Great (Inaccurate) Expectations

As the due date grew closer, the script went out the window for this mom-to-be.

Posted October 11, 2010 by Jessica Kitchin

Photo by Stacy Mae Photography.

As any pregnant woman knows, the expectations of childbirth go beyond the child. You expect the baby on or about a certain date. You expect the experience to stick close to the script in books. And, in my case, you expect to be able to go the natural route and avoid drugs.

Forget it.

My husband and I tossed out that script as time ticked past my due date. The past-due weeks were actually quite composed, despite days slipping by with no water breaking. I figured I would hit get-this-baby-out-of-me mode, but I never did. Maybe I was scared of labor, maybe I liked feeling those little kicks inside, or maybe I knew I had infinitely more freedom as a pregnant person than I would as the parent of a newborn. People would say, “You’re still here?” Where did they think I was going? Would I disappear when the baby arrived?

Two weeks beyond my due date, my doctor decided it was time to induce labor. So, instead of contractions starting at home while I monitored their length (my expectation), or frantically driving to the hospital in a race against time (my husband’s expectation), we ended up eating a nice meal at home, taking our dog to the park for one last walk as an “only child,” and then checking into the hospital at a scheduled hour on a Tuesday night in August, as if we were arriving at a hotel.

Drugs were administered, and the contractions began (yikes!). A monitor kept track of my baby’s heartbeat (thrilling!) and my contractions (arghh!).

Nine hours into labor, I caved.

You run a marathon to challenge your body and push it to the limit. That is not, I rationalized, why you go through labor. You go through labor to have a baby. The pain and exhaustion is the price you pay—one that can be eased through the wonders of modern medicine. A quick pinch in my back, and I was able to spend the last six hours of labor happily chatting and napping as my contraction monitor undulated next to me in the delivery room.

Once my OB gave the go-ahead to push, I realized that those folks who suggested I should be going someplace were right. The version of myself I was familiar with was about to be replaced by...a mom. But there was no time to think about that—now it was all about catching my breath between each exhausting effort. (The sweating and groaning and gripping my husband’s hand? Those expectations were met.)

After the last push, there was a surreal in-between moment during which I was no longer pregnant, but I hadn’t yet seen my child; I was in parenthood limbo. And then there she was. Yes, a she, despite everyone’s predictions—based on the way I was carrying, or my lack of morning sickness, or what foods I was craving, or some ancient Chinese calculation—that I was having a boy.

As it turned out, I needed the rest and comfort the epidural provided. After the pushing was over, my baby girl weighed in at exactly ten pounds. (My husband remarked that she was twice the size of the other babies in the nursery, which was literally true.)

Arden Ann. My perfect, pudgy, ten-pound ticket to the world of motherhood, where the unexpected continues to be par for the course.

Jessica Kitchin, a former associate editor for New Jersey Monthly, is the editor of Lake Hopatcong News & Reviews. She lives in Maplewood.

For more stories about: Health, children, Maplewood