1. Welcome, Donovan Matthew Kocsis!

    I’m finally getting around to posting Donovan’s birth story. I think the delay was mostly due to the fact that I had a long scary labor, an extremely difficult delivery, and a slow painful recovery.

    On Wednesday February 16th, I went to labor and delivery because I thought my water was leaking. I got checked out, and was told it wasn’t time. Struck me as odd, because I know my body and I knew I wasn’t pissing myself. The doctor only did the visual test, not the swab test or fern test. At least I don’t think he did. But who am I to tell the doctor how to do his job, right?

    Anyway, we went home and the leak continued for days until finally on Sunday night, it was so bad that I had to sleep on a towel. Went back to labor and delivery on Monday February 21st with the same complaint, half expecting them to tell me the same thing. This time, a different doctor did all three tests to see if it was my water and confirmed it was.

    They immediately started me on penicillin and pitocin saying since it had been leaking for so long, we were at extreme risk of infection and baby needed out now. I was freaking out but still wanted to try to do it without the epidural. I was started on pitocin at 6:10pm and labored pain med free through the night and into the morning.

    Around 10am on Tuesday February 22nd, they decided to place an internal contraction monitor because for whatever reason, my pit induced contractions were just kind of petering out and not being very effective. The doctor went in and noticed my waters were still bulging a little so she broke them and it was all blood. I had an immediate anxiety attack. My first thought was, there’s an infection and my baby is at risk. Then I thought maybe it’s placental abruption. At the height of my anxiety attack, the full strength contractions from my water breaking hit me like a mac truck. They asked if they could please give me the epidural to calm me down and try to relax me. I agreed. Needless to say, they did not place the internal monitor.

    The epidural was a total flop. It only worked on the left half of my body, so I was able to feel the full ferocity of every contraction on the right half of my body. They waited a bit to see if it would eventually take on the right half, but it didn’t. I was progressing very quickly at this point and was too far dilated to have it re-placed in my back. 

    It was 1pm and it was time to start pushing. Around 2pm the half assed epidural wore off. So it was 100% natural from there on out. No biggie I thought, I’ve been pushing for an hour already, he’ll be here in no time. Yeah right. He was stuck under my pelvic bone AND he was presenting with his forehead. Great. Now I’m at a pretty high risk of needing a c-section. I pushed for another couple hours and he finally came down. I was exhausted. It was nearing 4pm and I hadn’t eaten since Monday afternoon. I had been laboring nearly 22 hours. I was broken down from the anxiety attack and I had almost given up. I was sobbing and saying I couldn’t do it anymore. I felt absolutely defeated. Just when I thought he would never come out, the doctor came in and I knew I was almost there. He did a mediolateral episiotomy on me because of the baby’s forehead presentation. And then finally, after exactly 22 hours of labor, my son was plopped on my chest. It was the greatest moment of my life. 

    But the worst moment of my life was about to happen. My body was not delivering the placenta. And of course the doctor wasn’t about to wait to see if it would happen naturally after a little bit of time. No, no. He reached in my vagina and straight up into my uterus and snatched it out. Keep in mind, I had NO pain medication at this point. Hadn’t had any since 2 hours earlier. The best way I can describe what was happening to me is it was like gutting a pumpkin. The doctor was elbow deep in my uterus scraping around getting my placenta out. Not once. Not twice. But three times. Why? Well lucky me had a double lobed placenta. Meaning, there were 2 very large separate parts to my placenta. He had to make sure he got every piece. The pain was excruciating. Like none other on the planet. I screamed bloody murder and my nails did serious damage to poor Brian’s arm. 

    Good news is (believe it or not, there is some good news), we got the delayed cord clamping we wanted and Donovan came out in perfect health. It was the most relieving news I’ve ever heard.

    When we came home, I noticed I was in more pain than the previous day. And each day that passed, I had increasing pain in just one spot on my episiotomy. Bravely, I took a mirror  and checked it out. I looked mangled. A stitch was busted out. I called the doctor and they told me it probably wasn’t busted out, and it would heal. And even if it was busted out, they can’t re-stitch it. I was pissed. I felt blown off. Just like I felt blown off when I went in on the 16th with a leaky water and was sent home. I know my body dammit, and I know when something isn’t right. The home visit nurse came by for the mom and baby well visit, and took a peek at my cut for me and confirmed what I already knew. The stitch was indeed busted out. And it was not looking good. I called the doctor and insisted that I be seen and she was quite surprised at the severity of it. She had to remove the busted stitch and sort of tighten up the others. She put me on antibiotics to help speed the healing process and get rid of any infection that may be there, although it didn’t look infected yet, phew! She also gave me percocet for pain but I’m not planning on taking much of that due to the fact it causes constipation. And pooping is a bitch as it is. I have to go back Friday to make sure it’s healing. If I’m not on the road to healing, they will have to put me under general anesthesia to fix me. Fucking great. Just what a breastfeeding mom wants to hear. Really hoping to avoid all that mess.

