Labor Day

Picture it:  Lexington, KY.  A cold winter day in 2004.  It was a Tuesday, the13th of January.

I awaken early in the morning with an unfamiliar pain in my ass.  I'd never been pregnant before so I couldn't be certain, but I was pretty sure that this kind feeling was not something that I should be experiencing.

I grab my cell phone and call my OB/GYN's office.  I explain the ass pain and they schedule me for an immediate appointment.  In the office, I'm hooked up to some kind of machine that reads contractions.  I'm told that I'm not in "real" labor.  I'm sent home with a prescription for a sleeping aid and an assurance that it wasn't time yet.

I knew that they were full of shit. I couldn't quite place how I knew it. But I knew that what I what I was feeling was real. No ma'am, there's no way you can fake the feeling of a 10 pound bowling ball forcing it's way out of your anus. Not even Steven Spielberg can do that. I don't give a damn how many awards his imagination has won! But because I was a rookie at this, I didn't argue.  I went home, turned on Maury Povich and fell into a peaceful sleep.

Cut to dinner time.  It's about 8:30 pm and I'm pulling a pan of baked chicken out of the oven.

All hell breaks loose! I am gripped around my center by a pain that I can only describe as what the last seconds of life feel like right before the Good Lord shuts all your bodily functions down. Oh my goodness, I think I would rather be hit square in the face by Kimbo Slice than to deal with this kind of foolishness!

[This is where my story really begins. Please be patient with me as I walk you through this. It's taken many years of therapy for me to even be able to discuss this.]

I had made a promise to my husband months before that I would try to taper the cursing during this time.  So when the first wave hit I screamed "Hallelujah!!" And then the second wave hit and I screamed "Thank you! Thank you JESUS!!" I'm not sure how I ended up on the complete other end of the spectrum from cuss words. I guess the only thing I could remember was the Lord is my refuge and strength.  An ever present help in times of sorrow and need.  And dammit I was feeling mighty low.

Around the third or fourth "help me Jesus", Hubby decided to check on whether the chicken was so delicious that it was giving me the Holy Ghost. No, no sir. No praise dancing here. I'm just in this kitchen trying to stay conscious. I appreciate you giving a damn about the chicken though....

When Hubby finally figures out what's going on he grabs my bag and ushers me out of the door. No delicious chicken for us tonight. Our Lil Man is on the way!

We get to the hospital and head straight for the maternity ward.  I've preregistered so there shouldn't be any issues.  All I have to do is say I'm here and they show me to my delightful birthing suite.  Except, it didn't really work out like that.  These sonsabishes DIDN'T HAVE MY PAPERWORK!! I'm not sure how this happened.  I know I sent it in. This is unacceptable.

I remember my promise to my husband.  I don't want to bring my child into the world in a flurry of f-bomb, b words, and motherf@%^ers. So I concede and head to registration.

So we sit down at the registration desk.  A lady named Taneshia would be helping us out.

Taneshia: Mrs. Tee! I see it's time to have a baby!
Me: *side eye and sneer* Umm hmmm. Looks that way.
Hubby: *squeezes my hand and shakes his head* I've officially been warned not to show my ass.
Taneshia: Great! All we have to do is get you registered.  You'll need to fill out this, this, this, and this!
She places a stack of papers the size of the Encyclopedia Brittanica A-Z set.
Me: Um... but I preregistered. I sent the paperwork in weeks ago.
Teneshia: Oh, no! It appears you're not in the system.  Just fill out this, this, this, and this and we'll go have a baby!
Me: *blank stare*
Hubby: Ummm...is there anyway we can do this later, she's in a lot of pain.
Taneshia: Oh, no. We have to do it now.  Just sign this, this, this, and this! And I'll go make a copy of your driver's license and insurance card.
Me: *tosses cards at her head* *well not really but I wanted to*
Taneshia: Be right back!
Me: *another contraction hits me in the gut* Look Hubby, if this bitch don't move at like lightening speed I'm moving some fucking furniture in here! Ya hear me?
Hubby: *closes eyes* *exhales* OK baby.
Taneshia: *singing* You don't have to be rich, to be my girl...
Me: *turns to Hubby* Is she back there singing? Is..is..is this heffa singing Prince?
Hubby: *shrugs shoulders*
Me: BITCH are you back there singing? All I know is if I have to come over this desk it's gonna be a motherfuckin problem!! You understand me! This ain't Star Search, shut the fuck up, make my copies and GET ME IN MY GATDAMN ROOM!!
Hubby: *hangs head*

I've failed. In an extremely epic manner. I have no regrets.

