No Room at the Inn

I’ve coughed so many times this morning my lungs are asking for more overtime compensation, and I think I heard the right one whispering about severance pay. But I know one thing; I feel better than I did 29 years ago today. That was Mattianne’s due date. 

Back then, that meant absolutely nothing. A doctor circled a date on a calendar which meant he was guessing when the thing was conceived and when the kid would arrive based on - I don’t know, stuff like science and everything.

I mean, we had ultrasounds back then, but the pictures didn’t look like babies. They looked like an early black and white Star Wars still frame from a galaxy far, far away. We were pretty sure we were all giving birth to blurry aliens. 

So it was just anybody’s guess when a baby would come. That’s why so many sitcoms used to center around being ready at any moment, and the father running around in frantic circles picking up something out of the fruit bowl and trying to call the hospital with it. People slept in their suits and ties in case the baby decided to come in the middle of the night. Now we wear pajamas in the middle of the day in case we need to make a milk shake run. 

And when it was time, the mother would tell you. That’s how everyone knew. She would announce, in the most inconvenient of circumstances, “It’s time.” BUT HOW DID SHE KNOW? No one was timing contractions. She wasn’t writhing. No one was measuring anything. 

Honey, that’s not how it happens. Twenty-nine years ago, it was that circled date, and only 15 percent of babies came on their circled date, but if you know Mattianne at all, you know if something’s scheduled to happen, she’s gonna show up! She’ll be there with bells on. Well. Leggings. Close. 

So she got wind that this was her due date, and by George, she was gonna be there. That meant a lot of bending-over kind of agony for me, also known as contractions. 

I was sure it was just a false alarm since, you know, the fifteen percent thing. So I kept trying to do December things like poof up calico fabric on top of jelly jars – This was 1996, remember – but I was suddenly singing way more ah-ah-ah-ah-ah-aH-AH-AH-AHHHHHHHs than there actually are in excelsis Deo. And with much more enthusiasm. And volume.

I finally shouted at my husband, “Take me to the HOSPITAL!!” with all the grace of a crackhouse in withdrawal. 

When I got there, they said, “No room at the Inn.” True story. They tried to send me home, but something in my eyes said I was the real deal. Either that or I was trying to win cash in a Marty Feldman look-alike contest. 

They checked me. I was staying. Except there was nowhere to stay. There really was no room at the inn. They put me in something with walls, but it was not a labor and delivery room. 

When I had Abram, almost two years prior to this, the plan was to have him naturally. I envisioned myself as Jane of the Jungle. I turned out to be the screaming gorilla instead. So this time, as they walked me to the not-a-delivery room, I was thorough with all my questions: “Do you still have that epidural thing?” “How soon can I get the epidural?” “Is the medical professional on the way with the epidural?”

It turns out that enema comes alphabetically before epidural, and they tend to go alphabetically in the medical world. It also turns out that the intern was in charge of that procedure, and after she administered it, she had a confused look, and said, “How am I supposed to get you to the bathroom when you’re hooked up to all this equipment? Let me go ask. I’ll be right back.”

A lot of things turned out after that.

But my Christmas baby got here, and with a hairdo that said, “Move over, Rod Stewart!” 

Happy birthday, Mattianne. On the heels of Thanksgiving, I have so much to be thankful for since that day. 

Not the least of which is the invention of the epidural.