Booooorn in the UK!

What so many hapless, hopeless, parents of two (or three, or four) have told us for years is absolutely true: the only thing more world-upending than having a baby? Having a second baby.

My memories of my maternity leave and early days with Josie are probably a bit rose-colored, but I remember floating around in a cloud, drinking milkshakes, gazing into each Josie's eyes for hours, popping in and out of Nyack's shops with my cute stroller and her cute outfits... the sheer bliss of first-time motherhood.

After that, BOY has the second (and, for that matter, a BOY) been a shock to the system. But I guess the shock really started with his birth – oh, if you are squeamish about amniotic fluid, profanity, or socialized medicine, you may want to skip ahead – just 5 hours after finishing a really shagging spicy curry with my mates at local Indian joint Rajpoot, I woke up to my water breaking. I called the hospital and they said to take my time (I wasn't having any contractions) and try to get there within the hour, at which time they would evaluate whether it was in fact amniotic fluid or "just wee" (right, because gallons of brackish greenish fluid and "wee" are easily confused) and decide whether to keep me or send me home.

What does a type-A person do with that hour? Let's see... I burned my "Labor: Uptempo" and "Labor:Downtempo" mixes onto CDs. I e-mailed the aforementioned mates (two of whom are pregnant, one at the time a week overdue) and my family, calmly selected some DVDs to take to the hospital, downloaded "Morning Joe" and Rachel Maddow to my iPhone in case I craved political news during early labor, ate some granola (all the pregnancy guides say to eat early!) and packed nutritious snacks. Jeff (who had the good fortune/gall to go back to bed) finally wandered upstairs, sleepy-eyed, wondering "uh... shouldn't we be leaving?" My request to blow-dry my hair so I would look good in the birth photos DENIED, we woke up my mother, told her we were going to the hospital (her foggy response: "uh, do I have to get up?"), and hopped in the car. Of course as usual we had zero cash, so we had to stop by an ATM, at which point my contractions did start.

Upon arrival at the hospital around 5am we were ushered to an "evaluation" room, where I presented my birth plan: epidural, massage, epidural, no-forceps delivery, and – oh yeah –epidural. The midwife examined me – using the jumbo-Jim flashlight your dad keeps in the garage to look for blown fuses and lost hamsters – and assured me that I was only two centimeters, so the epidural was hours off. Also, there were already three epidurals being administered, the maximum for the floor (WHAT?). Oh, and also, there was a shift change at 8 a.m. (three hours away), after which would be the ideal time to get the epidural. Oh, and also, the floor was SO busy there wouldn't be a delivery room ready for me for a couple of hours. But, she assured me, she could bring me some "gas and air" (nitrous oxide) to tide me over until then.

That first hour or so was actually fine. The contractions weren't TOO bad, though this gas and air business was sheer nonsense: it does nothing for the pain, rather makes you feel just dizzy/drunk/high enough to immediately forget how much the contraction ^%$#ing hurt, and believe that you can absolutely do it again in 4-5 minutes. But then 4-5 minutes turned into 3-4 minutes, and then it sure seemed like 3-4 minutes was turning into 2-3 minutes. After Jeff finished giving my mom directions on working the cable and DVD player for Josie (now awake; I'll never forget grabbing the phone and telling her "The Meatball is coming today!" and her yelling "I'm watching Barbie Rapunzel!!") we both wondered, uh, where is that delivery room?

Finally, yes, we were moved into our own room (about 7:45 a.m.) and I was assured that only two epidurals were now running (is this the fakest story you've ever heard or what?) and the anesthetist would be by shortly. My midwife was also rolling off her shift, and cheerfully introduced her replacement, whom we'll call Ellie (that may actually be her name; I couldn't tell you my own name at that point). The anesthetist came in, explained the epidural (yeah, yeah, had one before, move it along), and inserted the shunt into my hand. Meanwhile, forgetting every laboring maneuver I'd learned in six months of prenatal yoga and five weeks of prenatal-couples classes, I'd decided to cope with the pain by sucking on the gas and air inhaler while using a side to side-duck-and-sway move strangely reminiscent of "It Figures" with Charlene Prickett, the Lifetime workout show my mom and I used to do together when I was in high school. In between panting "four more, three more, two more, now kick it side-to-side", I yelled, "WOW I REALLY FEEL LIKE I HAVE TO PUSH!"

