I’m dictating to my beloved because I’m no longer allowed to sit up.  My last attempt at such a radical maneuver resulted in my blood pressure plummeting and the world fading rapidly away. 

So I lay here like a slab of meat and wonder if this birthday will be the 12th instead of the 11th after all. 

I’m sorry my humor has seemed to evaporate.  As Anne of Green Gables said, fainting is not the romantic experience that books lead you to believe.

Thank you again for your prayers.

Not smiling anymore.

Angel of mercy anesthesiologist has been paged…

Some people have expressed wonder that I am blogging while “in labor”. Can I just clarify that, at this moment…I would hardly classify this as ‘labor’? This? This I would classify as a verrrry slow day in a really uncomfortable hotel where people randomly come and impale you with various implements of torture.

Rest assured that when things get intense, I will probably go awol. I will also not be posting pictures of baby emerging, for anyone who might have been wondering. I’m not *that* much of a share-er!

I’m sure you have guessed that things are still creeping by. The pitocin started at 1 m./hr and has been bumped to 4ml/hr but my uterus is sulky. It is simply pouting. It doesn’t wanna do this again. I would ground it, but what it really needs is to get a haircut and get a job.

When the contractions come, they are strong, but I can’t say in all honesty that they are causing me undue pause. I don’t know what I am dilated to, because I have had no checks since the water-breakage, at which point I was at a whopping “2″. Baby’s heartrate remains strong and consistent, filling the room with the sound of its steady, reassuring thump. He is unperterbed, for which I am very grateful!

Some other confessions, as long as I’m being transparent:

1. I put on makeup this morning. Yeah, that was silly, I know. But there was this suspicion that our pastor might drop by (he did) and I didn’t feel he was prepared for the harsh reality that I was born without eyebrows.
2. This one is really embarassing. I don’t think I can actually confess it.

Okay, maybe I can.

No, no I can’t.

Okay, I will. I’m all about truth in blogging.

2. I…I…I think the hospital smells good.

I KNOW! I am certifiable. Maybe I need to get out more? I am obviously one sick puppy. But there it is.

I wish I had a way to download some pictures, but I forgot my camera USB cord. If I *could* post pictures, I would post one of a button on my little hospital TV tray that says, and I quote: “Vanity Release.”

Because if there is one thing the hospital requires, it is that you release your vanity. At every turn.

But I will hold onto my carefully-drawn eyebrows, by golly. They can take away my food and give me ice chips, but some things are just non-negotiable.

 

It is with great regret that I share that ABSOLUTELY NOTHING IS HAPPENING. Cervix of steel strikes again. Where’s that C4 when you need it?

Actually, I think they’re going to start the liquid equivalent soon. Dr was just in and declared that he would start the pitocin and “wipe that smile off my face.”

He was standing on the other side of the room when he said that.

Otherwise we can’t be sure of what would have happened to the dear man, can we?

I got a little rest and feel pretty good…it’s just so dang QUIET in this hospital! They need to send some kids running up and down the hallways or something so I can feel more at home. Maybe scatter some legos and blocks randomly about for me to trip over.

Ah well, your comments boost my spirits NO END, my friends! It has been so much fun to read your guesses and encouragements. “Slime trail” indeed! It’s very yucky. And squelchy. I am glad not to be a snail (and not for the first time).

I just linked that post again! I wonder how much mileage I’ll get from it before I go Home to Glory?

FIRE IN THE HOLE!

And the pitocin begins.

If you’re just tuning in, please place your bets as far as weight goes, and don’t worry about duplicating! I’ll put any duplicate winners together and draw from that pool if need be.

To be continued…

We have a connection! Hooray! I’m sitting in my oh-so-comfortable (L.O.L) bed here in the land of Large Stabby Needles, all hooked up to the Machine That Goes Ping and cross-eyed from reams of paperwork (”Is there any chance you might be pregnant?” takes the prize as most hilarious question thus far).