    Other than the fact that I’m in extreme pain, me and baby are doing well. He’s a breastfeeding pro, he’s gaining weight already, not a speck of jaundice, and he very rarely cries. He is so full of personality and makes the greatest facial expressions. He is the light of my life. Even though the labor, delivery, and recovery is the hardest thing I’ve ever endured, I would do it all again for him. I never thought I could love another living thing as much as I love my son. There’s times I look at him and just cry because I’m so overjoyed and bursting with pride and love.

    Oh, and here’s his stats: Born 2/22/11 at 4:10 pm after 22 hours of labor, 7lbs 15oz, 21 & 1/2 inches long and in perfect health.

  2. 
Dear Donovan,
It is the 20th of January and I am  giving you your official eviction notice. You have 30 days to get your  shit together and vacate my uterus. If you have not left the premises by  the 20th of February, I, your landlord, will make record of each  additional day you continue to occupy my uterus and repercussions will  be discussed at a later time.
All my love,
Momma

    Dear Donovan,

    It is the 20th of January and I am giving you your official eviction notice. You have 30 days to get your shit together and vacate my uterus. If you have not left the premises by the 20th of February, I, your landlord, will make record of each additional day you continue to occupy my uterus and repercussions will be discussed at a later time.

    All my love,

    Momma

  3. My week in writing

    It’s been quite an eventful week so let’s recap.

    Sunday:

    Our baby shower was Sunday and it was great. Both of our families made it out as did my girlfriends. Little Donovan got more gifts in that one day than I think I’ve gotten over my whole lifetime. This child is already well loved and cherished by so many and it makes me well up with tears just thinking about how blessed we truly are. Oh, and the food was awesome. I ate until I almost puked. Score.

    Monday:

    We had our tour of L&D and it was pretty standard stuff. It was nice to see where I would actually be having the baby. It is on the third floor though. This could pose a problem. I have a serious elevator issue that I won’t delve into right now. I am confident that I will be able to hike three flights of stairs when I’m in labor. Only problem is that if I go into labor after hours and have to enter the hospital through the ER, they will force me to get into a wheelchair and stuff me in the elevator up to L&D. I think if I threaten their lives perhaps they will let me take the stairs. But I’m hoping I can hold him in until normal operating hours. Listen to me. Hold him in? Like he’s a turd or something. Well, it’s worth a shot. Brian’s scared that if I try to ‘hold him in’ that we’ll end up having him at home. He seems to be getting more comfortable with this idea actually. Bless his pea pickin’ heart, he’s such a trooper.

    Anyway, there were some really stupid questions asked during the tour. Like, can we bring our own pillows? I immediately wanted to say to that woman, “No. You must use the awful hospital pillows. No outside pillows allowed.” What an idiot. There were some good questions asked too. Of course I was the one to ask them but that’s besides the point. I asked how long we have to stay in the hospital for after we have the baby. Or guide seemed a bit confused by this question for some reason. She said it depends on my insurance company. I said, “Ok then I’d like to go home right away because I don’t want to sleep over with yall.” She then told me that I would be required to stay overnight. I replied with, “Like jail. Just what I thought.” She didn’t like that response. What can I say? Hospitals gross me out. It’s a building full of germs.

    One thing that did entertain me about the tour was that our guide answered a few questions with, “It’s going to get messy.” After the second or third time hearing her say that, I really had to fight off the urge to say something to the effect of, “But if you vajazzle your va-jay-jay then then maybe the mess will at least be accompanied with smiles.” Ya know, just to give the tour some pizazz because our group was pretty lame.

    Tuesday:

    I was scheduled to have my weekly doctors appointment. My normal doctor is on vacation so I was going to see a different doctor. I look forward to every appointment because it’s like a small milestone and it means I’m just that much closer to having this baby.