Ellie, the midwife-slash-wing-man to my blackberrying husband (o.k., to be fair, I only had to say "I'm going to need you to put away the blackberry" once) chirped, "ooh, perhaps we should examine you before we start the epidural," to which I replied *&^% yeah, and perhaps that's a really %$**&ing great idea, and lots more best communicated with symbols.

Surely no one will be surprised to hear Ellie's amazing discovery –that I was already fully dilated and "by the time we get the epidural going, this baby will be out!" Frantically, I clutched at the anesthetist, sobbing "Please don't leave me," while he struggled equally frantically to free himself. Before I could absorb the idea that this would indeed be one of those drug-free "natural births" I'd done everything in life to avoid, I was surrounded by a chorus of midwives, cheering "you can do it, you can totally do it!" I then fixed my big, pleading blue eyes on Jeff, sure that he could save me, but he only joined in the chant.

Now, what can I say about natural childbirth? Well, firstly, I know now where those quaint English chestnuts like "stiff upper lip," "keep calm, carry on," and "don't shoot until you see the whites of their eyes" originated. Secondly, if I ever, ever again hear a man say that passing a kidney stone is "just like childbirth," I will punch him in the face. Thirdly, well... it actually was pretty empowering. Yes, there were f-bombs, bone-chilling screeches, even a couple of "I can't do this!"-es, but BBR was apparently really freakin' eager to see the world, because in 4-5 pushes, there he was! 8:44 a.m., Greenwich Mean Time. Now, if you've seen my "bump shots" on Facebook or the blog, you know how – oh, how to put this delicately – mucha giganta I was. So when the midwife plopped BBR on the scale and announced, "2850 grams" I felt completely vindicated. No WONDER I was so huge! Then Jeff just had to ask for the English conversion: "Six pounds, five ounces." What??!? Wait, why was I so huge? I'm ashamed to admit that my immediate reaction wasn't concern about my baby's weight but embarrassment about my fat-to-baby ratio. To all my lovely and loyal friends who insisted throughout the last four months that I was "all baby," sorry but you were wrong! Clearly I was mostly salt and vinegar crisps, largely rocky road brownies, partly cookie dough ice cream, and just a smidgen baby.

Of course, the rest is already urban legend, but yes – we named our delicious baby Hugo Walter, after Jeff's grandfather Herman and my grandfathers (though "Hugo Raj," as a tribute to that magic curry, was tempting!), filled out some paperwork, I took a shower, and then we did indeed go home after three hours. Lest you jump all over the English system, that was our choice – lots o'babies had decided to be born before the 4-day Easter holiday weekend, so the ward was apparently hopping, and we felt like I would be more comfortable and better looked after at home. Plus, I couldn't wait to see Josie... so home we came, just six and a half hours after we arrived! Efficient, right?

And Lordy, I almost forgot the best part of the story! After I arrived safely home, I saw an e-mail from Kiwi Mom, my poor friend who was already a week overdue with her second. The message said something to the effect of, "I thought my waters broke so I went to the hospital, but it turns out it was just a little leak, and they sent me home. Not my proudest hour, but given the screams I heard in the delivery suite, I was just as happy to go, thank you!" What time, I typed back, was that? Oh, around 8:30 a.m., she replied. That's right, my bloodcurdling shrieks scared her baby right back up into her abdomen.

