Welcome back

We're going to try to get this thing off the ground again.  We've got a new baby, so the pressure is on from all parts of the country to provide constant updates, pictures, and clever stories.  So here goes again, attempt #2.  Or is it #3?

Hank Russell Davis was born on January 16th of this year.  Emily went into labor at around 12:30 AM, and the boy was delivered at 10:50 AM.  Five pounds, fifteen ounces.  Here's the story.  Rated PG-13.

We were in bed watching Saturday Night Live.  After the weekend update, Emily started complaining of cramps, which she described as "menstrual-style".  She had had her share of odd feelings - Hank was quite a kicker in the womb, and loved to jab her in the right side of her ribs.  But something about this cramp was a bit different.  Earlier that day, she had an unusually strong urge to "nest".  This urge involved cleaning the kitchen floor on her hands and knees.  So maybe in the back of our heads, both of us knew that this development might be significant.  We joked a bit about how it might be the onset of labor, and I even suggested leaving immediately for the hospital.

At that point a commercial came on, and I got up to go to the restroom.  On my way back, Emily exclaimed, "Uh-oh", and told me that she thought her water had broken.  As she sat there in bed wondering, I gently encouraged her to get off the expensive mattress and continue her investigation in the bathroom.  She did so, and decided that her water had most likely broken.  By this time, I was very excited (not panicky, as some people might claim).  So we both showered, packed, put the car-seat into the Jeep, and left for the hospital.

Upon arrival, we walked straight to the registration desk where a young man sat working.  We told him that we were going into labor, that the water had broken, and that the contractions were two minutes apart.  The polite young man instructed us to go into the waiting room; he'd be with us in a minute.  Five contractions later, Emily started to get a bit impatient.  We went back to the desk, a young girl was working there.  It turns out, the polite young man was only covering for her lunch, and had apparently failed to inform her that we were waiting.  I was trying not to be the guy who barges into the hospital as though they've never handled a pregnancy this important before, but in hindsight, I probably should have.  Fortunately, Emily's contractions had freed her from any such compunction.  We explained our situation with a bit more fervor to the young woman, and were promptly taken to a room.

We got settled in at around 1:30 AM.  Emily was in her gown, the nurse was setting up shop, and I was hungry.  So I went down to the snack shop to grab a coffee, Gatorade, water, a couple of sandwiches, and some chips.  I figured I'd be the supportive husband and not let her go into this pregnancy on an empty stomach.   Apparently I had forgotten my extensive pregnancy training, wherein I learned that pregnant women in labor aren't allowed to have food.  So, after being told to "get that sandwich out of my face", I excused myself to the bathroom to finish my chicken salad.  Once that little unpleasantry was over, we got down to the business of breathing through contractions.

Emily endured around three hours of contractions until the drug doctor (not even going to attempt anasthe-whatever spelling) got there and doped her up.  Until this point, she was by no means rude.  But after she got the epidural, she was as sweet as a dove.  Around six thirty, the nurse checked her again and determined that she was "complete".  Fully dilated, set to pop.  The nurse mid-wife was not there yet, so after a quick phone call to her it was decided to let the baby "labor down" a bit before we started pushing.  Emily's OB had given us her cell number several months ago, but being a fellow medical professional who appreciates a free weekend, Emily decided not to call her.  The nurse midwife would have to do.

And boy did she.  The nurse midwife arrived at around nine or so, and she was impressive.  A seasoned veteran, she had probably seen it all and delivered babies of all size and shape.  We were in good hands.  At nine thirty, we started pushing.  At ten fifty, he was delivered.

If you happened to notice a distint lack of drama in the story I just unfolded, it's because there was none.  God gave us just about the easiest birthing experience we could ask for.  Not to take anything away from the physical strain Emily went through.  But overall, it was a bit surreal - I kept waiting for the Bill Cosby stories to happen, but they never did.  I'm going to chalk it up to three parts divine intervention, one part spinal drugs, and two parts strong wife.  I think that's everybody.

We were in the hospital until Tuesday afternoon - our room had a full-size Tempur-Pedic bed (being the TP snobs that we are, we had the nerve to be disappointed that it was only a Classic - just a $2000 mattress, and only adjusted as a whole, not independently).  We are so spoiled in the mattress department.  During this time, we had thousands of visitors.  Friends, family, and medical personnel paraded in constantly.  I discovered that I could tell the difference between hospital workers and family by the fact that visitors knocked and waited - nurses and doctors knocked and came straight in.  Needless to say, I slept in pajamas.  Emily had lost all modesty at this point, so she was quite comfortable.

We came home Tuesday evening, and I had the rest of the week off.  We took care of insurance, land lines, miscellaneous baby gear, and whatever else we had failed to do before our baby arrived two weeks early.

Right now, my mother (who has been here since the birth and may never be allowed to leave) is on the couch holding my sleeping son.  I'm getting jealous, so I'm going to wrap this up, put on my pajamas, and hold my son.  Later.