Taneshia rushes out. An orderly appears out of nowhere and I am ushered to my room.  I immediately ask about my epidural.  I'm informed that it's not time for that yet.  The nurse, who was extremely efficient at putting people out of their misery, gives me a shot of something that makes me feel loose and dreamy. I'm certain it was an antipsychotic.  I have no complaints.

An hour passes.  The nurse violates me by sticking her whole arm in my privacy.  She summons the anesthesiologist.  I am pleased.

The anesthesiologist asks me my height and weight. I lie. I tell him that I weigh more than I really do. He sends Hubby out of the room.  Sets up the epidural drip.  In a few minutes I can't feel anything from my armpits down.  I'm officially a quadraplegic.  I have no complaints.

I fall into a peaceful sleep.  I am awakened by the nurse telling me it's time to push.  She puts her hands down there and asks me if I can feel it.  I can't feel shit lady, I'm numb from my eyeballs down!  But I lie and say I can.  I don't want them taking away my drugs.

And so I start pushing.  I can't feel a thing.  But the nurse is very encouraging, she keeps telling me I was made for this kind of thing.  I'm convinced she's taken a dose of the good shit they've given me.

Lil Man is almost here.  The nurse tries to convince Hubby to come check out the progress.  he refuses.  He's perfectly fine in the position that he's chosen north of all of the action holding my hand and whispering words of encouragement.  But the nurse just won't let it go.  She finally gets him to come check things out.  He immediately regrets it.  I've never seen a black man turn this shade of green.  Even through my drug induced haze I'm smart enough to pray that if he falls he falls forward onto the bed to prevent injury.  No sense in both of us being confined to a hospital bed.  Baby needs at least one able bodied parent.

He's absolutely horrified by what he has seen.  I ask him what it looks like.  He turns to me with the grimmest expression I've ever seen a young man wear and says, "What does it look like?!?! It looks like a gotdamn baby coming out of you pu$$y!!" And then he comes back north and grabs my hand.

About 10 more minutes pass and Lil Man is here.  I'm so high I didn't even realize he was out. Hubby has to tell me that he's across the room being cleaned and weighed.

They bring my precious baby over to us.  He's all bundled up in hospital issued blankets and hats.  He opens his eyes.  They are blue.  I start to cry.

These tears are not of joy.  I'm crying because my child is pale and has clear blue eyes.  He's the ugliest little creature I've ever seen.  There's no way he can be mine!! There's obviously been some kind of mistake.  So I ask the nurses where my real baby is. They just chuckle.  Apparently, they think it's the drugs.  But it's not.  I know this little alien isn't mine. But I don't say anything else.  I have a plan.  I'm going to call my girls, they always have my back.  They are going to help me find my real baby.

So, in a few hours I've called all of my friends to announce the birth.  I also tell them I don't think he's mine.  I'm black.  That kid is a caucasian alien. He has red hair and impossibly large blue eyes.  I'm not well versed in the works of Mendel, but I'm positive that shit is kind of genetically impossible.

And then the tears really start to fall.  I cry because my baby is unattractive.  I cry because my baby is not the same race as me. I cry because nobody will help me find my real baby. But after I hold him, I decide that I like him despite his unfortunate facial situation.  I'll keep him for now, at least until my real baby shows up.

In the meantime I make a pact with God.  I utter what is quite possibly the most shallow prayer a person could ever fix their mouth to say.  I say "God, I know this is probably some kind of punishment for me making fun of white people and ugly people.  I get the message.  I won't do it again.  Just change my baby's face.  If you make him cute, I'll be nice to white folks. I'll have white friends. I'll stop being mean to ugly people even when they make me nervous. I promise God, just give me another chance! I won't let you down!! Amen."

And after a few weeks his cuteness started to show. But I haven't been able to keep my promise.  I still make fun of just about everybody.  I'm really not nice to anybody.  This is why I only have one child.  I know the next one will probably come out looking like some kind of jacked up science experiment.  I can't take those kinds of chances.