The decision to have a baby is never made lightly.
The decision to have a baby in the middle of a global pandemic under the regime of Donald Trump is never made lightly either.
You will grow up being one of "those" babies - your parents were serious enough about their desire to have you, that they chose to have you despite a world of risks, which they were taking very seriously.
Despite the fact that babies are beautiful miraculous gifts, I'm pretty sure I didn't come up with any fancy way to tell your dad when I found out I was pregnant. We both knew we were pretty reliable when it came to trying for a baby, by this point, that we kind of figured that once we'd tried, we'd succeed. (Not everyone is so lucky, and we're terribly sorry about that.) I'd thought up cute ways to tell him, when I was pregnant with your brothers. But with you? I'm pretty sure I just told him. Sorry.
My pregnancy with you was both easy and difficult - difficult due to constant nausea throughout the first trimester, and half of the second trimester as well. I'd never been that nauseated with your brothers. But the pregnancy was easy as there were no complications or anything even remotely eventful. When I finally got an appetite back, I craved Arctic Circle's Country Chicken Sandwiches, which, post pregnancy, I would be happy to never see ever again.
I'd always assumed you would be a boy - not through any profound "gut" feelings, or experiences, but because I'd already been a "boy mom" for five years, and because your father assured me that girls were rare in his family, and genetically speaking, it's the fathers who get to determine the gender of their babies. On our wedding night, your Grandpa Lisch had even warned your dad, "The Lisch boys are good swimmers!" I'd already mentally prepared myself for a future home packed full of raving wild boys.
So when I went in to your 16 week gender reveal appointment, I was fully ready to be told I was having a third boy. Really, the appointment was just so we could start planning baby names. They laid me down in the the chair, started the ultrasound, when lo and behold, we saw something I had never seen before! It was very exciting to say the least! I cried, and was beyond ecstatic to recognize that I would not be the only girl in my house anymore. But more than that, I was excited to have daughter, and envisioned a potential future relationship just like the relationship I have with my mom. It was wonderful to imagine that perhaps I was carrying a future best friend.
In the most recent few years, my Jewish heritage has also been something that I have longed to learn more about and participate in. Having a daughter was a beautiful blessing in that regard, as she, too, would give birth to baby Jews, and that my carrying on some Jewish Traditions would not have to die with me, necessarily. I would have a daughter who could carry those traditions on with her children as well. (Only if she wants to, mind!)
Knowing that I was having a girl changed everything! I was no longer a confident mother. I was now a terrified mother. Despite the fact that all babies are pretty much the same, I couldn't wrap my head around the fact that I could be capable of raising a girl! I think I was thinking too far ahead! But despite the surprise gender, the pregnancy carried on.
When it came to picking your name, your dad and I couldn't agree on anything. We had completely opposite tastes in names. After what FELT like months of deliberation, we decided that they only way you were going to get a name was if we divided and conquered. I chose your first name, and your dad chose your middle name. To me, Matilda felt like a strong, confident name, that could be as tomboy or girly as you wished. It felt beautiful and versatile. I loved the Dahl book, Matilda, and having two Australian grandmothers, it seemed only right that I could rock you to sleep with the lovely ballad of Waltzing Matilda. To me, your name was perfect. (I also seriously considered Madeline and Deborah (from the Bible,) but Matilda won out fairly quickly.)
The last month of my pregnancy dragged on. I had told the midwife on multiple occasions that I would be having the baby early. "I tend to have my babies early," I said confidently, as if two previous babies were enough to know. And so every day for about three weeks I was vigilant and ready for your imminent arrival. And then you never came. It was stressful to have rides constantly planned out, plans for your brothers, who would be watching them, etc.
Because your birth would be a little bit different than theirs. I will preface by saying that your dad is a good man. He loves his family, and would do anything for them. Unfortunately, your dad also doesn't do well with blood and high-stress situations, in terms of being empathetic and present. This has nothing to do with his ability to love his family, but more to do with poor coping mechanisms in regards to stress situations. Having dragged your dad through two previous births, I felt confident enough in myself and my ability to give birth without dying, that I was open to the idea of letting Dad off the hook, and getting myself a confident, calm support person in the delivery room. The fact that you were a girl made that decision more naturally for me, as I psyched myself up for a traditional “women's work” birth.
My mom was an obvious first choice for me to have in the delivery room. After discussing that possibility with your dad, who was not offended in the slightest at the suggestion that I could do this without him, we approached your grandma with the question of if she would be willing to be present for the blood, the nudity, the screams, the needles, the beeping machines, etc. She was happy to tell us that in her former life in Australia she had been present for MANY births, and that she was, in fact, a professional at being just that sort of support person in the delivery room. (It was part of her job, in fact!)
