It could be hydrocephalus...aka water on the brain. Or something worse like a brain tumor. Or whatever. It didn't matter, the idea of there being anything wrong creates a horrible pit in your stomach. I mean, as parents, we worry enough as it is. I worry every time Baby J. has a cold or every time she makes a funny noise (could that funny noise mean something's wrong with her? probably not, she's probably just being weird.) Whatever the case, we're worriers. And something like this, a problem with her head or her brain really makes us worry. But I think what made us worry more than the potential for there being something wrong (since my wife and I both assumed she probably just had a big head despite what the pediatrician said), was the idea of an MRI.

Now, an MRI is relatively safe. It doesn't use radiation like a CAT scan. But the real scare was that Baby J. would have to be put under. The procedure takes up to 45 minutes or more, and there's no way you could keep most grown adults still for 45 minutes; can you imagine the difficulty in keeping a baby still that long? As a result of this total impossibility, it's necessary to put the baby under general anesthesia. Ug...

This is what we really dreaded. Major things can go wrong when you put someone under. And we couldn't shake the feeling we were going through a completely unnecessary procedure, one that stemmed from the inherited trait of a watermelon-like head. So for three weeks we waited until the date would come for us to go to the hospital. For three weeks, we tried to distract ourselves from the reality that we'd be putting our child under soon. For three weeks, we didn't sleep.

When the date arrived, we had to get up at 5am. We had the first scheduled MRI of the day, a 7:30 appointment that required we arrive at the hospital to fill out paperwork by 6:45. We were tired. Baby J. was happy to be on the trip. Of course not knowing where we were going, she was excited to be out of the house while it was still dark and up way before she's supposed to be. She laughed and talked most of the trip to the hospital. And when we arrived, she was all smiles, babbling to the nurses, checking out all the cool neat hospital equipment she never normally sees.

The anesthesiologist came in, explained the procedure. Nothing he said made us feel better about the situation. Only one of us could go with Baby J. when they put her under. My wife went. As much as I wanted to go, I knew my wife needed to be there for it. She came back a few minutes later, crying. The worst part was watching her baby go limp. One of the doctors joked the hardest part of the procedure was when the moms cried because their baby went limp; my wife didn't find it funny.

Then, we waited. More than an hour went by. Finally, I asked what was taking so long, and I was told Baby J. was finished and sleeping, and we would get to see her when she woke. Thanks so much for telling us the procedure was over. Hospitals, always too busy to tell anyone what's going on. Then, we were told she was waking. And 50 feet before we were to the recovery room (or whatever room it was called), we could hear Baby J. screaming. And when we saw her, wrapped in someone else's arms, bawling because she had no idea what was going on or who was holding her, we ran to her.

It wasn't long before we left the hospital. Baby J. drank some milk, but then she threw up in the car, despite the nurses telling us we didn't have to worry about nausea. Funny enough, Baby J. quickly recovered from being knocked out. She was more active that day than I was, who felt like a huge weight had been lifted from his shoulders. Despite not knowing the results of the MRI yet (it would take 2-3 days), we were relieved the actual procedure was over, that Baby J. had woken without any obvious problems, and that we were home again.

After waiting two days, we got the results. So what was it? Water on the brain? Brain tumor? Something somehow worse?

No.

It was nothing. Baby J. just had a big head. I'm too tired right now to explain how annoyed we were. Sure it could have been something. It could have been something really terrible, and we should feel better for knowing that it isn't anything. But seeing our baby go limp, seeing her wake up screaming and terrified. Knowing that for the next several days afterwards, Baby J. unusually woke up several times in the night (she usually sleeps the whole night through without waking once), and that she would wake in her crib screaming for us, knowing full well this was because she remembered waking up alone and in a stranger's arms; all of this, it made us angry.

D.

Baby J. at the Hospital

My wife had decided to be induced. She was over a week late, and the doctor had told her if she didn't induce that day she'd wait at least another week. In hindsight, my wife has said she would have waited. After arriving at the hospital, signing in and getting a room, my wife was given a drug for softening the cervix. Baby J.'s grandma was at the hospital with us. We spent most of that day and night watching TV, talking, wondering how the labor was going to be. My wife spent most of the time having mild contractions.

