Sometimes I write letters to Ellen DeGeneres. No particular reason. Just because I can.
Four years ago today, it was a Friday the 13th – I know it was a long time ago, but trust me on this. I was in the hospital, trying to be induced because, despite the numerous eviction notices I sent my son, he refused to vacate my uterus.
After spending all night at the hospital, waiting for the pitocin to kick in, the OB came ordered another ultrasound to see what my baby boy was doing. As fate would have it, the little stinker was just hell-bent on staying inside of me to the extent that he changed his position and was now laying across my pelvis instead of head down.
So the doctor said it was time for us to have a little chat that went something like this:
Doctor: Here’s the thing. We can wait and see if he’ll change his position again. But I have to tell you that in my 12 years of experience, that’s never happened at this stage. And, if we wait, odds are high that we will have to perform an emergency C-section which means you (pointing to my husband) won’t be able to come into the delivery room. Then there’s option B – we schedule a C-section for this morning which means you (again, pointing to my husband) will be allowed in the emergency room and any risks to your wife and son will be reduced.
My husband and I looked at each other for a moment.
Husband: What do you think?
Me: I’m 41 weeks pregnant. I think I’m done.
Husband: We’ll take option B.
Doctor: Good choice.
Two hours later, my husband and I were introduced to our beautiful baby boy:
He was born on Friday the 13th and we’ve been the luckiest parents.
Happy 4th birthday, Baby Boy!