There is a longer version to this story. The version which involves my depressed self barely getting out of bed the weeks before he was born. And, a sad pregnant lady desperately changing practices at 38 weeks in hopes that delivery at a new hospital with a new practice will prevent the trauma of remembrance that walking into a hospital to deliver a baby will surely bring. (It didn't.) There was a long labor after being induced in this story. With a stupid epidural that didn't freaking work while doctors kept telling me that I should feel pressure. And, the crazy, depressed pregnant lady yelling back that she had birthed three babies with an epidural and the pain was NOTHING like this. A story where I ended up delivering the baby without the aid of any drugs and it was as awful as everyone says it was. But, in the end, I had a living baby. A real live baby that I could take home with me. That I could hear cry. That I could look and see the blue irises of his eyes. That I could curse at 5 am for getting up every. single. hour. That I could see his big brother and sister kiss and hug and love and love and love.