    Anyway, the doctor I was scheduled to see was delivering a baby when I arrived and there were like six people waiting for her so I had to reschedule. No biggie. The receptionist was completely unconcerned as to making sure I got in this week. I told her that evening was best at the location we were currently at (they have three). Nada. So I told whatever time they have is fine. Still nothing. So then I said I would go to one of the other locations if I had to. Nothing. I was getting VERY frazzled at this point because I’m supposed to be seen every week and she didn’t give a damn. Last time I was seen was when I was 32 weeks, and she decides to schedule me for when I’ll be 36 weeks. Nice.

    So I started crying. She looked at me like I was the dumbest person on the planet. Everyone in the waiting room was staring at me. I got all sweaty and dizzy, probably from humiliation, and I ran out of there and lost it in the stairwell (I have that elevator thing, remember?) Sobbing, bawling, big fat tears, drippy snot, and trying to catch my breath type of lost it. Poor Brian was trying not to laugh at me. He could NOT believe that I was such a wreck over a dumb doctors appointment. He kept saying it’s not a big deal and just call in the morning and talk to someone different when I’m calm blah blah. It’s a big deal to me! There was a brief moment where I wanted to push him down the stairs. Those of you that know me, know I’m impulsive. Thank goodness I didn’t act on that impulse because I don’t want to be a single mom. We stood in that stupid stairwell for a good ten minutes while I had my ‘episode’. Leave me alone you pesky hormones. I’m sick of looking like a damn fool.

    End of story is that I did end up calling in the next morning and talking to someone who was much nicer. I got squeezed in that week. Shame on that girl that made me upset though. Doesn’t she know that an 8 month pregnant woman needs to feel the warm fuzzies?

    Wednesday:

    We met the pediatrician I picked out. Nothing too exciting to report. They have a cool fish tank in the waiting room.

    Thursday:

    Had my rescheduled doctors appointment in the morning. It was pretty routine. It was the doctor I was supposed to see two days prior, and I’m glad I got to meet her in case she’s the one on call when I go into labor. I had an ultrasound on my legs a few weeks back. No, my legs aren’t pregnant, they’re freakishly swollen and they had to make sure I didn’t have any clots. I don’t. I’m just a freak. She reviewed the results of my leg scan, as if they hadn’t been reviewed with me four times already, and looked at my legs and ankles and gave ‘em a squeeze. She called me a sweller and suggested a prescription prenatal that may or may not help with my swelling. It’s supposed to help with bloating and constipation and in turn, that could ease the swelling a bit. Wait, back up. Did she say it helps with constipation? Where do I sign? Pregnant pooping should be awarded. I’m not kidding you. There’s times I’ve broken a sweat trying to push out some poops only to turn up with a couple of turds no bigger than a marble. It’s incredibly disappointing. So when someone tells me something will help me make poops, I’m all in. I will update if I see results.

    Friday:

    And that brings us to today. A quiet boring day. I did hide a donut in my pocket today. No, not because I was stealing it. But because I didn’t want any of my co-workers to see me with my third donut. I know what you’re thinking. But you’re pregnant, it’s ok. Well no, no it is not ok. Not when the donuts are the size of your face. It is never ok to eat three donuts that big. So I stuffed the third in my sweatshirt pocket and wolfed it down at my desk behind the privacy of my cubicle walls. Now if I have the runs tonight I’m going to automatically give credit to the new pooping pills the doctor gave me, when in fact, it’ll probably be due to the 3 enormous donuts I had no business eating. Sigh, only 37 days to go…

    Ta ta for now friends.

  4. Boy, n.: A noise with dirt on it

    From the moment I found out I was pregnant, I was convinced I had a little girl growing inside me. Not for any particular reason either. I just couldn’t imagine having a boy. My mom had all girls so I just assumed I would too. Having a boy was never a thought in my mind. Well, at least not in my conscious mind. I had several baby dreams before we found out the sex, and in every single one of them, my baby was a boy. The very first dream I had of him, I can vividly remember seeing him at the age of 4 or 5 months playing with my sister Chelsea in my kitchen. But I brushed these dreams off as nonsense. What did my asleep brain know? Pssssh, nothing. Because I was having a girl. Now don’t get me wrong, it’s not like I didn’t want a boy or anything like that. I really didn’t care. As long as baby was healthy. That’s such a cliche thing to say I know, but it’s true. Since I was convinced it was a girl, so was Brian. We had a name picked out and everything.