Dr. R has been in to break my water, which was a singularly unpleasant experience. As he was fishing around with his harpoon, I honestly thought I might shoot out of my skin. I don’t think he was aware of his own tenuous hold on life as he knew it, as his position beside me would have been ideal had I given in to the almost overwhelming desire to launch him from the room by his genitals.

I resisted. I’m kindly that way.

At any rate, the water has left the building and we are awaiting contractions to begin in earnest.

I thought we might have some fun and start a little poll of sorts. Let’s see who can guess the baby’s weight, shall we? Some of you have read my birth stories over the past few weeks, so you know my range (anywhere from 6lbs8oz to 8lbs11oz) and I thought it might be diverting to see who comes closest. In the interest of full disclosure, I offer this picture, taken just two weeks ago:

So what say you? Post your guess in the comments and I’ll send the winner a prize of some sort. I have no idea what. Maybe the baby’s umbilical cord stump.

Okay, maybe not.

I’ll find something fun! In the event that more than one person is right on the money, I’ll employ some highly scientific method of choosing the winner. So have at it! For now, I gotta figure out how to extricate myself from these wires so I can pee. More later!

When one is hours away from giving birth to one’s dozenth child, all sorts of poignant and meaningful thoughts run through one’s head. Memories, hopes, dreams…and this:

I am the eggman
You are the eggman
I am the walrus

And while it is true that I am roughly the size of a walrus at this moment, I’m not entirely sure that John Lennon meant what is possibly his weirdest song to be a metaphor for pregnancy and birth. So why, oh my peeps, is it in my head??

Might have something to do with the fact that I’d like a whole bowl of cornflakes right about now.

But we know that sustenance is Evil And Dangerous to the woman about to birth, don’t we?

Should I eat something anyway?

But then I’d have to lie when they ask me upon admittance.

I’m a terrible liar.

So I’ll just starve instead. That’s okay, don’t mind me over here, starving.

Oh hey, My Beloved just walked in and asked me if I had eaten anything. Cuz he was going to, you know, eat with me if I hadn’t. And I very politely and calmly reminded him that NO I HAVEN’T EATEN BECAUSE I WAS TOLD NOT TO EAT ANYTHING BECAUSE I’M SUPPOSED TO BE PROPERLY STARVED IN ORDER TO BIRTH HIS CHILD.

He’s going to find it difficult to eat now, missing his head and all.

No, I’m kidding. I didn’t really bite his head off. That was called Making Fun At His Expense. Have I mentioned lately just how much I adore My Beloved? How sweet and kind and gentle and generous he is? How completely supportive of my dreams and encouraging to my weary heart he manages to be? All The Time?

Because, if I haven’t, I have been remiss. He really is all those things. He thanked me yesterday for giving him all these crazy, wild, amazing, beautiful, gifted, sweet, lovable people we call offspring. And I said you’re welcome. Even though we are both fully aware that we had very little, in reality, to do with their coming to our house to stay for a while. We know who the Real Author of That Business is.

We thank Him too. A lot.

And I’m thanking Him for all y’all as well, right now…everybody who’s wishing us well and praying for us and waiting to hear our news. I just can’t seem to say enough how tickled and blessed I am by your presence. I’m going to keep updating, as long as The Institution For Ridiculous Regulations Upon A Process That Is Entirely Normal 98% Of The Time allows me to bring in my bacteria-shedding laptop. Until then, Koo-Koo-Kitchoo!

ed. note: this was originally posted about 2.5 years ago on my first and now defunct blog…but I find myself revisiting these thoughts recently and wanted to share them again.

There was a time in my life that I was, believe it or not, obnoxious. Yes! Although no one ever said so (at least not in so many words, and not to my face), I think I really was. My convictions were many, and powerful. They were entities unto themselves, with lives and personalities of their own that would periodically take over my thought processes and cause me to launch into lengthy dissertations about the right-ness or wrong-ness of certain things. It was heady stuff–knowledge with certainty; there was a real power in standing upon my soapboxes, above the milling crowds of go-with-the-flow types.

