Birth Story Once Removed from Allison McClymont

May 5, 2010

Today, my sister had a baby. A real, live, honest-to-goodness baby with perfection in every square inch of him, and I was there. At four am this morning, when the telephone rang, I woke with the words on my heart: I am going to be an aunt today, and please God let me deliver the baby. I think I actually said, out loud, I’m ready, as if instead of my parents’ old four-poster, I’d been dozing in an ER breakroom, strapped to a sparkle pager designed to summon my medical expertise, romantic entanglement notwithstanding. Sorry McDreamy, I took an oath, no I cannot make out with you.

It’s funny. I have always felt, despite my lack of formal training, oddly indispensable in medical emergencies. Even as a little girl, while the rest of the slumber party busied themselves trying to levitate or watch Goonies, I’d be chilling in the La-Z-Boy with someone’s mother’s Reader’s Digest, poring over the latest cabbage soup diet or random article on primordial dwarfism. I was fascinated with all that could befall a person, addicted to absorbing all that mysterious humanity and science — I was, in a sense, buffering myself with knowledge. Of course, this also contributed to a certain amount of childhood hypochondria, but we’re not talking about me, we’re talking about you. I mean, my sister. And her delicious baby, whose impending arrival was not announced electronically, but by a gush of water breaking, which prompted the phone call, then my mother beside herself and whispering up the stairs for me to hurry — the baby’s coming.

Upon hearing the signal, there was barely enough time for pants, let alone hair or makeup, and this must be said: I smelled like beets. That summer on the farm, my calendar was absolutely laden with canning, my bath replaced with daily dips in the municipal pool — a beauty regimen I cannot, in good faith, recommend to anyone. BUT. Even though I looked like Wile E. Coyote in a cute top, I knew the baby wouldn’t wait. So I immediately began, telepathically, to slow my sister’s contractions, kind of how I use mind control to keep the plane from going down. A pilot friend of mine once explained, in his pilot way, that as long as the air keeps moving over the wings, we’re good, and that I should be able to relax. Well. That may be, but mind control works too. I told him that on most flights, I’m much too engrossed in maintaining the appropriate balance of thrust and drag to even read a magazine. Unless I’m in first class, in which case I’m busy enjoying the warm towels and beverage selection.

But anyway-baby story. Our plan was, if we got the call, to meet my sister and her husband at their home, then head to the hospital — leaving one of us to watch their younger child, who sleeps till nine-thirty, making him, indisputably, the world’s most perfect child. During the three miles or so from my parents’ home to hers, I called dibs on driving with them, secretly hoping we’d have a good old-fashioned side-of-the-road birth; you know, eliminate the middleman. I’m fairly certain my sister had a different birthing plan, as she was standing in the kitchen when we got there, looking organized. As if she had gathered herself. In fact, aside from the smattering of sweat on her forehead my sister was, well, my sister. She is tall with lots of room to hide a baby. I, on the other hand, when pregnant, am pregnant EVERYWHERE. You can look through a one inch-square photo frame at my nose hairs and know I’m pregnant. It’s true. She looked only halfway pregnant, certainly not this-thing’s-going-to-blow pregnant; furthermore, there was no bumbling idiot husband fainting or dropping things like on television — just my wonderfully competent, gentle, brother-in-law waiting with the car keys. What’s more, she had yet to even have a contraction, but as Pregnancy Law dictates, once your water breaks, you get thee to a hospital. So we did.

Cutting through the cool dark of her cul-de-sac, the three of us were quiet in the car. Everything inside us was waiting — and I thought, how just right then was my favorite time of day, though I usually, happily miss it: the moment when the world sleeps, even the insomniacs have cashed in their chips by 4:30. The peace is palpable, with all the hopes and expectations and dreads of the neighborhood trapped like flies in jars with the lids screwed tight, everything is right for a time. The perfect time for a baby to come…

Note from Design Mom: I adore this story. So interesting and well written and funny. But LONG. So I’m including a few teaser paragraphs on this post and then you can find the whole post here and here. Enjoy! Also, when my mom was here last week she brought us some nesting dolls (pictured) from her mission in Russia. Don’t they just seem like the perfect symbol of pregnancy?

From Allison of Other People’s Chicken.

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Note from Design Mom: for the duration of my pregnancy, I’ll be posting advice, memories and stories about pregnancy, childbirth, adoption and growing a family on Wednesdays. You can find them all by clicking here. I’d love to hear your story or memory or advice, feel free to submit it to gabrielle@designmom.com.

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{ 4 comments… read them below or add one }

1 Jenny May 5, 2010 at 1:46 pm

What a great birth story. I have been in her shoes and it is amazing, to say the least!

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2 NatTheFatRat May 5, 2010 at 3:40 pm

That was some delicious story telling.

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3 Sandy May 6, 2010 at 1:10 am

I LOVE matryoshki (the nesting dolls). I have a tiny set somewhere packed away (I’m living with my mom at the moment) and in a craft swap, got a hand-embroidered set of matryoshka pillow cases. Also, a friend picked me up some matryoshka stamps. I’m a fiend!

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4 Evelyn May 7, 2010 at 2:29 pm

I really like your blog, and love the birth series you are doing!

I especially love the picture for this post! Matryoshka literally means “little mother”… I think they are wonderful (and beautiful!) representations for pregnancy and motherhood!

I may have missed it somewhere, but which mission did your parents serve in? It’s likely they knew my husband’s parents and they or some of the missionaries from their mission may have traveled to Kazakhstan (for visas) when my husband, daughter & I were there. Maybe. I’ve learned not to underestimate how big/small the world is when you’re in certain communities. =)

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