    So you can imagine our surprise when we saw a little wiener on the screen at our anatomy ultrasound. I’ll never forget it. We had a student doing our ultrasound, and she wasn’t comfortable telling us the sex since she was still in training. She wanted to wait until the certified tech came in the room to finish the ultrasound and have her tell us. While she was measuring all of baby’s pieces parts, Brian (my darling orthopedist) was peeking around at the screen and asked her, “Is that the femur?” She seemed a bit surprised and said, “Why, yes it is.” Brian’s eyes lit up and he said to me, “I think I know what it is!” I knew he saw a wiener and I was shocked. Sure enough, when the tech came in and took over the ultrasound duties, she confirmed that it was indeed a little boy growing in my guts.

    I was beside myself. And so was Brian. He asked if I was disappointed. Gone from my brain were the images of pigtails and My Little Ponies. Now my imagination was filled with dinosaurs and mohawks. I said to him, “Are you kidding me?! Having a boy is going to be awesome! I never thought about it before, but this is seriously going to rock.” And I meant every word. We had another ultrasound at 28 weeks to check his growth progress, and I asked the tech to make sure he was still a he. I told her, “I’ve gotten to know this little guy and I’ll be devastated if ‘he’ isn’t in there anymore, know what I mean?” He was still in there thank goodness.

    I made a short list of why I’m glad to be having a boy.

    1) Boys like bugs. I like bugs! I can’t wait to dig in the dirt with my little dude.

    2) Boys are tough. They ‘shake it off’ better than girls. Which is a good thing, because not only am I very clumsy, but so is our large dog.

    3) Speaking of shaking it, boys can pee outside. I happen to be extremely jealous of this. I’m going to encourage him to go behind a bush when a bathroom is just too far away.

    4) Boys have cooler toys than girls. No, seriously. My little cousin just got a pair of night vision goggles for Christmas and those things kick ass.

    5) I can teach him to be chivalrous. Think about it ladies, when’s the last time a guy our age stood up out of his chair and told us to have his seat? Or opened the car door for you? My kid’s going to be a lady killer…

    6) No matter how many kids I have after him, they will always have their big brother to look after them. This is a big deal to me. Matter of fact, I hope my next is a boy as well. I’ll take the girl last please.

    I could go on all day with this list but I’ll leave it at that. I really and truly feel like the luckiest girl on the planet to be having a little boy. My very own little boy. My flesh and blood. My son. It’s still hard to wrap my head around sometimes.

  5. Better late than never

    I named this blog ‘I Drank The Water’ because, well, apparently I did. I’m knocked up. I’d been saying that I was going to start a blog since the beginning of this pregnancy. I thought it would be fun to write about my journey into motherhood and beyond. Here I am, 33 weeks 3 days along (out of 40 weeks) and just now getting around to it. Sadly, since I procrastinated for so long, you have missed out on some fantastic pregnant stories. I will try to slip in the good ones from the past from time to time though.

    Being pregnant has been the hardest yet most rewarding thing I’ve ever experienced. I won’t be making this blog all about the miracle of life and the beauty of pregnancy because that’s fucking boring. Wait, can I swear in my blog? I don’t know the rules of the blog world. I only follow one and that’s my sisters and she never swears in hers. I can’t promise that I’ll never get sappy though, because these hormones are no joke. One minute I’m tough as nails and embracing my inner bitch, and the next minute I’m sobbing over the fact that my armpit has been itchy for an unusually long period of time.

    I’d also like to apologize in advance if my writing style seems a bit erratic. It’s following my thought process, and this late in the pregnant game, calling my thought process erratic would be the understatement of the century. My syndrome is commonly known as pregnancy brain. I call it the stupids. I forgot how to spell vagina once. Argued with Brian until I was blue in the face over it. Ok that’s a lie, I argued with him until I got off my fat ass and googled it. Ever google vagina? Do it, you won’t be disappointed. Anyway, I will never live that down. You will be hearing about the stupids a lot in this blog.

    My icebreaker post is drawing to a close. I guess the next time I post will be the next time something interesting, hilarious, eventful, disgusting, or awesome happens. At the rate I’m going, that could very well be this evening. My evening last night ended with a dropped glass of sweet relish that shattered on the kitchen floor since I can no longer feel my hands thanks to this baby. So I cried. And my darling Brian decided to clean the mess up for me using a rubber spatula. When questioned about his choice in cleaning utensils, he simply said, “What am I supposed to use?” I could have thought of several ways to clean that mess that would have been far more effective than a rubber spatula.

    My world is not right, but at least it’s not lame.

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