Welcome to the world, Baby Boy, Part 3

So..., there we were, pretty sure that labor was starting but not quite, so I got in the bathtub and just stretched out.  Your dad was bustling around, making sure the birthing tub was ready to go, double-checking things, and asking me every two minutes if I thought this "was it."  He and Amy texted a little bit, but nothing much was happening.  The contractions weren't that bad and they kept happening, but they weren't clearly getting stronger or closer or developing any sort of pattern, so I just kept refreshing my bath, chatting with your dad, and getting annoyed with all the questions.  I just kept waiting for some crystal clear indication (like my water breaking) that this was "it."

"It" was a contraction that hit a little after 11:00 p.m.  Your dad was on the phone with Amy at the time, so he told her we were ready.  She got in touch with Jill and Allison and they were all here by midnight.  In the meantime, your dad had the tub about a third of the way full, so I got out of the bathtub and got in there to relax.  It was chilly in the house, in the mid-60s, and we were working hard to get things warmed up enough for you too - oven open, space heaters running, stove cranked up, so I just sat in the tub and watched the steam rising.  For some reason, I remember the ceiling.  I just stared up at the tongue-and-groove ceiling boards, thinking my way through each contraction, and waiting as patiently as I could.

Amy, Jill, and Allison went into our little room to wait, conveniently out of the way enough to offer privacy, but close enough to be able to hear my breathing and time contractions without being in the middle of everything.  Your dad sat next to me, talking to me occasionally, but mostly, it was quiet and I just labored through contractions in my own way.  My lower back hurt pretty badly (had the same pain with your sister) and I found that it was comfortable to let the plastic step in the pool press into my lower back.

Labor is a strange thing and so hard to describe, because for me, not only did the pain end the moment you were born, but so did the memory of the pain.  It's a slippery memory and it slides away from me whenever I try directly to grab it.  Mostly, I just remember the ceiling, staring and staring at the ceiling and trying not to let my breath get away from me.  And the slideshow your dad put together.  Because, before I met you, I couldn't imagine anything as fine as your sister, your dad put together a slideshow of pictures of her to run along with a mix of songs that you both listened to while you were hanging out in my tummy.  A quiet house, the humming of the stove, cold darkness all around the edges, gentle music, her sweet face slipping past, and the ceiling - always the ceiling....