However, as I grow older, I find my supply of soapboxes dwindling. Things are simply not as black and white as they used to be. For example, I used to believe (really!) that *anyone* could homeschool, and that *everyone* should. Now I actually concede (shhh…don’t tell!) that “regular” school can actually work for some children.

I used to expound upon the benefits of homebirth–now I find myself heading to the hospital (on purpose, no less!) to have baby #11. I used to rant against intervention–now I’m looking at an induction for this little one. I used to rave that natural childbirth was the only way to go, the absolute best for mother and baby, and anyone who would stoop to drugs was a wimp. Okay, so maybe I never thought that, but I confess to feeling a certain superiority over those who chose the route of pain relief. Now, yep, you guessed it, the epidural is my friend.

I think I’m just tired. Let’s face it, unwavering devotion to an ideal requires energy. I have little to spare anymore. This does not mean I’m abandoning my core beliefs, although I have felt a little ashamed of myself of late. I have wondered, who am I without these convictions? Am I still a radical? I want to be radical. I believe I am, more than ever before, a Jesus Freak.

The problem lies in letting these peripheral ideals get so interwoven with the idea of what makes a good Christian that they are inseparable. So I’m doing some untangling these days. Some un-twisting of those peripheral things, and I’m finding that it’s all good. What I’m mostly letting go of, I find to my suprise, is pride. I’m seeing that too often the ideal becomes The Point, rather than a simple, pure trust in God to work in my life, no matter what the circumstances.

I’m letting go, little by little, and building up the pyre of soapboxes until I find that the chaff in my own soul is being burned up along with them. It’s painful at times, but from the ashes rises that most amazing of phoenixes: grace.

What began as a hump
Has now grown to a bump–
A prodigious protrusion
With a single conclusion.

The mysterious movements
Can lead to amusement–
When the bump begins jiggling
The kids all start giggling.

I confess to some feeling
That the thing most appealing
About this endeavor:
It won’t last forever.

The time is approaching
As the bump keeps encroaching
When bending and tying
my shoes won’t be trying.

And certain activities
Which now are not done with ease
Will soon cause no more stress
Or lead to duress

The doing of laundry
Will cause me no quandary
And this extra stuffing
Will cause no more puffing

I’ll traverse the staircase
At my usual fair pace
Instead of a slow crawl
Or deciding to not at all.

My bathroom excursions
Will be daily diversions
Of no more than 2 or 3
Instead of incessantly.

And my internal pieces
Which are now full of creases
From finding no space within
Will fall into place again.

They say it’s not far away
That magical natal day
But I’m prone to disagree—
It seems all too far to me.

So bump, please be circumspect
I mean no great disrespect
But just so we’re very clear:
My sanity’s slipping here.

Your stay in my abdomen
Is coming now to an end—
9 months is a weary wait
Oh bump, be not late!

Happy once more I’ll be
To view my feet easily
But happiest to see you, dear,
Residing in this bump so near.

Gabriel celebrated his first birthday, and two months later we discovered a new baby was around the corner for us. I was due in October, and after a brief deliberation during which we reviewed our options, we made the decision to re-enter The System and use the OB who had been on call when we had Gabriel, Dr. R.

Although our experience with him had been brief, after speaking with many other women in my area and gathering intel about the other three (3, count ‘em, 3) OB’s from which we had to choose, we really felt that the Lord had been gracious in having Dr. R on call when we transferred. He definitely sounded like the most laid-back choice, and the one least given to unnecessary intervention (which, relative to our past, was still more than we were accustomed to, but an important factor nonetheless). We also knew he was a Christian, which is not a consideration for many, but for us was undeniably preferable.

So we made the appointment and met with him for a more extended visit, during which we found him to be pleasant and amenable, once again either withholding any negative opinions of our transfer situation, or honestly not finding it any of his business. We were grateful in either case, and made our final decision to put ourselves under his care.

My pregnancy was uneventful and the sonogram revealed that all was well and we were having our second boy in a row (was this even possible?). My due date was October 28th but, given my past record, I tried to mentally prepare myself for my second November baby instead.

Two weeks before my due date, we were visiting my best friend and she had recently been given a massaging chair pad, of which she was extolling the virtues. Given my creaking and rickety state at that point, I welcomed the chance to try it out and found it quite heavenly. It had all sorts of vibrating and moving parts, including a “shiatsu” option which would work up and down your spine like a masseuse’s hands.

It never occured to me that Baby might not share the same positive opinon of all the buzzing activity, but either it was that or sheer coincidence that made him decide to shift his position drastically within the next 24 hours. For the next few days I puzzled over the increase in heartburn and how large and hard and round his little bum was, until the aha! moment when I decided it was not a bum at all.

During my next OB appointment, a week before my due date, Dr. R was making his closing remarks when I expressed my opinion that the baby was breech. A look of puzzlement came over his face as he said that he was certain he had been head-down at the last check. He palpitated my abdomen and puzzled some more, but due to his lack of fingertip-x-ray-vision, as all my midwives had possessed, he finally resorted to the sonogram machine to be absolutely certain.

Sure enough, there was Baby, head up and happy as a lark.

As with Ruth, in the situation with Gabriel, we deliberated. Dr. R said I had a proven pelvis (thank you, thankyouverymuch), which meant a breech birth would more than likely be just fine, but he, as Ruth, was reluctant to proceed in that direction if there was a way to ensure a head-first birth. We discussed undergoing a version to turn him, and then immediately inducing to ensure that he did not flip around again before labor began.

If the version was not successful, Dr. R wanted to perform a c-section. I failed to see how that was less risky than a breech birth, but his level of familiarity with the former far exceeded his familiarity with the latter, not surprisingly.

I went home to talk it over with My Beloved.

After prayerful consideration, we decided to go with the version, but in the event that it was not successful we were in no way consenting to a section. We were optimistic, given our experience with Gabriel, that Baby would turn easily enough, although I was not toting the same compliment of excessive water this time around.

Two days later, in the early morning, we arrived at the hospital for the scheduled U-turn. Dr. R was nervous, which I found amusing for some reason. He had varied levels of success with versions, and all of them were, in his experience, pretty painful for the mother. He apologized in advance for this possibility, prayed with us, and greased my belly. Taking a deep breath, he reiterated that I should “do whatever I needed to do” in order to deal with the discomfort, and proceeded to mash and knead as necessary.

Exactly two, completely pain-free moments later, Baby was head-down. Dr. R stood looking rather nonplussed at this unexpected boon as I smiled and offered my opinion that my uterus was simply not likely, at post-ten babies, to protest any sort of manipulation. He laughed and had to agree that it was indeed a factor.

Later, the nurses said they had never seen him so gleeful that it had gone well. Apparently, he “was dreading having to talk us into a section”. Harrumph! He didn’t know the half of it.

By noon I was admitted “for real”, and the eviction induction was started. Dr. R took a very conservative stance on pitocin and thus began with the smallest dosage possible, for which I was grateful. I was starting out at 2 cm, and proceeded, as was my modus operandi, at one cm more per hour. Because versions were, in their opinions, notorious for being stressful to the baby, I was compelled to stay in the bed, strapped to the monitor, and thus ill-equipped to deal with the contractions as they got stronger. I opted for the epidural and was soon “enjoying” what was possibly the most boring day of my life.

There was nothing on TV (is there ever?). There was nothing left to discuss, and My Beloved and I had not thought to bring so much as a pack of cards. I was tired, but too excited to sleep, not that it would have been possible anyway with the constant interruptions of nurses and pinging machines. The hours crept past and I began to wish desperately that Dr. R was not so conservative with the pitocin. A small, carefully placed bit of C-4 upon my cervix might have been a welcome giddy-up to its mule-like behavior.

Dr. R appeared now and again, occasionally expressing wonder that all my assurances regarding the tedious natures of my previous labors had not been exaggerated. By 11pm I had to wonder if he was regretting his small-dose mentality as well. I was checked and found to be at about 9 cm, and I was getting desperate for sleep (I was also ravenous and dying of thirst, having had ice chips my only sustenance for the past fifteen hours, possibly the most ridiculous of all the ridiculous rules attached to our hospital’s policies).

 At my request, the lights were dimmed, the TV extinguished, and I tried to get comfortable amidst the tangle of IV tubes and monitor belts extending from my body parts. I dozed for about an hour before I was awoken to the news that I was comletely dilated and could begin to push. Showtime!

I tried to wake up enough to get excited, but again the reality of a baby seemed remote and hard to grasp. I sat up as best I could and began to push, once again going by memory, since my lower half might as well have been on a beach in the tropics, for all I knew.

Memory served well, however, and soon baby was on his way. I was told that he had hair, which is always a novelty to me, having had mostly bald babies throughout the years. Dr. R’s desire to be at home in his own bed surfaced at this point (although I like to think he was being considerate for my own fatigue as well) when he offered to use a little suction to get Baby out with a bit more expediency. At this point the cascading interventions blurred into one big shrug of surrender and moments later (sporting a large hickey on his forehead from the plunger used) our fourth son was in our arms.

I honestly had not thought that there could ever be another child as unequivocably adorable as Gabriel had been at birth, but I found myself never happier to be proven wrong as I snuggled my little boy. I felt a pang of guilt at his more-than-usual “cheesy coating” and I knew that he would have happily stayed ensconced within for another week or more, although he was technically only “early” by five days.

He didn’t seem unduly concerned by his present situation, however, and I was undeniably delighted to fill a previously-vacant month with the birthday of this most precious of gifts.

Stats
Baby: Tobias (Toby)
Weight: 7lbs 14oz
Labor: 12 hours

disclaimer: I did not want to write this birth story. Ever since it all occured, I have not dwelt much upon it. You might say I have had a touch of post-traumatic stress over it all. I wasn’t sure, when I began, if I would be able to finish it. But here it is, for what it’s worth…In the end I think it has been helpful to write it out. Thanks again for reading.

 

After Emma’s birth, in 2002, the oil company My Beloved was employed by joined forces with another megalithic oil company and became truly brobdingnagian. Amidst the reshuffling and new assignments, our family was transferred to another Oklahoma town about 70 miles away from my childhood home.

 

The move was complete in 2003, and shortly thereafter we discovered that we were expecting on Christmas Eve again (Caleb, our first boy, was also due on that famously fun date). This pleased me no end. I have always loved being due around the holidays; it just makes everything even more exciting, not to mention making the weeks go faster with so much to be done ahead of time!

 

I measured big throughout the pregnancy, which was new and novel for me. I have always measured small in every pregnancy by as much as 2 to 3 weeks, which I chalked up to having a long torso and lots of room for the baby to hide. This time, however, I was just plain big. Ruth felt it was a preponderance of water, and we had a sonogram to make sure nothing was amiss. It revealed a big healthy boy, and yes, lots of water, but nothing to be worried about.

 

Christmas came and went with the usual fanfare, and three days later I went into labor. It was a drizzly winter evening, and I was full of optimism. My Beloved and I walked at the mall and came home to call Ruth before things got too far advanced. I also called my sister (still living in our hometown) who came over to be of whatever assistance might be necessary. My mother and father stayed put for the time being, planning to come over as soon as baby had arrived.

My labor was proceeding at a good clip; the contractions were good and strong and when Ruth arrived she told me, to my absolute shock, that I was already at an 8cm. Transition already? I had hardly even broken a sweat! This was going to be a piece of cake! However, on the heels of her pronouncement of dilation came the words:

“That’s not a head down here.” 

