Last night we found ourselves driving south in the moments right before twilight. The setting sun was to our right, a blaze of irridescent fuschia streaking up from the horizon fading as we drove. Above and ahead of us the sky was gray, nearly colourless, as if the glory in the west had bled the rest of the sky of its colour, gravity and the sun pulling it to the other side of the earth. As the sunset faded to a silvery orange, the indigo grew up from the east, deepening the sky above us with night until eventually it consumed the final faint residue of day in the west. It is reassuring to be reminded of the earth's orbit and constant rotation; it is good to remember that I am not the centre of the universe, as much as it may feel like it.

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In other news, Swee'pea appears to be categorizing people along lines of gender and age. Either that, or my interpretation of his language is. He's been calling his Grandpa Bapa for quite a while, and I was kind of embarrassed when he started exclaiming, "Bapa!" at every tall, gray-haired man wearing a hat and glasses he encountered. Surely he knew what his Bapa looked like?

Lately, though, I've noticed him exclaiming, "Mama!" when we encounter a young woman and, "Dada!" when we encounter a youngish man. I KNOW he knows those people aren't really his Mama and Dada, so it's begun to dawn on me that perhaps he's just noticing that they are people that bear some resemblance to us. He's been obsessed with babies, but now I've noticed he exclaims, "Bebe!" when we see anyone under about 12 years old.

I'm not sure what all this means in the grand scheme of things, but I find it fascinating.

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We went to see my brand new nephew this weekend, and the sight of Sugar D holding a brand new baby again set my ovaries atwitchin'. But only for a moment. He's just SO tiny and fragile and wobbly that I felt nervous again. I think maybe a newborn has to be my newborn to make me feel all in love. When we arrived he was sleeping all by himself, just sleeping, and I remembered how Swee'pea NEVER slept by himself at that age (in fact, it's still a relatively rare occurence). I have always thought it was because Swee'pea was a natural-born lousy sleeper who needed physical closeness. But now I'm not so sure. I wonder if it's because after his distress during my labour and all that fear for his life we just couldn't leave him be; we couldn't trust him to just live, his little chest rising and falling, without our constant watchfulness.

Flashback Friday: Feminist Edition

Each week, I will tell a story that has something to do with being or becoming a woman or feminist. This series will continue until I run out of stories. Guest bloggers are welcome if you have a story you want to tell; or feel free to link to your own story in the comments.

When I was 17ish, I was friends with a pretty girl who was a raging flirt, had low tolerance for booze, and often made out with guys when parties and booze mixed. Despite her extensive snogging, she was saving her virginity for marriage and she nearly made it. She lasted until she got engaged. But that's beside the point. Anyways, back when we were 17 or thereabouts, she'd started dating a guy at another school and she maintained she was in love. We were planning to go to a party and she asked me to make sure she didn't make out with anyone there because she was in love. I tried my best to do my duty at the party but was failing as she got drunker and sillier, and a cute jock attempted to take advantage.

I kept telling her, “You're in love, remember?” Eventually, the jock turned to me and said, “Why are you so cynical?” I can't remember what prompted this line of discussion. I replied, “I don't know.” And he said, “Maybe you're a lesbian.” I guess he was getting annoyed with me that I wasn't falling under his spell and letting him get off with my friend. I'm not sure exactly what happened next; I probably left them to it. But his comment upset me. I wondered if he was right; after all I was big and butch like an Amazon, I didn't take his shit, I wasn't impressed by a popular jock boy, I hadn't had a boyfriend, I didn't like the few boys who had liked me, I was angry, I wore plaid shirts (c'mon I was 17, give me a break), the list could go on and on. I guess he was making the equation that a woman who doesn't immediately fall under the spell of a popular guy must be a manhating lesbian. Eventually, I got over it and I did meet a guy I liked who liked me back shortly after that, but still the comment lingers in my ears more than a decade later. I can't remember who the guy was but I remember what he said.

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Fave Grey's Anatomy quote from last night:

"If I do die today, I don't want to be remembered as the slutty intern who dated two doctors."

Yang: "Uhh, one doctor and one vet."

I didn't much like last night's episode. People kept doing things I didn't want them to do. Meredith should have chosen Finn (for his name alone); Cally should have given George another chance, and she definitely shouldn't have invited McSteamy back to her hotel room. Though, who can really blame her? That man is steamy. And what's up with Izzy just getting $8.7 milion??

And there was yet another story of a woman so focused on a natural birth that she endangers the life of her child. First off, if she wanted a natural birth, why in hell did she choose the care of one of the top obstetrical surgeons in the country? And second, are there really women like this? I wanted a natural birth but more than that I wanted to trust my caregivers' decisions and go with the flow; I didn't get a natural birth but I did achieve the latter. That storyline does nothing to help fight the overmedicalization of childbirth. Oh dear, I'm ranting again. It's just a tv show. Step away from the tv.

Ezra's Birth Story

Throughout my pregnancy, I was convinced Ezra would come early, perhaps on January 31 or February 2 (his due date was February 4, 2006). However, all those days came and went with no baby. On February 6, my mom came up for a visit to help me maintain my sanity while waiting for baby. She arrived around 4:30 in the afternoon, having driven through a blizzard, and around 7:30 she, Dave and I went out to dinner. Soon after sitting down, I realized I was having a lot of braxton hicks contractions and I found myself wondering if this was it. We finished dinner and returned home and the contractions kept coming, about every four to five minutes, and getting stronger.

