“Oh dear baby Jesus in heaven, I just wanted to be nearby for support and take pictures of the baby. I don’t want to hold the leg,” I silently panicked.
“Just look directly at Corri and don’t look down,” I told myself.
Plan “Don’t Look!” was all good and well until out of my peripheral vision I witnessed the crowning of my soon to be goddaughter, Isabella. Before I knew it, my neck turned to make eye contact with the baby before her full body was visible. The arrival of this bloody monster was without a doubt the most intense and awesome thing I’ve ever seen.
I was so affected by watching the delivery of the baby that I starting blacking out. My entire body went numb, clammy and sweaty, and I felt disoriented and nauseated. Corri was pushing so hard the bed rolled backward despite its locked wheels. Blood was everywhere. I had to pull it together fast! I would have slapped myself across the face if I didn’t have a jaws-of-life grip on Corri’s knee and foot.
Corri’s transformation from the lovely and amused look she normally wears to an agonizing grimace, displayed the palpable misery of delivering a baby. Although the hard pushing didn’t last long, it was heartbreaking to watch her distress. Corri was a champ and pushed the baby out through just three contractions.
Reaching for water, I didn’t know if I was going to puke or pass out. Flashbacks from my own experience worsened my pathetic state of being. I began to understand why some women ask for a C-section.
And women are expected to have babies! Just because we have ovaries (functioning or not), men and women assume we want to and will procreate. I just don’t get this. After what I saw, the Black Plague would have to wipe out most of the population for me to get pregnant again.
Don’t get me wrong — I wouldn’t give up the experience of seeing Isabella’s birth for the world. Not only was it the best birth control I’ve ever had (PhenomeMom is never, ever, ever having another baby — ever), but Corri and Matt shared their most treasured moment with me! We will forever joke about the details of Isabella’s birth and devise legendary stories to tell her when she’s grown.
And even better, I will be part of my goddaughter’s life from the moment she came into it. How amazing is that? I get to watch her grow, try to get her to say “Punchy” (my roller derby name) before “mama” or “dada,” listen to her endless baby babbling and love every second, teach her to roller skate, give her candy when she’s not allowed to have any, talk to her about dating and sex, tell her stories about how her mom punched out her dad at Amigo’s pool table and give warnings of how whiskey can ruin her life.
Oh Isabella, you are in for a wild ride!