So as the days drew nearer, we were balancing school schedules, and trying to psych ourselves into giving birth on a weekend day, or another day that wouldn't be so inconvenient for Grandma to drive the sometimes hour long drive to get to the hospital to be with me. We had a couple false alarms. I have always had an irritable uterus, which means regular Braxton Hicks throughout my entire pregnancies, but most especially when you really want to give birth, and so you start timing them. It is as if timing the hicks makes them come regularly at three to four minute intervals. Obviously, I absolutely hate not knowing when babies are coming.
Your grandma sat at the hospital with me for the first false alarm, two weeks before you were born, and I called her off a week later before she got to the hospital the second false alarm. She comforted me with the assurance that you would be, in fact, the last grandchild, and she never had to deal with false alarms again! A few days after the second false alarm, my midwife stripped my membranes, in the hopes that it would get things moving, but it did the opposite. My irritable Braxton Hicks stopped being so irritable and regular! It was a relief, at least, that it didn't make things worse!
The next week the midwife stripped my membranes again, and we made an appointment for the following morning for her to strip them a third time! I was dilated to almost a four, and my cervix was absolutely ready. The midwife agreed that my body was embarrassingly ready to give birth, and I should have done it the week before! But the second time stripping my membranes was the charm, however. That afternoon, while Julian was at Kindergarten, I took Dexter for a walk to pick up garbage along the street, came back home, picked up Julian from school, and was having regular contractions by dinner time. I called your grandma, told her I was about "Defcon Orange?" sure that you were coming, and told her I would feel tremendously guilty if she drove all the way to our house if you didn't, in fact, come.
She sat with me on the couch after your brothers were put to bed, and we continued to time contractions together, while she smiled comfortingly and knowingly at me, telling me we should drive to the hospital while I told her I wasn't sure enough, yet, that this was the real deal. After about an hour, things were starting to hurt enough that I was confident, so away we ran to the hospital. We checked in around 9 pm, and immediately were given a room. I don't know how the Labor and Delivery nurses know when someone is, in fact, in real labor, but they knew. They knew that the false alarms were false alarms, and they knew a real contracting woman when they saw one. I had dilated to a five, and things were progressing.
Getting an epidural with your brother Dexter was easily the worst pain I have been in in my entire life. It was so much pain, that I was seriously considering giving birth to you naturally, without pain relief. I was terrified! But after months of deliberation, I'd concluded that ten minutes of pain had nothing on potential hours worth of labor and then birth, and that I could do another epidural.
Your Grandma held my hand while I shook like a leaf. It was very comforting, especially when I realized that THIS anesthesiologist wasn't going about the epidural with the intensity of performing a root canal, like I'd experienced with the last one, so I was able to calm down. Even then, he nearly called for his supervisor, as he struggled to get the epidural in place, until I assured him it felt like it was going in straight, not to the right or left, so he gave it one last attempt, and it worked beautifully. And Grandma didn't even faint or look the least bit pale!
Grandma read to me for a couple hours and we chatted as casually as ever, while I continued to labor in perfect comfort. (Epidural was the right choice!) The midwife came and broke my water - she literally leaned back squinting and flinching, which was funny to me. (Gross.)
As the next couple hours passed, the nurses informed me that it was up to me to let them know when my numbed body was ready to push. (I have always found this odd. Sure, you feel pressure and things, with an epidural, but no real guttural "push" urge.) Subsequently, I had the nurse keep tabs on the "readiness" factor fairly regularly for the last thirty minutes, as I wasn't sure and didn't want to miss anything! I'd popped your brother out in one contraction last time, and didn't want to make your Grandma catch. Though obviously we joked about it, and she, in all seriousness, told me it wouldn't be a problem. Part of me still wonders if she hoped she couldn't get her hands a little dirty and catch a grandbaby!
She didn't have to, as the nurses knew what they were doing. The midwife came in with her trainee, and the trainee delivered you, at nearly seven months pregnant herself! I had you out in three contractions, and you came out perfect at 12:01 am, 6 pounds 10 ounces, 19 inches long.
You cried the right amount, and calmed right down when I held you and started talking to you. After everything settled down in the delivery room, Grandma excused herself to go home and sleep, and I was wheeled up to our Mom/Baby room. While wheeling along being pushed in the wheelchair, your eyes were open wide, taking in all the new sights, and I was in love. You were SO interested and satisfied!
And you were. Of course. We later learned that you were a little connoisseur when it came to formula. I'm fairly confident that you ate so poorly at the hospital because the formula came room temperature. Once you got home, you learned to gag at anything less than optimal temperature, and demanded WARM formula from thenceforth.
And you SMILED. I'd never had a baby just SMILE. Sometimes babies will smile while pooping, or farting, and parents are thrilled that they caught a smile, but yours weren't fake smiles. They were genuine, REAL smiles, right out the gate from Day One. You loved looking at me, and you loved getting your head stroked - something Grandma figured out!
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