3/52

Among seasoned mothers, the company line when you ask them how they knew they were finished having children is, almost always, “You just know.”

I have to say, I’ve gotten a lot of fantastic advice from other moms over the years, but this is one bit of wisdom I never found particularly helpful.

My husband and I always went back and forth about whether to have two or three children. Sometimes, when I was feeling adventurous, I even liked the sound of four. (of course this was before we even had ONE)

I always sort of assumed there would come a point when my brain would realize that logistically, we simply could not handle any more children. I also assumed without my brain to keep it in check, my heart would never know when to stop -- forever whispering in my ear, “Just one more!”

My heart was definitely still in charge after our second child.

All the while, my brain was practically begging to not have to endure another round of being pregnant, of not sleeping, of constant toddler vigilance, of potty training -- for goodness sake NO MORE POTTY TRAINING. (At the time, my 2-1/2-year-old son was insisting on wearing big boy Spiderman underwear like his brother, but still happily peeing on the floor every time I turned my back.)

My heart simply wouldn’t listen. It is a pull I imagine only a mother can know and one I can’t really describe except to say that sometimes, I would be with my two boys, playing or giving them breakfast or just some other mundane task of daily life and I would suddenly feel like I had forgotten someone or that someone was missing.

It took my brain awhile to get on board. Even when we were officially “trying” I wasn’t even completely sure we were ready. Ironically, my husband, the one of us who actually had come from a family of five, needed even more convincing than I did.

It was almost Christmas when I found out. I entertained the idea of keeping it a secret and telling him on Christmas morning. For three days straight though, he was relentless about wanting to bring sushi home for dinner. I eventually ran out of other carry-out options and I had to tell him.

He was very excited, of course, but in that third-time-around-the-block kind of way. I showed him the pregnancy test and got him up to speed on the due date and whatnot. After that, I think we kind of just moved on to getting the kids fed and bathed and put to bed. Such is life for the third child, I suppose, even in-utero.

I was fairly sure from the beginning we were having another boy because if there is one thing I know about God, it is that he has an absolutely fabulous sense of humor, and the idea of me with three boys was about the funniest thing I could imagine.

The day of our scheduled ultrasound, we took our two children with us. My six-year-old desperately wanted a baby sister and I had been preparing him for weeks that he probably would not get what he wanted. The technician started the ultrasound. and we all stared at the images starting to form on the screen. Almost immediately, my husband and I exchanged “Did you just see what I just saw?” glances.

She was kind enough to break the rules and let us turn our video camera on when she checked the gender. Though I had seen it already, my heart raced as I waited for the official reveal -- possibly my favorite part of pregnancy next to the actual birth. Some say it spoils the best surprise there is in life. I say it gives you something to occupy you while you are waiting.

“Well, that looks like a penis!” she said as she pointed to a spot on the screen. I laughed. Really, what else was there to do after I’d just been told I was now the mother of three little boys? Yes. God is indeed a funny, funny guy.

The six-year-old almost cried. The three-year-old, not yet understanding how his world was about to be knocked off its axis, was happy to hear he was getting another brother. My husband was relieved to know he had escaped having a teenage daughter for the third time straight.

We cruised along uneventfully through the summer, that is, until my doctor began making comments at my appointments about this baby being bigger than my other two. Toward the end, she would measure my enormous bump, feel around for the baby’s head and then smile and exclaim, “Hrm... This is going to be a big baby for you!” She was always very zen about this, whereas I was starting to have frightening visions of birthing a Thanksgiving turkey. She would then laugh at my inevitably panicked expression, help me heave my hugely pregnant self off the table and send me waddling on my way with a pleasant, “See you back in two weeks!”

August finally arrived. The baby’s official due date was the 26th and I had had a couple false alarms. The most memorable was a true case of Murphy’s Law in action, with contractions starting one night at precisely the same moment my oldest son woke out of a sound sleep crying that his ear hurt. I sat with him, rubbing his head until the pain medicine kicked in, all the while breathing through contractions every two minutes and wondering how I was going to get him to the pediatrician in the morning and still get myself to the hospital. Certainly not my first balancing act as a mom, and I was sure it would be far from my last.

