Six years ago...

My Aunt Kathie has this tradition of telling her children their birth stories on their birthdays. And the first time I witnessed one of these tellings I was so touched. What a gift, to hear again, of the special way that "you" entered the world. I decided right then that I would continue this tradition with my children- whenever they should come.

And, because I love a good birth story, and I know there are others that do, too... I decided that this year- I'd post my childrens' stories.

And since today is Dylan's birthday- I will share his birth story, with you.

You might guess that this story begins on March 5th, but you'd be wrong. His story begins on the 4th. And if we're being very specific- a few days before that.

The day of the 4th, I was supposed to call the midwife back and let her know if the small leaks I was having had gotten worse. Unfortunately, this leaking had bad timing. We were due for a house guest (think it was MCC, so we didn't know him) that weekend. My house was still a mess. So in the morning hours I was scrambling to get things up to satisfactory- perfection had already lost out to this pending baby. Right before noon, I'd gone down to the basement for something, and on each step down the stairs- I felt a little more slip out. It didn't get better on the way up. I knew this was bad. I also had about an hour of housework left. (I think in retrospect, I was seriously nesting, though it sounds like I was putting housework ahead of my baby.)

The phone rang. It was the midwife. She was nice, but firm. Get your backside to the office now. She didn't say it in those words, she's much nicer. But I understood. No more messing around- this means baby.

They did a scan and could see that Dylan's fluid (amniotic) levels were getting a little low-- too low to be good. The midwife said to me-- "I want to see this baby out in 24 hours." Yes, ma'am. No problem. Only trouble was- I wasn't in labor. No pains, twinges, tightness, anything. Nothing to suggest this kid's womb was ready for expulsion.

I called Danny. He was online right then, one mouse click away from solidifying his ski trip plans-- we'd talked about it- it was 5 weeks before the baby would come- possibly 7- one last hurrah for him before the baby-- I'd be okay. My call changed all that.

I called all the top of the list folks to make sure they had a head's up on the situation. All responses were the same- but don't you have 5 weeks left? Yeah, tell that to my uterus.

When I walked onto the Labor & Delivery floor- Danny was already there, chatting with the nurses & midwife. I felt like the odd girl out.

I was ushered into room 301 (ironically- the same room his sister would be born in, 3 years later), told to strip & don the scratchy cotton gown- you know the ones- in that oh so flattering shade of blah. I beached myself onto the bed and then was hooked up to a vast assortment of tubes and beeping things. And my birthing enemy pitocin was pushed into my veins. We waited and waited. Nothing.

My birth plans were shot. And since I'd already raised the white flag of surrender- I just decided to go with the flow. After all, my baby apparently needed out very soon, and my body was not cooperating. I loved my baby too much to let my stubborn body get in the way- so I went along. Come midnight- nothing had happened. They turned off the pitocin and let me "sleep". But by then, my mind was the Indy 500 of worries and wonderings.

Morning came. I chose the breakfast that looked like it had the most sustaining power, and when I'd finished- the button for pitocin was clicked on, again.

By noon, still nothing (this is the 5th now, in case you're lost). So, in addition to "pit", I now had a little gem called cytotec placed-- this is not a liquidy thing for one's I-V, not a tablet to be swallowed- unless you're using it for ulcers- no, this thing gets shoved...well...where it'll help. It's the landlord that tells the apartment it's time to kick out the tennant. Within 40 minutes, something was happening. But within another hour- it wasn't. So, more cytotec. This time, we were playing labor for real.

The next hours are a blur. Somewhere around 4pm or so I begged for an epidural. I was in agony. Apparently, not all that uncommon when one is under the influence of "pit". Unfortunately (depending on how you look at it) the epidural level had to stay constant because my baby was in distress. So- the pit kept increasing and the epidural didn't- within an hour- I was back to agony. I could be wrong on the time frames here- it really was a blur.

Then somewhere around 8:30pm, I remember the midwife leaning over into my ear and saying, "when you feel the next contraction, grab your thighs and bear down here." I distinctly remember translating that to- oh, she means it's time to push.

I drug myself out of the fog and braced myself for the mystery of pushing. We've all seen it on TV, read it in books, and heard the talk-- but this was my body and I was completely unprepared.

The good news is, it only took me about thirty minutes of pushing to get Dylan out. I've heard horror stories of hours and hours of pushing.

There was a moment, when he was crowning, that I guess I'd nearly given up. The midwife yelled for someone to get a mirror-- I needed to be reminded of what I was working towards.

After his head popped out, I remember looking at my partly deflated belly and thinking- oh wow- I really am having a baby- something is coming out of me- my child is coming out of me... it was surreal.

Then, at 9:18pm, he was here. Danny caught him.

But the sound in the room was awful because there was no crying. I looked at my baby- and my baby was purple. Danny scooped him over to the warming table and they started to give him oxygen.

The midwife said, "it'd probably help if the baby could hear you" (or something like that). I didn't know what to say- I didn't even know if it was a boy or girl (we chose not to find out). I asked. Danny had assumed that it was a girl (from months and months back) and didn't bother to look. He peeked and said, "huh, it's a boy."

A boy. My son. "Dylan," I said (we never settled on a girl's name, but we both agreed on Dylan). "It's Mommy. I need you to cry honey. Cry, baby, please." Again-- that moment was too full of emotion to remember the words exactly- but he heard me, the midwife was right (again). And he started to wail. It was the most beautiful sound I'd ever heard.

I started blubbering, too.

Soon after, he was put in my arms.

My baby. My son. Dylan Edward Diener. Born March 5, 2005. 9:18pm. 6lbs 5 oz. 18.5 in.

Happy Birthday, Dylan. I love you more everyday.