Five is a Beautiful Number

Five years ago today, I was sitting in the NICU with my gargantuan 7 lb. 2 ounce baby boy, trying to figure out how to nurse in nothing but a pair of fishnet granny pants and a pair of fuzzy socks. 

How’s that for a picture of lovely?

The night before, with a month left of pregnancy, my mom tucked away on the couch and Brad tucked in bed, I started timing the rhythmic pulsing taking place in my abdomen. Earlier that day I’d lost my mucous plug – one of those delightful terms that conjures up images of unwanted phlegm – which apparently meant nothing, as I could very well be pregnant for six more weeks. I was the only one awake, and it was 11:30 at night, and all I kept hearing was the voice of my doctor saying, “Women don’t always feel their contractions with breech babies. Make sure you come in as soon as you’re laboring. A cord around the neck will leave you with seconds to spare and there’s nothing we can do if your stuck in a car somewhere.”

After pacing the dark kitchen, the glow of the microwave clock as my guide, I determined that the butterfly kisses flitting about my pelvis were in fact timing out every 5 minutes. 

I woke up my family. “I’m sure it’s nothing,” I said sheepishly, “but I’d feel a lot better if we just went to the hospital and let them turn me away.”

We got to the packed hospital and found out that, low and behold, I was in labor. Even I could see the irony in the fact that I was laughing and joking with the nurses while contracting every five minutes. I kept my jokes to a minimum in reverence to the woman lying next to me doing everything in her power not to climb out of her skin. 

I more than made up for pain the second time around.

When the doctor finally checked in with me at four o’clock in the morning, he looked me in the eye and said, “I’m going to see if your water’s broken. If it hasn’t, I’m giving you drugs to slow down these contractions and sending you home.”

“O.K.” I replied, “but I feel awfully wet.”

Brad was just about knocked off his seat when the Doc told the nurse to prep for a C-section.

“I thought they were going to send you home,” he said dazed and confused. “I don’t even have the camera.”

My mom, who had just been diagnosed with stage four breast cancer appealed to the anesthesiologist to let her stay. Her wish was granted, much to the surprise of the staff who said they’d only witnessed one other occasion in which she’d let more than one family member attend.

At 5:43 a.m. with my mother to the left of me, my husband to the right, Tizzy was lifted skyward, little round blueberry that he was, and passed for me to see. I recognized him instantly as I saw the perfectly round hurricane centered in his shock of black hair.

For several hours, every time he was handed to me for a feeding, I’d repel the nurse with a rash of projectile vomiting. This is how I found myself in the NICU, shocking the male nurse with my lewd attire, but come on, I couldn’t have been the first one to have labored early without so much as a bag.

This morning I woke up to Tizzy in my bed snuggling close for a cuddle.

“Happy Birthday Tizzy!” I declared.

“Happy Birthday to you too.” He said with a smile.

“No sweetie,” I laughed. “It’s your birthday. You’re five!”

“It’s my birthday? I’m five?”

“YES. You’re five.”

He hopped out of bed and went into the office where Brad was.

“Today is my birthday, Dad. Today, I am Five.”

                                               Then:

                                                And Now: