The False Alarm

Everyone in my house is on pins and needles.

It has nothing to do with who is going to win America’s Got Talent.

It has to do with when the newest member of our family is going to arrive.

You see my 43-year-old wife just reached her 38th week of pregnancy.

And to put it medically....
...she is ready to burst.

Literally.

Oh she loves kids.

And she loveD being pregnant.

But the novelty has certainly worn off.

As it did at this same point with our three others.

Like Cliff Clavin, she is ready to deliver.

And I mean... NOW!

Saturday night we thought it was showtime.

Since she had spent the majority of the day curled up in a fetal position.

Ironically.

With contractions coming every 5-10 minutes.

The doctors told us when that happens.

It’s time to get your butt to a hospital.

And the rest of you too.

So we did.

My wife wasn’t so convinced that this would be the night.

And neither was I.

Sure she had all those contractions.

But these weren’t the double over in pain.

Tears rolling out of your eyes.

I HATE YOU, GET THIS THING OUT OF ME contractions.

These were the little ones.

Easy for me to say.

Little, schmittle.

They still fell under the painful Jeopardy category of contractions for $200.

So we felt it was better to be safe than sorry.

And we headed to the local hospital.

But within a few minutes in the ER.

And a few more strapped into a hospital bed.

We knew that this was nothing more than a false alarm.

I think they call them Toni Braxton Taylor Hicks contractions.

I didn’t even know they were married.

According to wikipedia, Braxton Hicks contractions are “practice contractions”.

Or “false labor”.

Created by the insurance companies to force you into an extra hospital visit.

And an extra co-pay.

But it works.

Everytime.

And this wasn’t the first time for us.

(Cue the harps for the sappy flashback music)

The year was 1999.

One child into this magical mystery tour, my wife was nine months preggers with baby #2.

On the night of February 16, the pains in her belly were so strong, I took her to the hospital.

The same hospital where she delivered our baby girl 21 months earlier.

The same hospital where my Korean wife was wished a Happy Chinese New Year by a security guard.

But I digress.

After spending what felt like nine months in the ER that night.

We were informed that they didn’t have any available beds for my wife to suffer in.

Especially since they weren’t sure she was in “real” labor.

So instead of making us wait, for something that might not come.

They decided to give my wife some old fashioned treatment.

Drugs!

Big-time drugs.

To help her sleep.

They said when she woke up, she would either be in full blown labor.

Or just one of them CIGNA sponsored “false labor” situations.

And that’s when they loaded her up on...  Morphine.

Yep.

Morphine.

Not Motrin.

Not Mylanta.

Or Maalox.

Or Milk of Magnesia.

They gave her... MORPHINE.

You know, the stuff they used on M*A*S*H* when somebody got their legs blown off.

Well this stuff hit the spot.

When we got home, she went right to sleep.

A deep sleep.

Just one problem.

Minutes into Snoozefest 1999, her water broke.

Broke everywhere.

All over the bed.

The carpet.

The walls.

For a moment, I thought she was just happy to see me.

Then I quickly realized we had a big problem on our hands.

Not only was she nine months pregnant.

With her water broken.

And hopped up on the Morphine.

But I had to somehow get her back to the hospital to try and deliver a baby.

Thirteen years later, I can still remember it as clear as day.

The site of her stumbling out of bed.

Wobbling to the car.

Looking like Molly Ringwold’s big sister walking down the aisle in Sixteen Candles.

I know that's a random 80s movie reference.

Not my first.

Certainly not my last.

But if you saw that classic movie, I guarantee you are cracking up right now.

But the bottom line is I got my wife back into the hospital.

Somehow.

And a bed in the hospital had opened up.

Somehow.

And within, what felt like minutes, she was pushing.

And within, what felt like seconds, our son had arrived.

No time for screaming.

No time for I HATE YOU, YOU BASTARD, LOOK WHAT YOU DID TO ME.

Hell, there wasn’t even time for an epidural.

But thanks to some Morphine, a broken water pipe and John Hughes.

The birth of my son was anything but ordinary.

We can only hope the birth of this son goes just as smooth.

Whenever that is.

About 90 minutes after arriving at the hospital on Saturday night, they sent us home.

