Yes, I had the baby. Yes, he has a lot of hair. Congratulations all around, thanks for the prayers, thanks for the gifts, and all that other stuff that goes with big life events. God has blessed us again with safety, health, and a beautiful child.
So he ended up being a c-section, which was simultaneously a disappointment and (very strangely) a kind of relief. He wasn’t going to fit, and it was for sure this time (though again, not until after I had to make the call to go for surgery). This makes me oddly peaceful about the first c-section, since it confirms the fact that Vincent wouldn’t have fit either. Napoleon was a full pound heavier and three inches longer than V, but their heads are roughly the same size—and it wasn’t the OR surgeon or the specialist OB that was telling me the guy wouldn’t fit. They were concerned about heart decels and my failure to progress. No, it was the OR pediatrician who made the observation about baby size. “Look how his head is so molded already, and he was still at a pretty high station. He wasn’t ever coming down any further,” she said. “Oh, and he has a lot of hair.” This was, again, after the fact and thus a simple observation. She wasn’t trying to convince me to take any action. She was pointing out the little conehead’s coneheadedness.
So that’s something for me to focus on, assurance that the first time wasn’t a huge mistake. There’s serenity in knowing that. I can let go of some of the regrets and anger at how I got “cheated” out of a normal delivery. Turns out that it wasn’t the doctors at all that trapped me into a section, it’s just nature. Like someone said, I probably would have been one of those women that died way back when.
Still, it’s daunting and sad that this probably means I’m stuck with c-sections for the rest of my life (or else frighteningly early deliveries of much smaller, premature babies). That’s a hard truth, and the complete disinclination to ever go through that ordeal again makes me feel a little guilty. Where is my trust? Where is my faith? I guess I should give myself more than six days before I start putting any serious thought into my so-called feelings, much less put any stock in them. Still, if you asked me today how many children I wanted, I’d say two. Two. Only two. Get away.
But they’re an awfully nice two.