ADDITION/CORRECTION: You know, I shouldn't just leave all these angry complaints about pain relief, or lack thereof, floating in cyberspace as the main takeaway from my birth experience. I was actually incredibly impressed by the level and quality of care I received from the community midwives. After the birth, a midwife came to see me every other day (they will come every day if you prefer), to check on me, check the baby/weigh the baby, make sure I was getting along emotionally, help with breastfeeding, really anything I needed. And when I did need some post-delivery medical attention, I was slotted into the schedule, seen, evaluated, and sent home with my (free) prescription within 3 hours. I really did feel, as a friend described, "well looked after." An epidural would have been nice, but that kind of follow-through is priceless.

ANYWAY – of course, next in the busy life of a days-old Jewish boy, is ... the bris! NJ grandparents Papahannah flew in for the event, and we trucked a mohel/GP over from Surrey. Nom, Pee-Pa (thanks to the wonders of Skype technology!), and Papa all delivered remarks about the three grandfathers after whom Hugo is named: Jeff's grandfather Herman and my grandfathers Wilbur and Woodrow. We gave him the Hebrew name of Haviv (beloved, dear one) and welcomed him to the Jewish people. While the procedure is not for the faint of heart, I was lucky in that Hugo screams every time his diaper is taken off, so honestly I couldn't even discern when the actual procedure was taking place. Papa held Hugo, Hannah read a lovely Grandmother's Blessing, and we celebrated with a very nice bottle of red wine.

The Whole Mishbukah

In the middle of all these exciting Hugo-related activities, Britain staged an impressive celebration of its own: The Royal Wedding of William and Catherine. Never one to miss an opportunity for a themed party (does anyone remember the Madonna Birth Party, watching Desperately Seeking Susan and drinking gin and tonics to celebrate Lola's arrival?), I invited fellow American Mum R, her son E, and her lovely mother to join in an indoor picnic and watch party. R brought very English finger sandwiches which we enjoyed with cake and champagne. As one of her "Big Sis" presents I had given Josie a Royal Wedding play set, which she brought out to play along with the real event.


While Royal-lovers all, we definitely had some strong opinions about the affair: Kate's dress (thumbs up!), Pippa's dress (split decision: Jeff declared it "hot," but I thought it was a bit slinky for 11am) William's red uniform (accentuated baldness: thumbs down), SamCam's absent hat (thumbs down), Sarah Ferguson's present spirit (in Beatrice's fascinator and Eugenie's Mrs. Roper-esque peacock blue ensemble: every thumb down), guest list (Gordon Brown and Tony Blair snubbed, but Mr. Bean included? Thumbs up!), HRHQE2's outfit (ZOW! Here comes the sun!), and of course William and Kate's ride to Clarence House (driving themselves in an Aston Martin: thumbs up!). Josie loved it all.

During Hugo's exciting first month, we've managed to keep busy; during our Papahannah week Jeff and Josie took them to the fabulous Longleat Park, Victoria Park and Parade Gardens, even the Marlborough Tavern. Nom stayed a month in total and we took her to the Zoo and the Court Gardens, walked to The George, a lovely canalside pub, for Easter Brunch, toured the Jane Austen Center and celebrated a lovely Mother's Day with our now-traditional boat ride down the Avon followed by a terrific lunch at the Bathwick Boatman.

Mother's Day Cruise

Now the Americans have all departed and it's time for us to figure out life as a family of four! It's a bit crazy and exhausting, but also completely joyous. Hugo is a funny, delicious baby who's already growing fast and showing a bit of personality. Josie is a wonderful big sister; she loves holding Hugo, playing him music, singing to him and showing him off to all of her friends. She's also very excited about her new pink room (Hugo will eventually move into her old room) and just blossoming before our eyes, with new vocab and stories and talents (like tennis!).

Big Sis and Li'l Bro

Daddy's Boy

A (Pink) Room of her Own

All in all, we round out our first year in England feeling very, very blessed. As one of our French friends wrote us, "Vive Hugo!"