Home to watch some TV and wait for the next series of contractions.

The real ones.

I wonder if The Breakfast Club is on.

Baby On Board

Where was I...

Oh yeah, my wife is pregnant.

Very pregnant.

32 weeks pregnant.

We go by weeks now.

But considering what it’s taken to get here, it’s more like day-to-day.

At the ripe old age of 42, getting pregnant is the last thing my wife expected.

Definitely not the last thing she wanted.

But after driving down this road many times, the only thing she could see was a dead end.

But for a reason way beyond us, this time it has worked.

There’s no explaining why it worked.

And considering it took me two tries to barely pass biology.

I’m definitely not the one to do the explaining.

I’ve left that part to the doctors.

And we saw plenty of them.

Including one of those reproductive specialists.

Dr. Bush.

(That still makes me laugh.)

(Come on, a reproductive doctor named Dr. Bush?)

(Really!)

Anywhoo...

Visit after visit.

We learned pretty much nothing about why.

Or in our case why not.

What I did learn is that doctors make my wife nervous.

So nervous, she makes up words.

Like, “examinating.”

Examine, that’s a word.

Examinating, not so much.

And she’s got a Master’s degree.

My wife and I are the proud parents of three children.

Proud!

Three healthy, happy children.

We are blessed beyond belief.

But like Dick Van Patten, three was not enough for us.

We’d been trying for seven years to bring another member to this family.

Which may sound like fun to a horny teenager.

But it’s no fun when you are 44.

No fun for me.

Hell for my wife.

Maybe it’s a male/female thing.

Maybe it’s more than that.

My wife and I are very different.

And that’s not necessarily a bad thing.

I come from an extremely small family.

Both my mother and my father had no brothers.

And no sisters.

I have spent most of my life calling people Uncle and Aunt.

Even though we didn’t share the same blood.

My wife has a much bigger pool to pull from.

A brother and a sister.

Nieces and nephews.

Uncles and Aunts.

Real ones.

Cousins and more cousins.

But that’s hardly the only difference between us.

Hardly.

She was born in South Korea.

I was born in San Diego.

She was raised Catholic.

I am was raised Jewish.

Very Jewish.

She moved to the United States when she was three so that her parents could chase the the American dream.

My father was the first person to earn a ring from both the World Series AND Super Bowl.

Not bad for a 5-foot-9 white guy from Jersey City.

My wife and I met in college.

We were actually friends years before she fell in love with me.

What a concept.

We dated for a few years.

I proposed.

We got married.

We moved cross country for my job.

Did I leave out any details?

Maybe a few, but keep reading.

The year was 1997 and my wife and I decided that we were ready to start a family.

Three years after we got married.

I was approaching 30.   She had just turned 27.

On a Saturday morning we announced to the baby doctor that we were hoping to get pregnant.

Moments later the doc announced to us that we already were.

Pregnant.

Surprise!

Wow, that doctor works fast.

We had no idea when we sat down in the office that nature had already taken its course.

But with a little test in a cup, we got the very exciting news.

40 or so weeks later, give or take, our little girl arrived.

It was a very normal pregnancy.

As pregnancies go.

The little guy was pretty much no different.

We met him 21 months later.

By that point we figured that getting pregnant was not only fun.

But easy.

So we tried again.

And again.

And again.

A couple of times it actually worked.

And then it didn’t.

Only my therapist gets those details.

But the bottom line is we had come to grips that if a pair was good enough for Noah.

It had to be good for us. 

Little did we know that in the fall of 2003, we’d turn that pair into three-of-a-kind.

Another beautiful baby girl.

Born in October of that year.

Healthy.

And funny too.

There wasn’t a day during that pregnancy that any of us took anything for granted.

I think we spent more time in the doctor’s office than Cliff Huxtable.

But the end result was a healthy child.

And that was all that mattered.

We knew for sure that she would be it for us.

Until now.

I’m not sure my wife really believed it when the test came back positive.

But with something the size of a basketball now sitting under her shirt, she’s a believer now.

And we couldn’t be more excited.

We, meaning my wife and I.

Our three other kids.... well, that’s been a work in progress.

Oh, don’t get me wrong, they are excited.

Now.

But each of them had a very different reaction when they first heard the news.