I did get to the hospital and, not surprisingly, I was sent packing for lack of progression and smiling too much. Just as I was leaving, another woman came in leaking all over place. I heard the nurses declare her a “gross rupture”. Ah... water breakage... the ultimate quick-admission ticket. I enviously watched her disappear down the hallway. I sighed heavily, then, after glancing around to make sure no one was watching (except for my very amused husband) I jumped up and down a couple of times. Nothing. It was worth a try, anyway.

I was scheduled for an induction a few days later. Except for the fact that I was 39 weeks and six days pregnant, I just barely met the minimum requirements, but I was hugely uncomfortable, not to mention my oldest son was starting first grade the next week and I was eager to get home and settled in with the baby before school began.

On the morning of August 25th, we snapped one last family picture of the four of us, and out the door we went.

It all started out pleasantly enough. We arrived at 9 a.m. I got suited up and settled in with the tv remote, my laptop and my cell phone. I was excited and relaxed. My husband did some work in the corner. I played on Facebook and made small talk with the nurses.

The mood in the room took a decidedly negative turn though when the nurse tried to find the baby’s heartbeat. I pointed to where the doctor usually found it.

Silence.

She tried another spot.

More silence.

She asked if I had felt the baby move at all that morning. I couldn’t remember. In fact, I couldn’t remember ANYTHING at that moment. Every single one of us in that room was afraid of the same thing and no one was saying it out loud.

Five excruciating minutes passed as she moved the monitor to one spot and then another, and another.

Finally, the familiar whooshwhooshwhoosh of the baby’s heartbeat pierced the silence. She found it very high on my right side, in a spot we had never heard it before. It was very faint, and even with the monitor turned on full volume, it was difficult to hear.

The worry had been substantially downgraded, but there was the new concern that he had flipped, something that would, for sure, change the course of the day.

Already in a precarious emotional state after the scare the last few minutes had brought, I don’t know how I maintained any composure as I asked how this was possible. I had JUST been to the doctor two days before and he was facing head down. He was so big at this point that his movements rocked my whole abdomen. They were painful and completely unmistakable. There was no way I could have missed an intrauterine 180.

They sent for the on-call midwife and she came almost immediately. I quickly surmised she did not approve of the fact that I was being induced for a non-medical reason. Clearly she and I differed on the definition of “medical reason” because I considered not being able to take a deep breath a pretty valid one.

After a quick check she announced, almost gleefully, that she could not feel the baby’s head. Then she prodded all over my belly and couldn’t feel the head either. I thought for a minute she was going to tell me she didn’t think my baby actually HAD a head. Instead, she announced she needed to get the ultrasound machine.

“This probably isn’t going to go the way you want it to” she said, abruptly, as she turned to leave.

As soon as the door to my room clicked shut, the stress of the morning’s events hit me all at once and I burst into tears. The nurse tried her best to reassure me -- “Don’t give up, it might not be … it’s very rare for a baby to flip once you start feeling contractions... there’s still a chance...”

The midwife returned, wheeling a cart behind her.

She unceremoniously squirted gel all over my belly and plopped the probe down. Instantly, on the screen was the outline of our baby’s head, exactly where it was supposed to be. I cried some more, this time out of sheer relief. She made some comments about his positioning and why the heartbeat was high. As it turned out, he was just in a really strange, sort of twisted position lying up against my right side.

I really should have known better, but I looked at her and I asked, “Should I be doing this?”

Can officially opened. Worms all over the place.

I got to hear how she REALLY felt about inductions, though she added, of course, that it was my doctor’s decision and mine ultimately. Then, having said her piece, she left.

I am not ashamed to tell you that I called that midwife some not-so-nice names.

The next thing I knew, my doctor appeared in the room and I was never more thankful to see her. She sat down on the end of the bed and answered every question I threw at her. Her calm, softspoken manner and reassurance made all the stress, panic, and doubt that had built up all morning leave my body completely. Finally clearheaded, I agreed to let them start the pitocin.

