Birth Stories: Baby Number Three


By the time I was in the home stretch of my third pregnancy I was at my wit’s end. I had a one year old and a two year old at home. And though she had the best intentions, having my mother stay with me for the last two weeks wasn’t exactly as helpful as planned. It seemed like my entire family was watching me intently, waiting for me to pop.

I had high hopes when I waddled into my doctor’s office for my weekly check-up. I was two days past my due date and I was sure he would tell me some good news.

After the pokes and prods he cheerfully said, “Well not much is happening. We’ll see you next week.”

I burst into tears.

Almost frantically I said, “Doc! Help me! I can’t go another week. I can’t.”

He gave the nurse in the room a knowing look. One that said: it’s another I-can’t-take-it tantrum. She nodded in return. Apparently my hysterics were commonplace among his OB patients.

His eyes slide conspiringly around the room and he leaned a little closer. “Alright,” his voice was lower. “I’ve got a suppository that may help to push you over the finish line.”

I gawked at the doctor and nodded enthusiastically. “I’ll take it!” I cried. Any shred of modesty left in me was cast aside as I rolled like a beached whale onto my back, feet in the stirrups and just about as giddy as a girl could be in that situation.

The “little helper” was implanted and I waddled out with a heartfelt, “Thanks!”

I got home and decided to take a little nap, hoping with all my heart that today would be the day. It wasn’t that I didn’t cherish my pregnancy. I did. But with two little ones to chase after, I didn’t feel like I have the luxury of waiting it out.

An hour later I could feel the contractions building up like angry hiccups. Sweet relief! Today was going to be the day after all. I said a prayer to bless my benevolent doctor as I packed my supplies into the suitcase next to the front door.

Another hour later I decided maybe I didn’t really need to name the baby after the doctor. The contractions had moved on from angry hiccups to full blown in-your-face swelling gut-busters. I headed to the hospital. And after being checked in and stowed away in the birthing suite I was just about sure that the doctor was evil, a sadist with a penchant for torturing young women heavy with child.

When he toddled into my room with a grin, I was close to smacking him. He was dressed nicely, with a jacket and tie.

“Gee doc, you didn’t have to get prettied up just for me,” I said as he removed his jacket and rolled up his sleeves.

He laughed, “Oh, I’m taking my wife to a concert in just a bit. I wanted to give you a quick check first.” With that he snapped his latex gloves in place and had a seat next to my bed.

“Let’s take a look-see,” he murmured. I obligingly assumed the position.

While he checked my dilation there was a slight popping sound and then a hot gush. My water exploded all over the doctor’s arm. His grin was gone, replaced by a look of blank shock.

I stammered, “I’m so sorry!”

He surveyed his shoulder and said in the most deadpan voice, “I guess we won’t be going to the concert.”

Almost an hour later I was holding my baby girl in my arms. Lucky number three! She’s better than any concert any day of the week. Her name is Vivian and she’s full of life and laughter.


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