got bumped from our 4:30 appointment. We sat there all day, Farrah hasn't eaten and thinks she wants a sandwich more than she wants to have this baby and me stewing and snapping at anyone trying to help. I was cursing the day my poor son was born and wanted to shoot myself for it, yet couldn't control myself. (Meanwhile, my poor parents are back at the house keeping Georgia entertained. A huge help.)

Then, it all changed. The nurses finally entered the room with some literal directives and the ball was finally rolling. At that point all was forgiven. By about 6:40pm, Graham Alan Lamoreaux made his entrance and the hell of the previous 14 hours was a distant memory.

He was 10 lbs (9lbs 15.8 oz) and 22 inches long. At first, he looked like a miniature James Gandolfini, same hairline, same slightly recessed chin, same almost pug nose and same barrel chest. Cute was not the first word that came to mind. Now, however, he's beautiful. Looks almost exactly like Georgia did (and she turned out perfectly), but with more masculine features and more hair. Farrah and I make the most amazing babies, I don't know why we deserve that, but we know we're blessed.

I'm proud of the guy. He's a great baby. Like they say, when you don't think you have more love to give to more children, it just blooms from nowhere, like vapor or dandelions or a miracle.