I'm still kind of surprised that I have a kid. Not because I didn't want one-deep down I've always wanted to be a mom. But I never thought I'd get married and follow that normal life path-the last relationship I was in before I met Ben ended rather badly and left me preferring single life to going through that BS again. I met Ben through mutual friends, and we saw each other at their wedding. I was cutting limes, he was lamenting the lack of available women to another guest, Tina. Tina said "Well, what about Megan?" and Ben started to laugh (he says now it was out of nervousness.)
I got a bit offended and demanded to know what was so funny about the idea of dating me. Then I threatened to cut him if he kept laughing (keep in mind that I was holding a knife at the time).
I don't know what about this exchange made him interested, but it worked. So much for all the advice I've gotten from cosmo about flipping my damned hair and giggling. One year of dating later we were engaged, and a year after that, married. We bought the house, got the dogs, and pretty much settled into life. When we decided to try for a baby (ok, when I decided, and he had no legitimate reason to object anymore) my doctor was pretty skeptical about our chances due to some problems in that area on my part. She referred me to a specialist, and we talked about how far we were willing to go to have a baby. Not very far, it turns out-we weren't interested in IVF or any of that stuff. Our basic logic was that if the universe was that against us having kids (and God knows on the outset we don't seem the type) then we'd roll along childless, or maybe adopt.
And the universe had already decided to play a funny joke on us, because when we had this conversation, I was already pregnant. 39 miserable weeks later (more on that later, but suffice to say, I was not one of those glowing happy pregnant women, I was miserable and whiny) I went into labor.
We got to the hospital, they hooked me up, I spent eight hours wishing I was dead. A nurse kept telling me they were going to send me home because "You're not really in labor." Well, I knew what was happening and the fact that I'd practically bent the bed rail in half should have told her something, but she didn't believe me. Finally, she made another comment about sending me home, and I sat up and said "Look. I'm not leaving here without a baby. It's up to you whose baby it is."
After that I didn't see much of her.
Long story short, 30 hours later the doctor made the call and Henry was born by C-section. I'd like to say it was a joyful occasion, but I had a bad reaction to the meds and spent his whole birth throwing up into the anesthesiologist's hands (he was a trooper). After 24 hours in the NICU for him and a whole lot of morphine for me, I was reunited with my son, and got to figure out just what to do with him. Books don't really prepare you for that. Or for handsy lactation consultants, but more on that later.