George's Birth Story (Finally!): a cautionary tale about getting what you ask for, and cherry pits

He's a good baby. He nurses well and sleeps a lot and has the cutest little smiles. Not to mention the cutest little face.


But he's just very . . . particular, if you know what I mean. He most particularly doesn't care for me sitting at the computer and typing. (Perhaps he got his fill of that in utero, hmm?) He prefers being walked around in the carrier, and enjoys shushing, swaying, bouncing, and patting.

Like this . . .

Monkey see, monkey do. 🐒 👀 🐒 #shh #momlife #whativebeendoinginsteadofblogging

A post shared by Kendra Tierney (@kendra_tierney) on Aug 16, 2017 at 6:07pm PDT

Anyway, he's already nearly FOUR MONTHS old, so it's high time I got his birth story typey typed up, no?

After Mary Jane's very quick and easy (if slightly stressful for the husband) accidental homebirth, our main goal for this birth was to get to the hospital. I'd been praying, and asked you all to pray, specifically that I'd feel the beginning of labor, which I don't, usually.

Pats on backs, everyone, because it worked. I did feel it. I felt it all. Just for the record, I'd like to report that this is a dumb thing to have prayed for. Lesson learned.

We've moved since Midge (aka Mary Jane) was born in the bathtub of our old house, so I've got a new obstetrician. At my very first appointment I told him that my labors have sometimes gone really fast. Anita was an hour and a half, and Midge was about 45 minutes. So, I'm all, "Watch out, because this baby will probably come quick!" And he wrote that down on my chart without really reacting. He's a very chill OB. But he'll see, I thought to myself, he'll see.

This whole pregnancy was pretty hard. I had a lot of commitments unrelated to pregnancy that were especially challenging because of pregnancy, like home remodeling and book writing. I had health issues like a broken tailbone and recurring UTIs that were exacerbated by pregnancy, and normal pregnancy stuff like heartburn and edema that were much worse with this pregnancy than I'd experienced before.

I hate taking medicine. I don't know why, I just always have. But I had to give in and do it. Once I was taking a daily antibiotic for the prevention of UTIs, and a daily heartburn medication for the prevention of heartburn, and wearing compression socks, I actually felt pretty good, all things considered, the last couple months there.

With a lot of help with childcare from my parents, the big kids, and a good good friend, I got the book finished and submitted to the publisher one week before my due date <kermit flail!>. Then I figured I had between zero and seven days to get done all the preparation/nesting stuff I'd usually have been working on for a month or two.

I've only gone past my due date once with my eight other births. With all the rest, I've either gone on my due date or a day or two early. I'd left everything to the very last minute

Since Jack was born fifteen years ago, I have always sewn baby blankets and made little shirts with their names on them. I do one for a girl baby and one for a boy baby, since we don’t find out ahead of time.

But this time I was due on July 4th, and we had two different names picked for a girl, one if she was born on July 4th, one for if she was born on other than July 4th, so I needed two different blankets. A boy baby was going to be George either way, but once I was making two blankets for a girl baby, I felt like I should also make two for a boy baby. And now that I type that out I hear how crazy it is. I do. But it FELT important at the time. That’s the kind of crazy I am.

I also got Mary Jane’s baby book made. I just do them on Shutterfly. One year. Photos and captions only. But it just might be my single greatest achievement as a mother, nay, as a human being, that eight kids in this house have baby books. I gotta say, it feels nice to be able to point to a stack of books as physical proof that I loved each of them. Officially.

Anyway, I went to bed the night of July third, just SURE that I'd go into labor that night. Of course, I go to bed every night for the week before my due date pretty sure of that. But when I woke up on July 4th and it was morning and I wasn't having contractions . . . I pretty much turned into a feral pacing animal. I know there are so many of you who have gone days and weeks past due dates and, I don’t know how you don’t go completely out of your mind.

