Little Kids, Big City: Tales from a Real House in New York City (With Lessons on Life and Love for Your Own Concrete Jungle) Read Online Free
Author: Alex McCord, Simon van Kempen
skip a beat. He said that any explanation would reveal the gender and we quickly decided that it was more important for us to understand exactly what he’d seen than to remain in the dark. He calmly explained that as he moved the camera around he had been unable to locate both arms. Alex and I breathed a little harder as he stated that the second arm was in an unusual position. Apparently the arm was angled over its body with its fingers tightly clasped around its testicles.
He laughed and so did we.
That was the stage that we discovered that our healthy five-month-old fetus was male and had been busy holding his dangly bits. A boy! Henceforth named François, in honor of my father.
Alex
About six months in with François, the Elizabeth Seton Childbearing Center where I intended to deliver closed due to a huge increase in their insurance premiums, apparently because the center was not located inside a hospital. We were all outraged, and I was disappointed to learn that I’d have to deliver in a hospital. St. Vincent’s in Greenwich Village was willing to take all the existing Seton patients and basically stay out of the way, so we reconciled ourselves to the idea. With natural childbirth, a good midwife knows when medical intervention is needed, and during François’ birth, the St. Vincent’s crew gave us a room and let us do our thing without unasked-for meddling.
Simon
Fathers can breathe deeply, too. Although dogs mightn’t need a birth plan in these touchy-feely times it’s almost de rigueur that both parents-to-be attend birthing classes, which encompass the birthing process as well as breast feeding; complete with little plastic dolls to feed. All throughout my schooling as well as subsequent studying as an adult I have often been too impatient to learn from reading books and attending classes. I have always been more of a learn-on-the-job kind of guy and so it was with some reluctance on my part that we attended classes. I firmly believe that humans and in fact all female mammals had been birthing for millennia and that our primeval instinct would assert itself when faced with what is a most natural process. I remember sitting on the floor with my legs crossed and a pillow stuffed up my shirt trying to invoke the feeling of having a pregnant belly and stifling my laughter at the absurdity I felt. From my memory we failed to attend the last couple of classes as by then we both just wanted to let instinct take over when the time came.
Alex
One downside to my laid-back attitude was the fact that I didn’t keep regimented track of my periods, so couldn’t be 100 percent sure when the last one was prior to conceiving. For that reason we did an early ultrasound, but between that uncertainty and switching providers three times, François’ due date was moved up two weeks. We didn’t know it at the time, but that would come back to haunt us.
At 7:30 p.m. on October 25, 2003, François was 11 days late and counting. The 14-day mark was approaching, and Simon and I were both becoming worried. That point is normally “game over” for natural childbirth, and I would have to have a synthetic induction. Even for someone with a high pain tolerance like me, the speed at which contractions start during induction usually causes most women to give up on a medication-free delivery. In order to get labor going, I tried everything: from speed-walking up and down the stairs in our triplex to watching Bowling for Columbine while drinking castor oil that Simon had thoughtfully prepared in a milkshake. He then (even more thoughtfully) cleaned up the projectile vomit that occurred five minutes later. After trying that twice I opted for drinking it straight, which stayed down and worked. Finally, over a dinner of moules frites and Champagne at Belleville in Park Slope, contractions started, and we were ecstatic. We stayed up all night, and since the Rugby World Cup was on, Simon used the counter clock to time the
He laughed and so did we.
That was the stage that we discovered that our healthy five-month-old fetus was male and had been busy holding his dangly bits. A boy! Henceforth named François, in honor of my father.
Alex
About six months in with François, the Elizabeth Seton Childbearing Center where I intended to deliver closed due to a huge increase in their insurance premiums, apparently because the center was not located inside a hospital. We were all outraged, and I was disappointed to learn that I’d have to deliver in a hospital. St. Vincent’s in Greenwich Village was willing to take all the existing Seton patients and basically stay out of the way, so we reconciled ourselves to the idea. With natural childbirth, a good midwife knows when medical intervention is needed, and during François’ birth, the St. Vincent’s crew gave us a room and let us do our thing without unasked-for meddling.
Simon
Fathers can breathe deeply, too. Although dogs mightn’t need a birth plan in these touchy-feely times it’s almost de rigueur that both parents-to-be attend birthing classes, which encompass the birthing process as well as breast feeding; complete with little plastic dolls to feed. All throughout my schooling as well as subsequent studying as an adult I have often been too impatient to learn from reading books and attending classes. I have always been more of a learn-on-the-job kind of guy and so it was with some reluctance on my part that we attended classes. I firmly believe that humans and in fact all female mammals had been birthing for millennia and that our primeval instinct would assert itself when faced with what is a most natural process. I remember sitting on the floor with my legs crossed and a pillow stuffed up my shirt trying to invoke the feeling of having a pregnant belly and stifling my laughter at the absurdity I felt. From my memory we failed to attend the last couple of classes as by then we both just wanted to let instinct take over when the time came.
Alex
One downside to my laid-back attitude was the fact that I didn’t keep regimented track of my periods, so couldn’t be 100 percent sure when the last one was prior to conceiving. For that reason we did an early ultrasound, but between that uncertainty and switching providers three times, François’ due date was moved up two weeks. We didn’t know it at the time, but that would come back to haunt us.
At 7:30 p.m. on October 25, 2003, François was 11 days late and counting. The 14-day mark was approaching, and Simon and I were both becoming worried. That point is normally “game over” for natural childbirth, and I would have to have a synthetic induction. Even for someone with a high pain tolerance like me, the speed at which contractions start during induction usually causes most women to give up on a medication-free delivery. In order to get labor going, I tried everything: from speed-walking up and down the stairs in our triplex to watching Bowling for Columbine while drinking castor oil that Simon had thoughtfully prepared in a milkshake. He then (even more thoughtfully) cleaned up the projectile vomit that occurred five minutes later. After trying that twice I opted for drinking it straight, which stayed down and worked. Finally, over a dinner of moules frites and Champagne at Belleville in Park Slope, contractions started, and we were ecstatic. We stayed up all night, and since the Rugby World Cup was on, Simon used the counter clock to time the
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