Bringing Up Brynn, Part I: Birth

So, rather than a novella-length post about my extraordinary little girl, I'm going to dole out my "Ode to Brynn" in segments. For your reading pleasure, of course.

Um, actually, let's be honest here...it's because I no longer have time to just let the thoughts flow freely. My life is now lived in segments. School here. Work there. Kids now. Laundry, housework, dinner...soon. Sleep....none. But it is now something like 45 days past Brynn's 4th birthday, and I haven't lived up to my promise. So here is her story. In segments.

Anyone who has been graced with spending any length of time with my daughter knows that Brynn is an individual. She does not fit into any shape, size,or color of box. Unless it's a pink box. Maybe then. For like 5 seconds. After that, she's outta there. Even if it is pink. She is her own person. And always has been. Right from the day she was born.

If you ask Brynn where she was born, she will assuredly reply, "at Aunt Lori's house." And she's right. She was born at home. Our "home" at the time being Aunt Lori's guest house. I did not plan on having a baby at home. Or in a guest house. Or with out a medically trained individual present. She decided. After hanging out in her baby cocoon a week-or-so past her due date. And giving me fairly gentle contractions for hours. And hours.

But, when the clock struck midnight - just like Cinderella - she decided she was going to make a run for it. Quickly. And as I was telling Tommy it was time to load things up and make our way to the hospital, that little bugger initiated a change in plans. Quickly. A *911 call was made to request an ambulance. Quickly. By the time the paramedics finally found their way to the house, Brynn had already blessed us with her presence. Quickly. Caught by Aunt "Ro-Ro." Quickly. Now laying in my arms with a pair of gym shorts hanging off the umbilical cord running between her and I.

Yes. Gym shorts. We were told by the lovely *911 operator-lady to find something to tie off the cord. The shorts were there. Tommy was there. They had a string. Seemed logical to him. Whatever.

I, being a practical woman and all, probably would have spent the extra half-second or so to find something "prettier." Like a hair tie. Or cutting off a strip of the sheet. Or the pretty little bow tied around the teddy bear's neck. But definitely not dirty, sweaty, gym shorts. I will never, ever, EVER understand how efficiency can possibly ever outweigh the benefits of aesthetics. Even in the immediate seconds following birthing a 7 pound baby. Naturally. In a guest house. In the middle of the night. I still would have passed on the gym shorts.

Gym shorts aside, it gets worse. Never mind the unplanned nature of the home birth. Or the associated hodgepodge of messy that comes with it. I also had the opportunity to have three - or four - or twenty-five of Tucson Fire's finest Paramedics grace me with their presence. In the glory of less-than-three-minutes-after-giving-birth. Fantastic. Words simply cannot describe the amount of discomposure I felt at that moment. Oh, and when I say Tucson Fire's "finest," I'm pretty sure I mean just that. Not as in "skilled" or "well-prepared" because that they assuredly were not - at least in the whole labor-delivery thing. But if you're rating them on looks, they fit the good-looking Firefighter stereotype. To a "t." A nice tight, navy blue tee. All of them in a 12 x 12 room. With postpartum me in the bed. With newborn and her former home all hanging out for the world to see. Awesome. Awesome. AWESOME. All. Kinds. Of. AWESOME. (read with as much sarcasm as you can muster, please. For my sake.)

Gym shorts. Hot paramedics. Home delivery. Not only was this not going as planned, it quickly became apparent that, other than (maybe) a five-minute condensed, crash course in L&D that came somewhere between learning to operate the jaws-of-life and getting to do some training on the really-cool-ladder-truck-thingy in firefighter school, the only time these young men had been anywhere near a birth was their own.

But they had a "newborn kit". Great. At least we have a kit. With a laminated instruction list (complete with pictures, I'm sure). But somebody must have used the kit before. No scissors to cut the cord. Isn't this probably one of the more important components of said "newborn kit"? No problem, let's grab Tommy's mustache trimming scissors. Again, practicality reigns. Umbilical cord clip. Check. Blanket. What, no blanket in the kit? No worries - there's one on the changing table. Cool. Cap. What? We need to put a cap on the baby (rummage, rummage, rummage). What? It says we need to put the cap on the baby. *sigh* There's one in the right side of the top dresser drawer. Cool. Oh, dear Lord, please let this be a really bad dream. What about me? Can I please have a blanket? Can I have cap? Or a big, brown paper bag to put over my head? Can you please take me to the hospital now? Thanks.

To their credit, I am sure that these young men could have flawlessly rescued me from a burning house. Or extracted me from the wreckage of a car. Or resuscitated me if I had accidentally drowned in the toilet. But labor and delivery, or postpartum care? Not so much.

So this is Brynn's birth story, and my new little baby girl arrived healthy and with spunk. She came into the world on her own terms. With chaos. And confusion. And me just wondering what the heck is going on. And she continues to live life as such every day. And I wouldn't trade it for the world. But I do like a vaction from it every now and then. It helps preserve my sanity.

Me? I got over the whole 25-hot-young-paramedics-in-the-guesthouse-turned-birthing-center-thing. I am just forever grateful that not a single one of them was someone I knew or went to high school with (there most certainly is a God).