The youngest, eight.

Of course she was sold right away.

So happy about “the gift in mommy’s tummy.”

She credits Santa Claus.

As she should.

The boy, 13.

He was disgusted upon hearing the news.

After all, it was just a year earlier that his principal gave his class “The Talk.”

Yes, THAT talk.

And he had a hard time digesting that his parents were involved in such debauchery. 

Then there was our oldest.

The 15-year-old girl.

She was terrified.

Terrified that when this thing comes out.

And she has to take it to the grocery store.

Somebody might actually think it is hers.

Thanks MTV!

But even with the early hiccups, everyone is on board now.

We even have the crib.

Courtesy of some friends who don’t plan on getting pregnant at 42.

With a couple of months still to go, we are still taking it day-by-day.

But those days seems to be moving a lot faster now.

A Barker's Dozen

You may find this hard to believe.

But not everything you see in the movies is true.

For example...

Indiana Jones, scared of snakes.

Harrison Ford, not scared of snakes.

Gary Sinise, has both his legs.

Lieutenant Dan, not so much.

Sandy, hot.

Olivia Newton-John, hot.

Ok, that one was true.

Now I’ve worked in TV for all of my adult life, so I know a couple tricks of the trade.

But I certainly don’t know it all.

I was reminded of that nearly 14 years ago.

That’s when my wife went into labor for the first time, with our first child.

Now my mom and dad had no brothers and no sisters.

So I grew up with no real nieces or nephews.

And that meant no babies.

And no experience with pregnancy.

Sure my wife and I took all of the classes.

Hee Hee.  Ha Ha.

But I had no idea what really happens when labor kicks in.

Dr. Huxtable can only teach you so much.

So through the magic of real life, I learned that unlike General Hospital, labor actually takes longer than 12 minutes.

And there is no commercial break in the middle of it.

Who knew?

In the case of my daughter it took more than 12 hours.

Of course it was all worth it in the end when the good doctor handed us our little girl.

Then again, I wasn’t the one in serious pain for more than half a day.

I did a quick google search to see how long the longest labor has been.

And I wasn’t able to get an official answer.

But I did see that one very unfortunate woman said she was in labor for 52 hours.

Ouch.

Of course, I have absolutely no idea how she felt.

But Bella does.

We just got word from the in-laws that after months of waiting.

And days of pacing.

Bella is finally a mom.

She and Dino decided to start a family a few months ago.

Well, it was probably Dino’s decision.

I’m not sure if they are legally married.

But these days, does it really matter?

My father-in-law has been anxiously awaiting the arrival of Bella’s babies for several days.

And Sunday she delivered.

The first call informed us that Bella and Dino were proud parents.

Of four puppies.

Bella and Dino are German Shepherds.

We were all excited.

But selfishly, I was thrilled.

You see, I’ve been hoping to get a second dog for quite a while.

And since my in-laws have three children, including my wife.

And since they now had four puppies.

I liked our chances of getting one of the dogs.

But Bella, that little overachiever, wasn’t done there.

A few hours later, the phone rang again.

Puppy #7 had just arrived.

All black.  All adorable.

Just last week they had taken Bella to the vet to make sure she was doing alright.

The doggie doctor said there were at least four puppies on the way.

Possibly more.

At last check, seven is more than four.

By this point, Bella was about 12 hours into the process.

She had to be beat.

I know my in-laws were.

In fact, they had switched to the zone defense so that at least one person could get some shut eye.

1000 miles away, I slept just fine.

When we woke up the next morning, the news had changed.

Again.

Bella had reached double digits.

Ten puppies.

This cute little thing had taken on an entirely different level.

By this point, I had a pretty good feeling one of those pups would be making the trek to my house.

Maybe more.

Those feelings got even stronger when puppy #11 was born.

Then #12.

And finally #13.

13 PUPPIES.

That’s not a litter.

That’s a kennel.  

My son found the record for a litter is 24 puppies.

24 Mastiff Puppies, born in the United Kingdom in 2005.

That poor Momma.

Our poor Bella.

Thankfully, she is doing great.

Dino too.

The plan is to keep the babies with mom and dad for the next six weeks or so.

Then our immediate family will increase by one.

Maybe more.