A week and a half ago, a Cesarean was performed and Gunnar Weisser was born. The C-section was a surprise and I hadn’t fully grasped the idea. But there I was… in labor, throwing up into a tiny, Pepto-pink puke bucket––awaiting the first cut. I was terrified. I leaned forward into the arms of the nurse who would explain every event leading to the procedure.
“He’s just going to swab the area now. You’ll feel three quick swipes.” I continued to breathe… to put on my brave face, even when I knew he’d be placing the needle into my back. ”You’ll feel some pressure here.” Without warning, I flinched.
“Hold still,” said the faceless anesthesiologist behind me.
“Okay,” I complied. This time I gripped the nurse’s arms tighter and the needle was placed into my spine. They quickly lay me back before the medicine could paralyze me, and placed a giant blue sheet before my face. My exposed body lay on the table for all to see. To say that I felt vulnerable would be a gross understatement. It was more like, “Oh hi. Yes, that’s my vagina. And your name is?” For some unknown reason, after I had been in hours of labor with my daughter, I didn’t seem to mind the numerous nurses and midwives watching as I pushed Elsa out. I was simply too tired to give a damn. This time however, I lay flat, ready to be filleted, and all I could think of was Matt, the nice guy who warned me not to get “squirrelly” after I went numb. ”The calm ones always do,” he had said. I felt that we had been kindred spirits seeing that he was from Colorado as well and therefore less likely to accidentally paralyze me. Yeah, that’s me… working the angles just before the big knife-off. With my arms outstretched, not unlike those of Jesus on the cross, Craig took my hand. They had finally let him into the room. Were they afraid he’d be exposed to my nakedness? “Hi honey,” he said. He could read the terror on my face and looked into my eyes. ”It’s going to be okay.”
“Can you feel this?” asked Dr. Aranas. I could feel the blade, but wasn’t sure if it was a sharpness I was experiencing or simply pressure.
“I do feel it.” I could hear them discussing my response as they gathered around my belly. The blade was pressed into my stomach and I could feel it as it cut across my abdomen. Needless to say, it was the strangest sensation I had ever experienced.
“You’ll feel some pressure,” said the nurse. Suddenly, there was a violent pushing and pulling at the child within me.
“You think?” I quipped. “Yeah, that’s pressure for sure,” I replied.
Moments later, my son’s cry pierced the silence of the sterile room. Without seeing him, tears streaked my face. My son was born. A new life had begun.
*
Hours later I remained in recovery awaiting my legs to move. They said I could see my baby once I had full motion. Just like my favorite heroine The Bride from the Kill Bill films, I found myself staring down at my toes saying, “Move your motherfucking toe.” And nothing would happen. Five hours later, I was finally able to meet my baby. God, he was gorgeous. His perfect face, flawless and serene. I fell in love with him immediately. He looked just like his daddy, and it made my heart melt into a giant love-puddle. I held him close and stroked his fuzzy dark hair as I nursed him. It was heaven. And I was surprised at how much I loved it.
Although he had wrestled around inside of me for the past few months, the idea of having a second child had seemed so abstract––and then it wasn’t. It was beautiful, and moving––and perfect.
We sat together on the floor, tracing one another’s hands with scarlet and ginger Crayons. ”That tickles mommy,” she said as I weaved the Crayon in and out of her tiny fingers. A rainbow of tiny hands filled the white paper. ”Want to color them?” I asked. “You gonna’ color with me?” she responded. ”Of course,” I said as I focused all of my attention on her. Gunnar lay in his swing snoozing peacefully, and I was enjoying my one on one time with my best girl. But basking in the glow of my daughter’s love would have to be paused as Gunnar began to fuss, which meant it was time to eat. I immediately began to worry about the outcome of this feeding as my lovely daughter has begun to lash out at me during his meals. It appears that her jealousy is getting the better of her––and it’s making me nuts. Her tantrums include screaming at the top of her lungs, throwing Matchbox cars and or Barbies, spitting, hitting, etc. If you can name the poor behavior, she has most likely used it against me at this point to gain my attention.