By morning, the contractions had gotten stronger. The doctors determined that the drug to relax my wife's cervix was enough to get the labor going, they wouldn't actually need to administer the drugs that started the contractions. This was a relief. As morning drew closer and closer to afternoon, the contractions were becoming much stronger. My wife asked for an epidural, when the pain started becoming too much for her. We were blessed that day to have a rookie resident learning how to administer epidurals come to our room. This didn't exactly instill us with confidence, especially since we signed all those papers saying the hospital wasn't responsible if my wife died or suffered severe nerve damage from the epidural (how comforting). After they administered the first epidural, they performed a test to see if there was any feeling in my wife's lower body...there was. It hadn't worked. Seeing as my wife had gone from 3cm dilated to nearly fully dilated, the doctors quickly scrambled to administer a second epidural, which...get this...didn't take either.

Then, it was too late. There wouldn't be a third try. At roughly 11:30 in the morning, my wife felt the overwhelming need to push. She was scared. I was scared. I held her hand, and I reassured her as best I could, while the nurse explained what to do. The doctor came in for the delivery. Wasn't it only a few hours ago we were discussing what would happen? Wasn't it only a few hours ago we were still convinced there wasn't a baby in her belly?

Now, this is where I can't exactly explain what it was like. For me, it wasn't real at all. The next thirty minutes went by in about half a heart beat. When the pushing had only started, something fell out of my wife. She started yelling, "What was that? What was that?" She was panicked. It wasn't the baby. It was the caul (the amniotic sac), and it was fully intact. It was a weird thing to look at it, like a big yellowish ball of jelly held in a plastic encasing. I read that babies born with the caul intact are referred to as caulbearers, and they are said to lead lucky lives. So, I guess right from the start, Baby J. was blessed in her own way.

Baby J. and Mommy in the Hospital

After that, I remember that one minute my wife was saying she couldn't do this (and she really wanted to get up and leave), and then the next minute, my wife was shouting, "I'M GOING TO PUSH AS HARD AS I CAN", and our little Baby J. went from being completely inside the womb to flying right out into the doctor's hands. My wife pushed so hard that it only took one solid push to get the baby from crowning to out. My baby was an incredible sight. She came out almost perfectly clean, except for some specks of blood in her hair (which was a dark brown at the time). Her eyes were wide open, and she wasn't crying.

The next few moments were a blur. Baby J. had to immediately see the NICU nurses, because she'd had a bowel movement while in the womb. She was perfectly ok. Then, I took her first picture, and the nurses went to work cleaning her up. I spent the next 20 or so minutes next to my wife, while they stitched her up. And then, I finally got to hold her, my tiny, 7lb 7oz daughter. She gripped my finger with her hand, and she looked up at me. Both she and my wife were utterly exhausted.

A few minutes later, when my wife got to hold Baby J., she started crying, and she blurted out, "That's my baby!"

D.

Baby J. and I in the Hospital

I started thinking about our trip home from the hospital, after Baby J. was born. It was probably the second most terrifying experience I've had as a driver (the first would be a time I had to take Baby J. in for a check up, and we were experiencing heavy snow and high winds). It was also a crazy experience. My wife and I both realized that Baby J. was our baby, but to think the hospital was actually going to let us drive away with her? The idea was absurd. How could medical professionals actually entrust us with the safety of a baby? What were they thinking? Sure, we'd read all the books. We'd studied up on everything there is to read about babies. We received all the advice we could have ever wanted from a hundred different people. But that's hardly preparation for having a baby. Shouldn't I have needed a medical license of some kind? At least a PhD., right?

And yet, there we were, driving away from the hospital at a brisk 15mph (I didn't want to go too fast until we were in a less trafficked area), my heart racing like I'd just run a 5k, glancing every 1.3 seconds into the rear view mirror to make absolutely, positively sure that my 3 day old daughter was still in the car. She was there all right, snug in a giant pink winter coat, sleeping soundly, while my wife sat next to her, probably sharing a lot of my thoughts.

Boober in Her Pink Coat

I know everyone goes through this, but that was the day I stopped feeling like I was 12 years old. Ever since my twelfth birthday, I haven't really felt like I've grown up. Sure, I kept getting bigger. I moved out of my mom's home. I got married. Started a career. But none of that ever felt real. It was always like I was still a little kid playing house with my cousin at my grandmother's, like all the cooking, and going to work every day, and paying the bills was make believe, as if at any moment, I could close my eyes and then upon reopening them, I'd be back home with my backpack and a bag lunch about to stand outside and wait for the school bus to come.

But that all changed when Baby J. arrived. Watching her delivery, holding her for the first time, falling instantly in love with the most precious thing I'd ever seen, like the grinch, my heart suddenly grew three sizes that day, until I was barely able to contain it within my chest. She was my boober, a tiny little, 7lb. 7oz really wonderful responsibility that made me realize I could never go back home again, and more so, it made me realize I'd never want to, because for as long as I live, Baby J. is my home.

D.