"A Friday the 13th baby? Oh, no!"
I couldn't have disagreed more. Friday the 13th had always been a lucky day for me. My mother and I were both born on the 13th and so it seemed only natural to have Grace follow suit. Of course at that time, Grace wasn't Grace, she was just that baby, who would hopefully be making her arrival very soon. I was huge. Like gained 60+ lbs. huge. I was hot, huge, and covered in what I now fondly refer to as 'the rash from hell'. I was beyond ready to get this kid out. We didn't have her name picked at this time or our car seat installed, but I wasn't concerned with such trivial things. At this time, I was taking between 5 and 20 showers a day, slathering myself with Grandpa's Pine Tar Soap and trying to keep myself from itching my skin off. This rash was known as PUPPPS rash. Sounds harmless right? Well this pregnancy related rash was the worst experience of my life. Without a known treatment, your choices are to suck it up, take steroids to help ease the rash for like two days before it comes rocketing back into your life, or use homeopathic remedies to reduce symptoms. The ultimate cure comes only after delivery, when the rash subsides on its own. I can't even tell you how ready I was to get this kid out.
The homeopathic remedies included baking soda and oatmeal baths, pine tar soap, and about a 1000 other things that didn't work. By 10 o'clock each night, my skin was pruned from my 5 daily oatmeal baths and I smelled vaguely of campfire from my pine tar showers.
August 13th came and went. I was pisssssssed. We were mostly ready. Grace had clothes, bottles, formula, and a comfy swing awaiting her. A week later, the beginning of the end began. Contractions. Ah, yes. You're never quite sure what to expect when you read of these delightful little things but how bad could it be? For the first few hours, I was psyched! The ball had finally begun moving and this kid was on her way out. I excitedly called my doctor, hoping she would tell me to make my way to the hospital to get this show on the road. Her response was less than what I'd hoped for.
"Wait until you can't breathe, talk, or walk through your contractions - then head right over!"
This wasn't promising. How could she sound so chipper while telling me to wait until I was immobile and miserable? I contracted through the night and into the next day. Two days later, after going to the hospital twice and being sent home, I'd accepted that I may in fact be pregnant for the rest of my life.
Third time was a charm. With contractions ever 4 minutes and a scheduled induction the following day, I was not leaving this hospital without a baby. When they finally told me I'd be admitted, I felt like I'd won the lottery. The hardest part was over.
So. I. Thought.