Thursday, February 10, 2011


Nine years ago at this very moment I was whacked out of my skull on demerol.  Not just for kicks, mind you, but because I was birthing a baby. It took 17 hours before my 8 lbs, 13 ounces baby made his debut. 7 lbs of that was head, by the way.

I was five hours into labour (or maybe it was 45 minutes, or 3 seconds -- I don't know. I was on DRUGS!) when I had an epidural. "The nurses think you might need one," said my kind, but far too polite doctor. I agreed, because I could tell that my screaming/mooing whilst vomiting routine had long since lost it's appeal for the nursing staff.

The anesthesiologist arrived, and I was handed a clip board with a consent form. I picked up the pen and looked at the paper for almost a minute.

"Honey, you need to sign right there," Mr Wrath, assuming I had fallen into a drug-induced, moo-filled coma, pointed to the bottom of the page.

I snarled at his patronizing tone, "I know. It's a legal document, I'm not going to sign it without reading it first."

My doctor said, "Don't bother. You're under the influence of narcotics so the damn thing wouldn't hold up in a court of law."

"Bring it on!" I put pen to paper, while the anesthesiologist went white at the prospect of a future malpractice suit. 

My husband's favourite story of this day is how the baby (born with the umbilical cord wrapped around his neck) was immediately shuffled across the birthing suit to the french-fry warmer (I'm pretty sure this isn't the real name for this piece of equipment) and an oxygen mask was placed over his mouth. It took the doctor a few seconds to realize the oxygen tank wasn't opened and then with a flick of the switch our baby went from blue to pink, from quiet to screaming. I remember none of this because I had zoned out. The demerol had long since worn off, replaced by sheer exhaustion.

Fast forward 9 years. Turns out that big head was filled with big brains. He's a verbose, science-loving, Trekkie-in-training, imaginative, highly-competitive, speedskating, padawan learner. He's celebrating with Ben-10 toys, and lego and a Guinness-chocolate cake that his daddy made:


  1. Happy birthday, 9-year-old! YAY! I hope it's a wonderful day for everyone.

    What a beautiful cake his dad made. The color is awesome.

    Sometimes I look at other kids & their likes (Hannah Montana) & wonder how in the hell their parents can stand to be around them. Then I look at mine & wonder if I've pushed my likes onto them or if they really just have good taste & thank my lucky stars.

    Either way, woo to having kids we enjoy being around!

    (PS You're half way to 18 with that one!)

  2. Great story! And a lovely cake. Tell your big-brained boy happy birthday from a random internet friend!!

  3. Happy birthday! That is one fine looking cake. Awesome story by the way, I love birth stories (reading birth stories, not watching birth story-related reality television).

    Ben 10 is very popular around here as well. Aliens for the win!

  4. Happy Birthday!! Best wishes for an awesome birthday and I bet that cake was yummy.

  5. I love that cake. I love drugs too. There's so much in this post that speaks to me!

    Happy day of birth to both of you.

  6. Is it wrong that I read and enjoyed your post, but got really giddy and drooly when I spotted the picture of the cake?
    Drugs are a good thing though. Maybe even better than cake...ooooh, drugs and cake! Now we're talking!