OK, let’s back up a bit. 3 years, 9 months ago Quinn was about 8 months old. He’d been sleeping through the night, smiling, babbling, attempting to crawl. We were in a good place. In fact we were starting to think about making that (dreaded) appointment with the reproductive endocrinologists over at GBMC to gear up for more IVF hell trying for #2.
And then I was late.
But…I was a total infertile myrtle…so no big deal.
And then I was latER.
And then I had 2 lines on a stick.
And then I about passed the hell out.
And that’s how Callum came to be. MONTHS before we were “ready” to try for #2. Being pregnant with Callum was totally different than being pregnant with Quinn. It was easy. I felt good, never sick, only gained about 35 (as opposed to 65 with Quinn–WAAA!).
Giving birth to Callum was a whole different ball of wax. A 10 pound, 1 ounce ball of wax. With drugs. Not good. I went all hippie with Quinn…doula, au naturale and I loved it…it was AWESOME (maybe I’m an exception to the rule, but going natural was incredible and wonderful). But because of some major back issues (thank you L4 and L5 for being assholes) I was going to try an epidural to (in theory) relax me more and experience less…uhh…athletic pushing. So, they hooked me up to about 40 tethers and pumped me full of crap (OK, it was epi, regular IV, antibiotics, pitocin, catheter, heart-rate monitors, oxygen finger thingy, blood pressure cuff and neuse). Almost 40. WAY different than walking the halls, bouncing on a birth ball, listening to classical, massaged by my doula, being spoon fed yogurt in a dimly lit room with NO tethers. But eventually out came my FAT baby boy.
The most miraculous surprise in the world.