Six years ago. A Sunday. New Year’s Eve 2006. Originally, we had planned to go out for dinner with high school friends, but I’d canceled. Though I still three weeks from my due date at the time, something in me had shifted and I wanted to stay home, lay low. Two days before, I’d been to prenatal yoga and had this odd feeling that it would be my last class. Turns out it was.
We’d invited my family over for a mellow evening. In the afternoon, Husband and I braved the Fairway crowds to pick up appetizers and ingredients for the steak dinner we planned to cook. I wore my brown cashmere maternity sweater and people kept bumping into my vast belly. Normally, this would have caused me to crack a medley of self-deprecating jokes about my size, but I felt different, fiesty. I said something to my man as we waited in a long line to pay for our things: Watch. This is going to send me into labor.
At home, I put out bowls of nuts. Lit votive candles. Before my parents and sisters arrived, I went to the bathroom. Wiped. Saw signs. I told Husband about this and then phoned my O.B. The doctor on-call told me to head to the hospital to get checked. Is this it? I asked. She said she didn’t know, but it could be.
At the hospital, in triage, they hooked me up to monitors. They ran two tests to see if I’d broken my water. The first came back positive. The second came back negative. A nurse asked me how I felt. I told her I was okay. She looked confused, asked if I could feel them. Them? I asked. The contractions, she informed me. She pointed at the monitor, said I was contracting every two minutes. On the black screen, I saw them. The peaks and valleys of electric green. I decided I could feel them, but barely.
A few hours later, they sent us home. My labor hadn’t progressed and they said it could still be some time. Days even. Better to wait it out at home, someone said. They unhooked me, and I changed out of my gown. As we left, I felt a tinge of disappointment.
By the time we arrived home, it was almost eleven. We turned on the television and saw Times Square, that glittering ball hovering in the black city sky. Husband cooked up some steak and fries. I sat there on the couch, clutching my belly, feeling what would be among her last punches and kicks, and also waves of dull pain. At midnight, that big ball did its thing, dropping, and a new year came. 2007. We kissed. And went to bed.
But I didn’t sleep. No. I stared at the digital clock on the dresser, its big numbers glowing green. Time trotted on, ticked by. It didn’t occur to me to memorize those moments, those moments before. At around 2am, the contractions revved up, grew discrete and sharper. I began to count the minutes between them. Husband slept beside me. And I knew.
In the morning, I felt dizzy with exhaustion and excitement and fear. I showered, went through my overnight bag one last time. I even put on makeup. Before we left, I walked into the yellow nursery, studied the perfect drapes trimmed in little white pom-poms, the yellow rocker with white shamrocks, the waiting white crib. I called the doctor to tell her it was time.
The delivery room was small. I wasn’t in a ton of pain, but opted for the epidural around seven centimeters. It never fully kicked in. My doctor arrived at some point in a smiley whirly blur, said a quick hello and changed into her scrubs. She had returned from the Galapagos Islands only hours before. Husband wore a camouflage thermal henley, twirled on a chair and ate a Snickers bar. He wore this goofy (and in retrospect wonderful) I’m-about-to-be-a-daddy grin on his face and I could smell the chocolate and nuts and for a split second, I wanted to punch him. But I didn’t.
Instead I had a baby. Our baby. It all happened so fast. Maybe twenty minutes of pushing? And soon she was here. In the world, in my arms. There was a flurry of activity, a little knit hat put on, a blanket to wrap her, goop on her eyes. But it was all so casual, so quiet, so not what I expected. She was big for being two and a half weeks early. 7lb 11oz. She was healthy, pink.
We made some calls and it wasn’t long before I was alone with her. The doctors had moved on. Husband had raced to the lobby to deliver our cord blood kit and to book a private room. It was just the two of us. This little girl and me. And I felt a moment of panic and I looked around that small room. But then I looked down at her, this beautiful round-faced babe, at her squinty, shiny eyes, her tiny nose, her little bow lips. And I fumbled under my gown and I began to nurse her. She latched. The rest of this time is a bit of a blur, but I remember Dad barging in. He was goofy and Dad-like and gave me a kiss on the forehead and took a peek at my girl. It didn’t occur to me to memorize this moment, this moment of Dad meeting my baby. I didn’t know of course that this would be the only time, that the next hospital room would be his.
We brought her home on January 3rd. She wore the little ivory Bonpoint outfit Mom got her and I put her in the puffy white bunting I got as a shower gift even though it was seventy degrees out. We hailed a yellow taxi just like it was any other day. And we went home. And when we got there, we carried her up the brownstone stairs to our apartment and I remember sitting on my couch, that same couch where I watched the ball drop, and at some point, I looked at Mom and began to sob. I am not sure I can do this, I said. And she hugged me and told me to lie down for a bit, to get some rest. And I did.
And when I woke up, I felt a bit better, stronger. And I realized something: Something utterly profound.
I was a mother.
*
Six years. Amazing. Totally unfathomable. Tomorrow is my girl’s sixth birthday and we will of course celebrate in silly Rowley style. The girls are still on holiday break from school so I plan to spend another week away from here, with them, in this exhausting and exquisite mayhem we have created. But I had an overwhelming urge to come here, to write this little, or not-so-little, something about that magical and mythical night six years ago, that night before motherhood, before all of this. I will be back next week with a birthday letter for my sweet girl and with my highly-specific hopes for 2013.
Do you remember the night before you became a parent? Do any details stick out? Did it occur to you then, in those moments before, how profoundly your life and identity would change? Would you be willing to share bits of your Night Before Parenthood story here?
Absolutely beautiful. Thank you for sharing, Aidan!
