Our birth plan consisted of two items:

1. Don’t get stuck in traffic and become a Daily News headline: “Baby Boy Born on Brooklyn Bridge.”

2. Take advantage of the miracles of modern medicine in the form of painkillers and machines with comforting whirrs and beeps that let us know the baby is safe.

My husband, Wayne, and I marked the end of week 39 by deciding to stop procrastinating and get going on some projects. Off went Wayne to buy stain for a cabinet we’d had sitting around for six or seven weeks. Me? I needed to rearrange all the closets. Oh, and pack for the hospital. But first, a pit stop.
My water broke while I was on the toilet.

After I’d soaked two of the three pairs of maternity pants that still fit me, I decided the toilet wasn’t such a bad place to be. So, ensconced on the commode, I called my doctor and bellowed packing instructions to Wayne.

I walked into labor and delivery audibly squishing in my shoes, while the amniotic fluid continued to run down my legs. Meanwhile, my contractions had gone from zero to every three minutes in about an hour. But at least Wayne found parking—unmetered parking!—right around the corner, thus ending my nightmare of having to text him the baby’s length and weight as he circled the neighborhood looking for a space.

The contractions continued to intensify. I couldn’t have the epidural yet because I wasn’t really dilating. Luckily, that didn’t stop them from offering me a grape Popsicle! As the contractions got stronger and closer together, I calmly explained to Wayne that they felt like charley horses to the magnitude of about 1,000 and that if he was under the impression that breathing would help, he was very much mistaken. If, as he claims, what I actually said was “&%#@ the breathing, this hurts,” I can only say that it must have been the Popsicle talking.

Finally, I was given Demerol, after which I remember exactly two things:

1. Telling Wayne that “drugs are great.”

2. Six hours later, when labor had stalled, signing the consent form for the C-section.

We arrived in the operating room to the tune of “Carry On My Wayward Son,” which my doctor identified as being by Styx. Wayne quickly corrected him: Kansas, not Styx. Could Wayne identify the album, he asked? Of course: Leftoverture. All of which had me thinking:

1. Oh my God, I’m letting a man who doesn’t know Styx from Kansas cut me open and…

2. Oh my God, I’m married to a man who knows the name of a Kansas album from the 1970s…

3. Hmmm. Leftoverture is kind of a clever title and…

4. Why don’t they stop talking and get on with it?
And then the doctor told Wayne to look over the curtain and George Monte entered our world.

Melissa lives with her husband and son in Brooklyn, NY.

Elliott at 4 months

By Claire Smith


I planned a lot when I was expecting. So did my husband. We subscribed to all the magazines and read every possible published word on pregnancy. I knew the inner workings of each aspect of human gestation. We organized and charted and worked on getting our house ready for a baby; things went smoothly.

For all my planning, I had a relatively benign pregnancy—aside from carpal tunnel syndrome pain that kept me up nights—and I was convinced I would go to 40 weeks and beyond. When we had our ultrasound, it appeared that little Elliot (we’d already picked out a name) was snugly tucked into my right pelvis, using the placenta as a pillow. Yep, he would emerge only when good and ready, which meant I had a lot more time to gear up.

As the due date loomed closer, things were still pretty easy for me, even as my stomach became a gigantic balloon of baby that made me swoon in the Florida heat. The new school year began and my job in college administration became extremely busy. Elliot was slated to arrive on September 17, three weeks after the first day of school. It was imperative that I hang in until at least the second week, when things would calm down.
I joke now that my son must have been listening to my thoughts, but instead of hearing “second week,” he heard “second day.”

On Tuesday of that first week of school, I began to feel some cramps. I had just reached 37 weeks and figured I might be having some minor Braxton-Hicks contractions; the baby had definitely dropped lower into my pelvis, squeezing my bladder into a tiny marble with about the same liquid capacity.
Around 8 p.m., I became a statistic—one of the 15 percent of mothers whose water breaks spontaneously—and I was absolutely certain I was in labor. I was also completely unnerved.

Scrambling for something to protect my clothing and, soon thereafter, my cell phone, I suddenly remembered a brief exchange with my husband right before he left for flag-football practice that night. “I’m not going to take my phone,” he said, while grabbing his cleats. “Yeah, I doubt you’ll need it,” I replied.Thankfully, I tracked him down via our friends, and he was able to rush home. We headed to the hospital, where they checked me and said I was just 1 centimeter dilated.

Thirteen hours of labor later, Elliot Michael finally entered our world, healthy and happy. As I called the office from recovery to apologize, my co-workers reminded me that nothing to do with pregnancy can be planned, no matter how many books you read or websites you consult. I had been so worried about leaving work that I wasn’t appreciating my newborn son. But once the nurse passed his swaddled little body in the blue-and-pink-striped cap to me, I forgot about all my plans.


Claire Smith lives in Tallahassee, FL, with her family.

Audrey, 8 days old

By Jennifer Colvin

As marathon runners and triathletes, my husband, Bob, and I felt prepared walking into our first birth class. We figured birth was just another endurance event and, of course, we’d seen the movie Knocked Up!

But as we began to watch the first birth video, Bob’s face paled in the flickering light of the television. I started to sweat. If we were going to get through this, we needed a coach.
When the lights came up, we approached Rachel, our instructor. As both a doula and a marathon runner, we thought she’d be ­perfect for us. Bob and I promoted our qualifications like job applicants. We knew how to work as a team. Plus, we lived close by. That sealed the deal, and Rachel was hired as our labor instructor.

During the final months of my pregnancy, ongoing round-ligament pain made waddling down the hall to the bathroom every 20 minutes a slow and painful process, which turned out to be a harbinger of things to come. I was nervous and excited when I went into labor, just like at the start of a race, but after 18 hours, the contractions began to grip my lower back in painful spasms.

When Rachel called Bob for an update, I moaned, “I’m fine.” Wisely, they both ignored me and soon Rachel was on her way. I distracted myself by keeping a log of times. Bob distracted himself by making his first casserole. When Rachel arrived, we both nearly wept with relief, and at midnight we left for the hospital.

Bob and I had both completed Ironman Triathlons in 12 hours. But somehow, after 28 hours of labor, I was going nowhere fast. In the hopes of speeding things up, the doctor administered Pitocin. Four hours later, nothing had changed. When the midwife broke my water, we were even more discouraged: The baby was backwards.

Rachel showed me different positions to try in order to turn the baby around. It seemed impossible. I didn’t want to give in and take pain medication, but I desperately needed a break and decided to get a shot of Fentanyl. After the drugs had worn off, Rachel looked me in the eyes and made me confront what I had been avoiding: “You’ve got to get this baby out.”

Rachel coached me through the next contraction. I imagined running up a hill in The San Francisco Marathon—the first race Bob and I had done together—and, muscles burning, the baby turned to the correct position. I looked at Bob and made up my mind. I was fully dilated and it was time to have this baby.

No one had told me that pushing was such hard work. The midwife cheered, “You can do it!” with unflagging enthusiasm. I looked at Bob and saw his eyes fill with awe and tears. After nearly 43 hours, we finally reached the finish line. Our trophy was Audrey, a beautiful baby girl.


Jennifer Colvin lives with her family in Burlingame, CA.