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You Can't Always Get What You Want -- But If You Try Sometimes Well You Just Might Find, You Get a C-Section

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I do not like to admit I'm wrong very often (and coincidentally, I'm not, so it all works out in the end *snarksmile*). But here I am on October 20, 2013, officially admitting I am wrong. Ten days ago, our SON kicked his way into this world and showed me that loving two children was not a challenge, but a gift.

#Pieceofcake

Evan was breech. Throughout both of my pregnancies, I was as anti-C-section as one could get. In fact, when my doctor discussed the probability of a C-section and then asked if I had a birth plan, I responded, "Yes, all it says is I do not want a C-section."

So, I began my quest to avoid one at all costs. I laid upside down on an ironing board, stayed in "butt-up" yoga poses for extended periods of time, floated in the pool (my favorite), did somersaults in the water, lit a Moxibustion stick on my pinky toes and danced around in jerky motions (à la Elaine Benis). Need I go on? You get it, I was dedicated.

On 10/10/13 (yay! I'm a numbers dork) I got up at 6 a.m. to use the bathroom, laid back down, felt a tremendous kick, followed by my water breaking all over my bed (oddly enough, I put a waterproof pad under my sheet the night before). Fifty-six minutes later, I had a C-section.

"It's a boy"!

Whoa. That was fast.

It turned out Evan was breech because the umbilical cord was wrapped around his neck.

Twice.

I found out later if he did flip he would have choked. I will not even get into the post-traumatic stress I have been feeling about desperately trying to turn him and now thinking every time I did he was like "Um, Mom... cough... please stop." So, g-d bless the little miracles (shiver).

He weighed in at seven pounds, ten ounces (big for me -- my daughter was six pounds, seven ounces). "Good thing we did a C-section," said my rock star doctor who was singing "Daydream Believer" by The Monkees as he operated. He later pointed out we called him at 6:10 a.m. and Evan was born at 7:06 a.m. -- a pretty good turnaround time.

So in the end, none of my fear of a C-section had time to come out, since it was under an hour from soup to nuts. Plus, once my water broke, I understood that meant "go" time. The eye-of-the-storm calm came; we hopped in a cab with Rebecca and went down to the hospital.

Yes, we brought her -- I couldn't resist.

She was so excited and I knew the baby was coming soon. I wanted my little best friend to join me for one last special adventure. Plus, it was pretty cool to wake her up by saying "you are about to become a big sister, get dressed, let's go." Followed -- of course -- by, "Fine, you don't want to wear this, then for the *love of g-d* just put on ANYTHING"!

Thanks to a good friend's babysitting services in the hospital hallway, Ross snuck into the operating room just in time to hear "it's a boy!" Even the anesthesiologist shared in our glee -- posing us for the perfect post-C pictures. This was clearly not his first rodeo.

The moment I saw my son's little face -- which looks like mine (!) -- I was in love. My husband had a son and my daughter had a brother. Our little family was complete. We moved into the recovery room. Evan was on my chest, Rebecca was "petting" him while cuddled up next to me. My heart swelled. I just smiled and had an overwhelming sense of adoration and gratitude. Our parents joined us. We introduced them to their new grandson.

Over the next few days, all the baby stuff came back to me with a snap of the fingers. And you know what? I'm good at it. I'm going to give myself the credit this time instead of take it away like last time for every minor mishap. Nursing, you old friend, welcome back. Burping, c'mon, I remember, it's all in the oomph. Diapering -- well, we'll let my husband handle that for now. I'm still "recovering."

My little hospication was fantastic, I got to relax while people brought me drinks, I rested and I came home with good souvenirs. For those repeat moms I'm winking at you -- you know just how nice that hospication was, right?

Evan is just a sweet little lump of smiles. Don't tell me it's gas! We spend the majority of our time kangaroo-cuddling it up, nursing and sleeping. What could be more perfect? He squeaks like a little bird and there is talk he has dimples. He is warm and nice and sweet and squishy. I love him.

Rebecca -- as expected -- has been the height of the best big sister. She was the "first" to hold him and the first to give him a bottle. She keeps smiling at him and telling him how much she loves him. She went to my mom's for a sleepover and said a special goodbye to Evan telling him not to worry, she'll only be away for the night and will come back Sunday to take care of him.

I'm kvelling.

She is also an expert "shush-er" and I'm starting to suspect she secretly watched "The Happiest Baby on the Block" one day when I put on Sesame Street & took a shower. I have no idea where she would have learned this otherwise.

So, hooray once more for biology, for things happening for a reason and the innate, immediate love of one's offspring. My fears seem calm for now while my happiness and contentment are shining through. My "only-childness" doesn't seem to be hindering the double love flow at this point.

Two kids, check. Now all we need is a dog. For now I'll settle for a hot dog. Mmm... post-pregnancy nitrates. Oh! Wine has nitrates! Mmmm wine... But I digress.