I was overdue and I attended (what would be) my last antenatal appointment and was told that if my baby did not arrived by the next Tuesday I was to come into the ward. That was as far as they would let go. I drove home and told my mum, ‘I will going on Tuesday’, with her trying to reassure me, but somethings’ you just know!
Tuesday arrived and in I went, so my last night was spent with other expectant mothers all hoping to hold our babies very soon. I had visits from family and friends and was very upset that my sister had gone to Miami on holiday just recently and I had told her that when she goes away I would have my baby (even to this day I still remind her). Truth be told I needed my big sister more than I had ever needed her, she’s my rock!
Wednesday night at 22:06 hours my son was born 8lbs 3ozs and life has been totally different ever since. He is 23 and you never forget!
This is lovely. Yes, I remember the night before immensely vividly; I wrote about it in October, because it’s extraordinary that it’s been TEN years since that night full of anticipation and fear, pain and wonder, when I walked that line for the last time, crossed over the irrevocable border into the land of motherhood. xoxo
Oh, just beautiful. I’m in the last 3 weeks of my 3rd (and, as planned, final) pregnancy. The “last-ness” of it and the hormones make me weep at things like this. I also have the rather unusual story of being scheduled for my third c-section. Even the first was pre-scheduled for medical reasons, so I’ve never actually been in labor, and both times so far I have spent that last night before delivery knowing what was to come the following day. No guesswork. I keep secretly hoping that I’ll go into labor before my scheduled date this time, just to see what it’s like.
Thanks for sharing.
Happy New Year, and happy birthday to your big girl. 
So beautiful, Aidan. I love birth stories, and this one is fantastic.
I became a mama nearly seven months ago, and I’ll never forget seeing my husband, bare-chested, holding our little baby son skin-to-skin as I was wheeled into our room after my c-section. The most precious, and vivid, memory of the day.
Oh tears, I definitely recall fear and that same “I’m not sure I can do this moment”. Night before, yes I cried to Marc that I was uncomfortable (though 3 weeks early too). Water broke early morning (we weren’t sure) and Marc told me “go to work and if gets started I’ll come get you” OB said come in right away. Like you, wasn’t what I expected, no drama, not long and drawn out. My dad was so healthy and vibrant then too.
You have to get your daughter the collection of Winnie the Pooh poems called “Now We Are Six.” My mother got this for my daughter (who is now 17) and I still have the book and look through it. I hope she can give it to her kids one day.
Now We Are Six by A.A. Milne
When I was One,
I had just begun.
When I was Two,
I was nearly new.
When I was Three
I was hardly me.
When I was Four,
I was not much more.
When I was Five,
I was just alive.
But now I am Six,
I’m as clever as clever,
So I think I’ll be six now for ever and ever.
The thing I love about birth stories is that no two are the same and all are very dramatic. You’re bringing LIFE into the world — the only other thing as dramatic is death and birth is so much more joyous.
My story is that I was in essentially very slow labor for two months leading up to my due date. Over those 8 weeks, my OB kept telling me to be ready for an early delivery as I had contractions and slowly dilated — from 1 cm to 2cm to 4cm. Yup, I was just walking around for a week at 4cm dilated. A week before my due date, I told my parents to fly to LA from NYC. And still nothing happened.
Finally, three days before my due date, I slapped on my cutest shoes, put on make up, did my hair, plopped the overnight bag in my car, and went to the OB to have her check me. I mean, by now I had to be ready, right? And I was. Almost 6 cm dilated. She did a minor procedure and told me to walk around the mall next to Cedars Sinai Hospital for two hours and then come back. But I’d worn heels. I smile as I write this because I’m currently wearing the cheap Ugg-knock-off slippers I next bought at Ross. The ones I walked around in for two hours. Stopping to grab my husband’s shoulder and breathe through a contraction as I continued on past The Gap and Bebe and Anne Taylor. I must have been a freakish sight.
I returned to the OB. Part of my water broke. I was at 6.5 cm. We walked across the bridge, checked into the hospital. It was a quiet night. They gave us a big room overlooking the Hollywood Hills at sunset. But I wanted to avoid an epidural if possible and asked for a room with a tub to labor in. To my husband’s dismay, they moved us across the hall to the tiniest room they had, but it had a tub with jets and how glorious that felt. My husband rubbed my back, cheered me on. My mom photographed the whole thing.
After two hours, my OB suggested she break the rest of my water to speed up the labor. And speed it up it did. I asked for an epidural, but it was too late. I was at 9.5 cm and it was time to push. 20 minutes later, my healthy girl, 7 lbs, 10 oz, much bigger than my OB anticipated, entered this crazy world.
I’d been prepared for post partum depression, as I knew many women who’d suffered from it. But it was not to be. I was blissful. Ecstatic. It was like the little person in my arms had always been there, somehow. Like she was meant to be with me and had been there forever even if I never knew it. I didn’t sleep at all that night. And have barely slept in the year since.
And it was the best year of my life.
What a romantic story about you becoming a mother. I wish every mother was as lucky as you! I remember joking about my Dec 24 due date and swearing my kid would be late and double swearing that he/she better not be the first baby born on January 1 (because I didn’t want news crews asking to put our tired mugs on TV)! Silly me for even bothering to worry. The night before Gavin was born, we met with our doula, not for doula stuff, but to buy her cloth diapers (which we never wound up using). Around midnight that night, nine weeks before my due date, my water broke. Three days later, Gavin was born. It wasn’t a fairytale birth, nor were the five weeks he spent in the NICU. But, that story? It’s all ours and I wouldn’t trade it for anything.