Zoey's birth story

Little Zoey was born on a Thursday night--all souls day, actually. I had hoped we could wait one more day--November 3rd last year was the day we buried Ruthie and Judah, and I saw something beautiful in having her birthday be a sort of redemption of that day for us. But doc couldn't make the 3rd work, so we were scheduled for the 2nd. She was overdue (as I knew she would be) and she took her sweet time coming. We went in for induction around noon--the doctor broke my water at about one, and I expected things to take off pretty quickly from there like they had with her older sister, who also had to be evicted. But Zoey seemed to want to prove right away that she's going to do things her own way.

C and I watched TV, ordered a light dinner, and walked the delivery floor over and over. We chatted with the nurse and the students she had shadowing her (two of them, y'all--it was quite the party). We tried not to watch the clock. But four+ hours of Gilmore Girls and repeatedly wandering up and down the hallway (the incredibly boring hallway) did nothing for me. Zilch. So the doctor gave the go-ahead to start pitocin. The nurse hooked me up and my contractions started getting stronger--a lot stronger. So much so that she backed off the pitocin, turning it down as low as it could go. That little kickstart was all that was needed, and things went pretty merrily along from there. I think it was about an hour before the anesthesiologist was in the room to place the epidural. (I'm a wimp and don't do well with pain, y'all. Supposedly it's a red-head thing. True or not, gimme the drugs.)

Here's where things get fun. The anesthesiologist placed the epidural and left. I could still wiggle my toes and move my legs, which was new--the last epidural I had completely blocked all sensation from the waist down. It was kindof nice to have some mobility left, really. But about two hours later, I was in pain again--and it was getting progressively worse. At first, the nurse seemed to think it was no big deal. But when I got to the point of crying in agony with each contraction, she seemed to finally believe me when I said something wasn't right. Turns out, the anesthesiologist had placed the epidural and given me the bolus (an initial dose of meds that takes the edge off right away, as far as I understand it), but she'd forgotten to actually hook up the drip that keeps it going. *face palm* So as the bolus wore off, the pain returned. (Side note: when my doctor found this out, he gave that nurse the dirtiest look. I felt kindof bad, because it wasn't really her fault. But at the same time, it was nice to feel like he was on my side.)

The nurse called the doc back and she hooked things up correctly, but by then there wasn't a lot of time left anyway. It was almost immediately time to push. So, with some weird reality TV show about a guy with a severe addiction to food playing in the background (why is it that we always end up watching something stupid during this moment?), the party got started. There were fewer people in the room this time than there were with E (they'd had some concerns about E's heart rate during labor, so there was a NICU team present just in case), and the nurse didn't count to ten with every push (which was a blessing). It hurt, thanks to the botched eupidural, but it could have been a whole lot worse. And it took a lot less time--fifteen or twenty minutes after I started pushing, Zoey was here. She came out and gave her first little watery cry, and my heart--oh my heart.

A few weeks into my pregnancy, as I was wrestling with fear over having another miscarriage, there was a morning I woke up much earlier than usual and couldn't get back to sleep. So I crawled out of bed, wandered out to the kitchen, and made my coffee. As I was standing in the kitchen, I looked up and out the window over the sink. That window affords a great view of the sunrise, which was just beginning that morning. And when I looked out, I saw the horizon beginning to lighten, vibrantly bathed in the colors of the rainbow. I instantly felt that it was a promise straight from heaven--a promise that this little rainbow baby would be OK. That we would all be OK.

Fastforward nine months to that first little cry from my newborn baby girl, and it felt like that rainbow was exploding in my soul. My eyes filled with tears and I smiled. My baby, my little rainbow, was finally here.

Zoey had to work for a while to clear her lungs, which sounded like they had some fluid in them. But she got it all out eventually, and that was the only concern. She weighed in at 8 pounds, 9 ounces--between the nurses, C, and myself, I was the only one who guessed she was 8 pounds. Everyone else thought 7, and C even guessed 6. (As E would say: Silly Daddy!) She nursed right away (no tongue tie like big sister, thank you Jesus) and was all sleepy and newborn cuddly. *insert heart eyes emoji here*

E came to the hospital with my mother-in-law the next day. She actually didn't want to come--she knew she was going to spend the weekend at Gammer & Grandpa's with her cousins (who she idolizes), and she was anxious to get there. But my MIL convinced her to stop by briefly to meet her little sister. E wasn't all that interested, to be honest, but neither did she openly dislike the baby. So I suppose that's a win.

By now, we've made it nearly three whole weeks into life with Zoey. Taking care of two kids at once is both harder and easier than I expected. E is actually the difficult one at the moment, which surprised me. We're slowly (very slowly) getting into a rhythm that, though still not all that predictable, is at least workable. Zoey is beautiful and sweet and cuddly. And I'm in love. All is well.