I was willing to allow for the possibility that I might have the baby BEFORE my due date. The extra baby blankets had been sewn against that possibility. But I really was hoping for my fourth baby born on the due date. I really value punctuality.

So, I woke up on the mad and antsy side of the bed. I ate breakfast and decided I would walk the baby out. There was lots of walking, a break to go to Mass, then more walking, and still no contractions. And the whole day I’m getting more frustrated, because I had PLANNED to have the baby in the middle of the night and be home with the kids in time for fireworks. As the hours ticked by, it was becoming clear that that wasn’t going to happen.

After lunch, I went to take a nap and woke up at about three in the afternoon, thinking maybe that was maybe a contraction. In all but one of my previous labors, it only took two or three contractions for there to be NO DOUBT that I was in labor. The last baby, two or three contractions and I was almost DONE. But these were different. They were really mild, but really regular. I was looking at the time with each one and they were thirty minutes apart and getting closer, but s-l-o-w-l-y. It really felt like a first baby, not like a ninth! After a couple of hours of watching Parks and Rec on Netflix and checking the time, I finally decided to get up and see what my family was up to.

I have a determined phobia of announcing that I am in labor and then not actually being in labor. If I faced a boggart, it would be an l&d nurse shaking her head at me and looking past me to tell the husband, “It’s probably just gas.”

So, I reluctantly told my husband that I thought maybe MAYBE I was having contractions. But they didn’t hurt at all, so I didn’t want to go to the hospital yet. I sat down with the kids and my parents and we ate burgers and watermelon and bomb pops and talked about America. And Hamilton. And not thowing away our shots and whatnot.

I just knew that whenever whatever this was was finished and the real thing got going, it was going to go fast . . . so I let the husband talk me into heading for the hospital around 6pm. Betty came with us, and we drove over, me having regular contractions still, but them still not meaning business.

We got to the hospital. I didn’t want to go inside yet, so we walked around the parking lot for a bit. When we decided to go in, the main entrance was closed, so we had to check in at the emergency room. We got in line behind a few other folks and waited. And now I’m getting antsy because I’m figuring the real contractions are going to hit any second and I don't want to be standing in line when that happens. Right in front of us is a family: a mom, and dad, and a four or five year old girl.

They have left a 4th of July party.

And come to a hospital emergency room.

Because their daughter.

Has swallowed.

A cherry pit.

Not magnets, or drano, or a throwing star. They brought her to the ER for swallowing a very tiny food item.

So . . . as you can tell, I was super chill about that.

That emergency attended to, we got to plead our case and get admitted. I got checked and, despite my boggart-y fears, I was in fact in labor, and at about a six, which is unusual for me. I like to cut it very close, and/or just not make it at all. Arriving at a six seemed like kind of a waste of everyone’s time. I started running through all the things I could have gotten done if we’d stayed home for another couple hours. But, c’est la vie.

The nurse said I could walk for fifteen minutes, but then it was thirty minutes before she came to track us down from the hallway farthest from her desk where I was hiding from her. So that was good.

While they had me hooked up to the monitor between walks, Betty and I watched Agent Carter together. Super cute show. It’s on Amazon. I recommend it for teens. Howard Stark’s wanton ways are alluded to, but not in a positive way. And it's been just so awesome to have her there for these last three births. I love that she’s old enough to share this with us.

Anyway, my OB arrived at 9:15pm, in a red, white, and blue polo shirt, fresh from a barbecue. He offered to break my water, and said that he thought that if he did I'd have the baby in an hour. I said I didn't want him to break my water. I had my water broken by the doctor once, and felt like the contractions were much less smooth, somehow, and I prefer to just let things take their natural course, whenever possible. But I silently determined to have that baby in an hour all by myself, thank you very much.







The heartburn and edema and UTIs disappeared as soon as I wasn't pregnant anymore, for which I am supremely grateful.

If you like birth stories, you'll find all the rest of mine here!