Wednesday, March 26, 2008


My second son, Bill, was born a mere 16.5 months after Christopher.

During the pregnancy, the apartment management decreed we Must move from the two bedroom apartment into a three. I think they were concerned that the second baby might be a girl, and only same-sex children could share rooms. Whatever the reason, we were assigned a new apartment, across the parking lot and downstairs from the first. We were due to move on the first of May. The baby was due on the 27th of April.

My PaPa (PawPaw- grandfather) said I was going to have the baby for his birthday- April 29th. He had money bet on it with anyone who would take him up on it.

On April 25th- I went into labor. PaPa said I may as well save the trip to the hospital- I wasn't having the baby until the 29th. With contractions strong, and 5 minutes apart- I went in anyway. The doctor examined me... and sent me right back home.

On the afternoon of the 28th, the apartment manager came to us and said she wanted us to move THAT VERY DAY. She was putting new people into the old apartment the day we had been scheduled to move. You know I went straight into labor, don't you?

We got started hauling stuff down the stairs and across the parking lot, into the new place. After several hours- the OLD tenant of the apartment we were moving into showed up- screaming at us in outrage. She wasn't yet finished moving out. Sure enough- all of her stuff was still in the kitchen cabinets, not even packed. So she was moving stuff out, we were moving stuff in practically on top of her... and I was in labor. Gotta love property management, huh?

My family and WHN's family all came to help- and shortly after midnight, we were at least IN the new apartment. Labor was going great guns- I said I needed to get to the hospital. WHN said not until he had had a beer. Or three.

Eventually we went- arriving about 3:00 am. I was examined, and surprise! I was in transition. I trundled to a delivery room- and the on-call doctor came in. I was trussed up In The Position, and told to push. Every time I touched my abdomen, a nurse slapped my hand. If you have been In The Position, you know you can't get much leverage to push. After several hand slaps, I was told I would have my hands strapped down if I didn't stop trying to contaminate the birth area. My doctor had promised me no episiotomy unless it was necessary. This doctor didn't wait to see. He was a routine cutter. Still, it wasn't too long until little "Billy Joe" was born at 4:20am, weighing in at 7 lb.s, 12 oz.... and PaPa was right- born on April 29th!

This time I was taken more or less directly to a room. When the birth certificate people came by to fill out the forms, I went slightly against the agreed upon name- and the baby became William Joseph- just in case he wanted to become a doctor or something some day.

(When Billy Joe was about three years old- he literally put his foot down- STOMPED it- with his arms across his chest and lower lip stuck out- and said, "NOT BILLY Joe. I am BILL." He refused to answer to "Billy" after that).

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