Over the next few hours, I Facebooked my labor progress, read the first page of The Help twelve times, realized I couldn’t focus and eventually managed to sleep a little. I awoke out of a sound sleep to an audible *pop* followed by a gush. An hour and a half later, I got the second best epidural I have ever had.

At 5:15, my doctor came back to check on the progress. The baby’s head hadn’t come down all. At first she seemed confused and then she announced that she could still feel a bag of water. She brandished a foot-long crochet hook with which she planned to remedy that situation, while I contemplated how thankful I was to be numb from the waist down.

Two words describe the next few minutes: Nile. River.

My doctor has this very funny way of announcing things sort of triumphantly and this was no exception. “That is why the baby’s head wasn’t coming down!!!” she declared. We all shared in the excitement as the river flowed... .and flowed... and flowed.

I suddenly realized that I could take a deep breath for the first time in MONTHS.

At 7:30, she put a pressure monitor on the baby’s head, cranked up the pitocin and announced she was going to go take a nap while I finished my job of dilating. A nap sounded like a brilliant idea to me. However, as luck would have it, I would not get one because right after she left, the pain started.

I mentioned it to the nurse who then asked for the epidural to be topped off. I was told to wait 15 minutes to see if it helped.

Ever the rule follower, I watched the second hand circle the clock exactly 15 times before I called her back in.

Things got MUCH worse very quickly. I had reached the Level 10 + VERY Sad Face on the little pain scale illustration they keep handy in the hospital room. Realizing I was also feeling a ton of pressure, I quietly asked if it was possible to have gone from six centimeters to ready to push that quickly. The nurse said probably not, but woke up my doctor from her nap anyway.

She came in around 8:20 and I told her I really thought I needed to push. She said I could do some small pushes to take the edge off while she got ready. I truly have never seen anyone get dressed so slowly in my entire life. At 8:40, she and my mother were at the foot of the bed carrying on a conversation about the necklace my mom was wearing. As much as I hated to break up the girl talk, I said, “I REALLY need to push. Can I please push now?” At least I said please.

And push I did. I don't remember how many times it was, but it was through only a handful of contractions. The baby’s head came out, face up, apparently, and it felt like FOREVER until she let me push again. Then she had to pull him quite a bit to get his shoulders out. Even a year and a half later, I giggle at the mental image of this tiny, five-foot-nothing Indian woman, pulling with every ounce of strength she had to get that baby out. At 8:50, she won the battle.

"He's a BIG baby!" she exclaimed as she placed him on my chest. I could tell even she was surprised at his size.

We gasped a few minutes later when the scale read 8 pounds, 4.6 ounces. He was a solid two pounds bigger than my last baby. (I blame the Italian ices I lived on all summer.)

We finalized his name at the very last second, having waffled back and forth for nine months. He would be Jonathan Ellsworth Graff, his middle name honoring my grandfather.

Awhile later, the doctor had left, the nurses were filling out paperwork and my husband, mother and mother-in-law had gone out to the waiting room to catch everyone else up. For a precious few minutes, Jonathan and I found ourselves in the room basically alone together. “Do you have any idea what you have gotten yourself into being born into this crazy family?” I asked him. He looked at me, blinking a few times. Then he let out one of those newborn sighs. Clearly, he was clueless.

It wasn’t long before the big brothers were herded nto the room to meet him. They piled onto the bed like puppies and that’s where we took our first picture of the five of us.

As I looked around at this newly revised version of our family, I realized something. For the first time, it didn’t feel like anyone was missing.

When I wasn’t paying attention, my head and heart had apparently reached an agreement and at once I knew that this must be complete felt like.

Since Jonathan’s birth, I have formulated my own answer to the question, “How do you know you are finished?” and it’s pretty simple, really.

You are finished when the last person arrives.

When is that?

Well, all I can say is...

... you’ll just know.

I promise.