I would like to introduce you to my son, Jackson (Jack) Houston
Gilbert. Named after my late father, he is the newest addition to our
family.
The little man arrived Wednesday, Nov. 2, 2011, at 11 a.m., weighing
just 6 lbs., 7 oz.—the slightest bit bigger than his sister Ava, who
was born just two years ago.
The original plan was to be induced on the morning of Friday, Nov.
4. Clearly, Jack didn't feel like waiting until then. Instead, he chose
3:30 a.m. Wednesday morning to start stirring things up.
He threw me for a few loops that night; I didn't know whether to
head to the hospital or to just stay home. The contractions were
constant, but the intensity constantly changed, which made me feel like
it was false labor.
Around 5 a.m. I made the decision to head to the hospital. Ken ran
across the street to wake our sweet neighbor Jean, who immediately came
over to care for Ava while we went to the hospital. Bless her heart.
I'm not sure what we would have done without Jean.
We arrived at the hospital at 6 a.m. and I was immediately examined.
The nurse checked me, frowned, and informed me that I was still only 2
cm. dilated—the exact same progress I was at as a week ago while
visiting my doctor. Seriously?! I felt so dumb. I just knew it was
another false alarm.
The nurse then hooked me up to the monitors and said she would check
on me in a bit. She said she wanted me to walk for an hour or so to try
and speed things up and then she'd re-check me to see if anything
progressed.
Well, I'll have you know, we never got to that walking bit.
As I laid there watching my husband (a.k.a. MacGyver) trying to
concoct a bed out of a chair, bed tray and heater, the contractions made
a comeback—with a vengeance.
Holy cow! I remember this garbage! There is no turning back now!
By 7:15, I had dilated to 6 cm. and I knew (based on the intensity
and closeness of the contractions) that it was the real thing. In fact,
the neighboring rooms must have known, too, based on the howls (and
other choice words) coming from our room.
We were quickly moved into one of the delivery rooms and the
anesthesiologist was immediately paged. It felt like forever until she
was able to get me the epidural.
In fact, I don't know what I would have done without Chris M., my
amazing L&D nurse. She was absolutely wonderful, reassuring me and
coaching me along, reminding me to breathe through those horrific
contractions.
Meanwhile, my husband and I were communicating via cell phone with my
mom, who was en route via Amtrak from Quincy, Ill. She was due in town
around 10 a.m. and we were convinced she wasn't going to make it in
time for the birth, which really bummed her out considering this was
the first time she was going to be a part of a grandchild's birth.
I'm pretty sure she called during a few of those contractions and
heard me scream words that you definitely can't find in your trusty old
dictionary.
Well, lucky for Mom, my obstetrician had to finish performing a
surgery before she could make her way to my room, which meant we needed
to wait for at least 45 more minutes before starting "push time."
Surprisingly, the push wasn't hard on me, considering I couldn't feel a
thing; I was so numb that I couldn't even move my legs. I was paralyzed
from the waist down.
Before we knew it, 45 minutes had passed, my mom had arrived (thank
you, Jen, for playing the role of "speedy taxi") and the OB was in my
room, asking if I was ready to go.
"Um... I guess so," I said, looking at my husband with a face that said, "Holy crap! We are about to have another baby!"
They asked if I wanted a mirror to get in on the action and I turned
them down flat—no way did I want to see what was going on down there.
In fact, I remember seeing it in eighth grade health class and I'm
pretty sure it scarred me for life.
After a little coaxing from my L&D nurse, though, I thought I'd give things a peek.
Holy shirts and pants. He was RIGHT. THERE.
And I must admit, as gory as it was to see, it was pretty cool to
watch him come into this world and take his first breath. (It reminded
me of a scene from "V" circa 1985, only he wasn't green ... or an
alien).
With one push (yes, you heard me correctly—ONE!), Jack was here. And
boy was he beautiful; complete and total perfection in the form of
tiny, toe-head! They laid his gooey little body on my chest and we
screamed with joy!
Ten fingers, 10 toes and an Apgar score of 9; he checked out beautifully. (How lucky are we?!)
We're convinced they only give 10s to babies of doctors and nurses!
It's amazing how quickly the love comes the next time around. I
immediately loved this little guy; the connection was instantaneous.
Up until today, I have been a worried mess that postpartum depression
would hit me like a ton of bricks with this baby, considering
my battle with PPD after my first was born. With Ava, I went to "crazytown" on day three and was a total whacko well into that first month.
Well I'm happy to say (knock on wood) that even though it's only day
five, I already feel 300 percent better than I did with my daughter.
Call it wishful thinking, but I think I'm going to be okay this time
around.
It's funny. Looking back through pics of our family seems odd now. To
see a pic of Ken, Ava and I seems strange—it's already as if someone
has been missing the whole time. I can't really explain it. Even our
recent Halloween pictures don't look right now. It's as if I know we
are missing little Jack.
To wrap it up—because I'm freaking exhausted from chasing a toddler
and caring for a newborn—I look forward to watching this little man grow
and change. Don't get me wrong, I'm afraid of the rough days for fear
that PPD might be around the corner, but I am content knowing I'll be
okay if it does strike again.
Words cannot express how lucky and blessed I feel to call these two
children mine. I look at the both of them and smile, almost in denial
that I carried and birthed the both of them.
Article (originally posted on Patch): Introducing Baby Jack