Around 9 p.m. I took a bath and discovered what I thought was bloody show. However, the show kept coming and was quite fluid and I began to wonder if perhaps this was something else. I called the primary midwife around midnight with very regular but fairly short (30-45 seconds) contractions to ask about the discharge and after significant questioning, she decided to come check me. When she and the secondary midwife arrived, they discovered that in fact my water had broken and there was thick meconium – not a good sign. I remember looking at the ceiling after they had checked me and thinking, “Wow, we may not end up with a baby.”

We decided to go to the hospital for monitoring and to start I.V. antibiotics since I was GBS positive. We got there around 2 a.m. and I was strapped to the monitors – one for baby's heartrate and one to identify contractions. After about half an hour, the midwives reviewed the strip and determined that the baby was having some decelerations that were not associated with contractions and they consulted with the OB on call. They decided to transfer care and the OB offered to do a cesarean at that time if I wanted but thought it best to allow me to continue to labour while monitoring the baby continuously. Dave went down and brought the rest of our stuff from the car. We'd put the baby's car seat in the trunk for the trip over to have a bit more room for me. When Dave had brought all our stuff up, he said, “I put our baby's car seat back in place so we can bring our baby home.” and he said it in a way that meant everything was going to be fine.

At this point, my contractions kept getting stronger and time began to go by without my noticing since I was so focused on getting through the contractions. Around 6 a.m., I was 3 cm dilated and 100 % effaced (up from 2 cm and 30% effaced around 2 a.m.). Some time after that we decided to get an epidural because I wasn't able to relax through the contractions and was feeling a lot of pressure in my bum. I was really scared of getting the epidural and pretty much fell in love with the anestesiologist, he was so kind and warm and respectful. I think I got the epidural around 8 a.m. and it brought considerable, though not complete, relief. They sent everyone (the doula, my mom, and the midwives) home so I could try to sleep. But I was still feeling intense pressure and couldn't. I remember at this time, holding onto the bed's bar for dear life through a contraction, listening to the baby's heartrate get slower and slower and praying the contraction would end so that it could go back up.

Dr. F, the new OB on call, checked me around 9:25 a.m. and although I had dilated to 7 cm, I now had a fever. He said I was getting a section because there were too many strikes against me: decelerations, not much variability in the baby's heartrate, GBS positive and now I had a fever. By 9:40 I was being wheeled down to the OR and Ezra was born at 10:01 a.m. I didn't have a chance to see my mom before going in but the midwives got there and observed the surgery.

They took Dave away to get dressed up in sterile clothes and prepped me for surgery. I had a new anesthesiologist, who was also very nice. The new epidural made me feel like I couldn't breathe or laugh but he assured me this was very normal, I wouldn't stop breathing and I was just fine. I could feel tingling sensations on my belly as they washed and shaved me, and I guess when they started cutting. Dave and the midwives came in when they put the curtain up. I remember feeling like Jesus on a horizontal crucifix because both my arms were stretched out and strapped down. I was glad they were strapped down because then I didn't need to prevent myself from moving. I was worried about having a panic attack on the table but I was so tired, there wasn't much risk of that. I just kept breathing and thinking that I just had to get through this for the baby.

I tried not to listen to the doctors' conversation because I knew if I heard a fragment I could take it out of context and get scared unnecessarily. Nevertheless, I heard bits and pieces. Like “That's her bladder and it's very full – there's something wrong with her catheter.” I guess they fixed whatever the problem was before proceeding.

Next thing I know they tell me the head is born and that I'm going to feel a lot of pressure. Well, “a lot of pressure” didn't really prepare me. It was the most intense pressure on my diaphragm I've ever felt, and I felt like I would never breathe again... it was quite scary but over very quickly. The doctor said there was no amniotic fluid left and the baby was covered in meconium with a very short cord. And then the anesthesiologist announced quietly, “it's a boy.” I remember being faintly surprised it wasn't a girl. There was silence for quite a while (well people were probably talking but it felt like silence to me because there were no baby cries like on tv). I didn't really think about the baby (I probably wasn't letting myself for fear he was dead), just about the weird sensations I was feeling and how tired I was. I heard Dr. Fraser say, “I'm taking it out now,” and I thought he was giving me a hysterectomy. I yelled, “You're taking my uterus?!? Why?!?” not so much worried about losing my uterus (I'd already decided hours before that I was never going through this again) as about the reason, because I knew it had to be something serious. Dave told me that he was just taking it out to stitch it up and would put it back in when he was done.

Then I heard a baby crying – it was the cutest baby cry I'd ever heard – and I asked, “Is that him? Is that our baby?” It was. I started sobbing from relief and fear and joy and everything, and Dr. F had to tell me to stop crying because it was changing 'his' uterus. Dave went over to the baby and the midwife stayed next to me. At some point they brought our baby over for me to look at and he was just beautiful. I kissed his cheek and said hello. I thought his name should be Jack Finley but changed my mind later. Then they took him to the nursery for tests and observation. Dave accompanied him. They finished stitching me up and removed some of the tubes and straps and other stuff. I couldn't move my arms or legs, they just tingled, and I apologized for the fact that I couldn't help them get me onto the gurney to go to recovery.

After the surgery I couldn't stop shaking. They brought the baby for a short visit around noon and let me hold him and nurse him. I stopped shaking while I held him... I think it must have been a physiological need to hold him. My body knew I'd had a baby and I needed to hold him to recover from the shock. I started shaking when they took him away again, but not as bad and not for long... While we waited for his return Dave and I talked about his name. He thought his name should be Ezra Jack even though my first thought was Jack Finley. I figured after watching me go through all that labour and a c-section, he must have a pretty good reason so I agreed to Ezra Jack. Now it seems perfect so obviously Dave was right.

I didn't see Ezra again until 5 p.m. when he was discharged from the nursery. At that time, the nurse brought him in and said, “he's very hungry and he's all yours. He doesn't need to go back to the nursery.”