Happy Birthday, Andrew!!

Twenty-nine years ago today our youngest son, Andrew, was born.

It was a 'warm' November day in Fairbanks. A warm day that followed several days of very cold temperatures - and it was raining. When I went into labor, the roads were covered in a thick layer of ice. We were worried that we would not be able to even make it to the hospital which was just a couple miles away. However, before that could happen, Mel needed to get the older two kids to the babysitter, Grandma Betty (our future sister-in-law's mother) and she lived out of town a few miles. He discovered on the way back in to town that the road was closed to all traffic right behind him. It was the warmest day Mel could remember for November, but the rain was freezing as it hit the ground.

We made it to the hospital and Mel very gingerly helped me walk across the ice, slipping and sliding, terrified that I was going to fall right there in the parking lot. I was met at the entrance by a nurse with a wheelchair.

My delivery with Andrew went perfectly. Almost too perfectly. When it came time for the doctor to say, "Now! Push!" I pushed. Oh yes, I pushed! I wanted that kid born. I wanted it all over and done with now!. The doctor told me to stop pushing so hard, she could actually see him moving down the birth canal at what was, apparently, an alarmingly fast rate. :) He was born with no problems, though, in a very timely manner. So timely, in fact, that he was born at the exact same time of day as his brother had been born 16 months earlier, and the exact same time of day opposite of his sister, 30 months earlier. Both boys were born in the morning at the same time, Kara at night at the same time, in the normal American way of telling time, which is not 'military time.' (Mel always says that is because Kara is the opposite sex.)

I soon had proof of how hard I had pushed. The following morning I noticed that my chest was covered in little bruises. I immediately asked a nurse what was going on, but she had no answer. When the doctor came in, I asked her. She examined me in surprise, thought for a moment and then explained what she thought had happened. I had pushed so hard, strained so hard, that I had broken dozens of little capillaries in the skin of my chest. She had never seen anything like it, but then, she told me she had never seen a baby move that fast down the birth canal either!

Why do I have this weird sense of pride in that accomplishment? Answer: unknown.

Anyway, the only other thing of note about Andrew's birth is the fact that we almost didn't bring him home. We almost brought home a little Asian baby instead.

"What?" I hear you exclaim. "How could you mix up your baby with an Asian baby???"

Well, the answer is pretty simple. They brought me a baby in the middle of the night, woke me up from a sound sleep to nurse the little guy. He wouldn't nurse. I examined said baby and thought to myself, "He looks hot with this silly ski cap on his head" and I pulled it off.

Hair. Black. Hair. Tons of black hair. Amazing amounts of black hair, sticking out of his head at every angle imaginable. Hair.

My babies were bald. Hairless. Cue balls. Bald. Oh, ok - they may have had a bit of fuzz on top, if held up to the light just so, but there was no way on God's green earth that my baby had hair like that.

Didn't I notice that his eyes were, well, Asian looking?
No. Why? Because all three of my babies had Asian looking eyes when they were born. The reason? Because Mel has a fair amount of Cherokee Indian in him. His grandfather looked like a full-blooded Indian until the day he died (is it still ok, politically correct speaking, to say 'full-blooded'? I never know any more what is PC and what will get a person lynched.) The older Mel gets, the more he looks like his father, and his grandfather, and the more I can see the Indian in him. Maybe no one else can, but I knew his grandfather, and everyone commented on how "Indian" he looked. (Oh - that may not be PC any more either - Native American! Someone already told me I'm not supposed to say "Oriental" so that's why I used "Asian." I hope that's ok...)

Whatever!

I pulled the little ski cap off. Stared in confusion at Baby for a minute, my sleep deprived mind numb - remember I already had two kids at home, both under the age of 3. I pushed the call button, the nurse arrived. I said, "I'm sorry, this is not my baby." And she panicked. Yes, panicked. Thus began a series of 5,000 questions and a form to fill out and whatever else happened that night while the real mama slept undisturbed in the bed beside me. Mrs. Zhcherkwoski or some other very Slavic name last name that started with a Z and not my own surname initial, and yes, a very ethnically Vietnamese woman.

They never did bring Andrew to me that night.

Believe me, I pulled off that little ski cap when they brought him to me in the morning! Made sure that his little bracelet matched mine AND the name in the name tag holder on the foot of my bed. A simple mistake - someone switched our name tags on the beds.

I don't think Mrs. Z ever knew what happened. I hope not. Or maybe I hope she did know. I would have wanted to know if my baby had almost been given to the wrong person.

So, we went home a few days later. Mel took us into our apartment, I settled Andrew in his bassinet, sound asleep and then settled myself in a rocking chair. I eagerly waited for Mel to bring the other two kids home. They all came in the door. I held out my arms. Little Kara at 2+ and Little Peter at 16 months just looked at me with big eyes. Then they turned and ran into the bedroom as fast as their little feet and legs would go. I got up and followed and found then standing on tiptoes, chins and fingers over the edge of the bassinet, staring at their new little brother.

Boy, did I feel missed. Not! :) :)

Anyway, all that to say, Happy Birthday, Andrew! Even though I know you don't read my blog. :)