A Frankie Story: Part One

My very last appointment with my midwife before Frank was born took place bright and early on Tuesday, November 6, 2012. I was exactly 39 weeks pregnant, three centimeters dilated, and more than ready for Frank to kindly vacate my womb. I was already not sleeping, and thought I might as well be up with the baby instead of by myself watching reruns of COPS because that's what's on television in the wee hours of the morning.

The week prior, I'd done everything I could to induce my own labor. I'd had weeks of off and on contractions, and one 2:00AM false alarm trip to the hospital. At 38 weeks pregnant, Mountain Man and I met up with some of our besties at Buffalo Wild Wings for a late dinner, and to catch the Mavs season opener. I thought surely I could spicy-food myself into labor. Nope. Surely I can get-overly-excited-at-basketball myself into labor. Double nope. The Monday before my appointment, I decided to try and put-up-the-Christmas-tree myself into labor. I busted out all of our holiday decorations and went to town. It took all day, I had to take several breaks for contractions. I even lost my mucus plug! But did I go into labor? Triple nope.

Kathy, my wonderful midwife, asks me, "How long do we want to wait?"

I dreamed about a natural childbirth from the start. I wondered when it would happen. Where would I be when my water broke? I'm not going to mess around with an induction. I'm going to let this baby tell me when he or she is ready to come. Epidural, shmepidural. I mean, women have been birthing babies for ages before modern medicine. And what about these crazy people making all of that noise during labor? That is so embarrassing. I am so not going to be like that. I'm gonna pop this baby out with a smile. I bet I crack jokes the whole time. 

Okay, so maybe I wasn't quite that delusional, but you get the picture. I planned on strong-arming my labor, but I did know on some level that things could go however they wanted to and that I was insane for thinking I had any sort of control over it. A girl can dream.
 

When the option of induction came up, I knew I was ready. We weighed the options, and decided it was probably best to get him out sooner rather than later. Complications due to my hate-hate relationship with gestational diabetes only became more likely the longer we waited. Kathy quickly produced a chart and told us we could go in Thursday evening and have a baby on Friday, or Sunday with a baby on Monday. Maybe all Frank needed was a deadline, and he'd come on his own (yeah right, not if he has any of our personalities in him). At any rate, Mountain Man and I were going to be parents by the end of the week.

Baby Frank's going home outfit.

The rest of Tuesday and Wednesday were a blur. I had packed my hospital bag several weeks before. Mountain Man installed the car seat. The morning of my induction, I rearranged drawers, tied up loose ends, snuggled with Monty, and took the longest bubble bath of my life while Mountain Man worked a half day. Not long before we were due to head to the hospital, Kathy called. The beds were all full, and we'd be waiting a while. My heart sank. I was ready to go. Instead, Mountain Man and I sat on the couch, waiting for a call. Waiting, waiting, waiting. At 11:30, my phone finally rang. A bed had opened up and my name was all over it. We could go in at midnight, or wait until morning. We, of course, chose midnight (as if Mountain Man had any say). We grabbed phone chargers and the camera, said goodbye to the dogs, and I snapped one last quick photo of my about-to-pop pregnant belly before hopping (as much as a very pregnant lady can hop) into the car.