Sure enough, my baby boy, with so much water to play in and a uterus that was not as, shall we say, firm as it used to be, had decided he did not like the head-down position and was bobbing about like a cork, miles above the important-to-birthing-bits through which he needed to proceed.

Consternation reigned for the next few minutes as we deliberated what to do.

I could deliver him breech. It was not ideal, but it was certainly possible. Ruth had delivered plenty of breech babies, but with ours being so high there was the extra risk of a cord prolapse once the water broke, and this made us hesitant to proceed with such a plan. Ruth had one more idea up her sleeve.

With me lying on the bed, she turned the little corker externally until he was heading in the right direction (pun intended). Checking his heartrate to ensure that he had not found the process unduly stressful, she then had My Beloved put his hands firmly on the baby’s bum and press down as she broke my water. This, she felt, would guarantee that he would not only stay put, but greatly reduce the risk of a prolapse.

Procedure over, I rose and stood on a towel. And another towel. And another towel. And yet another towel. As the water continued to gush like Niagara Falls, I started to laugh. The baby’s middle name had been something of a question mark in my mind, but once again God’s sense of humor spoke to me and I stated that I knew the one I had been toying with was right: Noah. The kid was coming right along with a flood of his own.

We all supposed that when I stood up, contractions would kick back in full force and we would have a baby. My sister arrived in what we supposed was just the knick of time. However, as we stood and waited, nothing happened. Nothing. Not a twinge. Not a peep from my uterus. It just sat there, inert and quiet.

No matter. I would move around a bit and things would get going again, right? We were optimistic.

Once again I burned the midnight oil and waited for baby. Contractions came sporadically and lazily. I walked. I talked to my sister. I prayed. And I got really, really tired. Once again morning dawned. The children who had gone to bed with promises that a baby would be waiting when they awoke came in and were crestfallen to find me still in an inflated state.

My spirits were very. very. low.

It occured to me that when the weight of all the water had disappeared, my body had decided its job was done. It had no idea there was still a baby to be produced and was confused by our expectations. Who could blame it? It was going great guns and suddenly it was relieved of a large proportion of its burden.

I was 9 cm dilated and it was almost lunchtime. The contractions, when they came, were transition-painful but nowhere near often enough to bring on the pushing urge. I was, once again, exhausted. In spite of my resolve never, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever infinity  to push again without the pushing urge, Ruth was convinced that with a little urging my cervix would open up enough to let baby out. Reluctantly, we tried.

It was a nightmare. Every push was an assault of unprecidented proportions upon my guts. Forget the stabbing knife-sensations. This was a stabby knife with thousands of tinier knives attached to it, and they were all twisting simultaneously. Ruth encouraged, my sister and My Beloved supported, but no great ground was gained. No pushing urge took over.

We changed positions and tried again. And again. Each new position became more pretzel-like than before, and the pain never changed. Finally, I gasped out that I had to stop. I lay on the floor and sobbed…and sobbed some more. My mother called to see what was going on, and as my sister picked up she heard me in the background.

Suffice to say she had the scare of her life. My sister tried to relate what was happening before she required resusitation.

As I cried, I said I was Done. Finished. Caput. I wasn’t doing it any more. I was going to the hospital. I didn’t care anymore. I couldn’t do it. They could cut me open and take the kid out, but there was no way I was giving it one more go. I could no longer remember a time that I had not been in pain.

They tried to reason with me. Tried to tell me that I really didn’t mean it. That we could get-r-dun here at home, we just needed a little more time. I wasn’t having any of it. Suddenly I realized that the rational arguments would continue as long as I was hysterical.

So I stopped. I sat up and very calmly explained that I didn’t care what anyone else did, *I* was going to the hospital. I would drive myself if I had to. My Beloved got his keys.

Instantly Ruth packed her things to come with me. Later she said that, when a woman gets *that* look on her face, and *that* tone in her voice, she knows it’s over.

I dried my face and tried to look brave as I went past the children, but they knew things were Not Good. I reassured them that the baby was fine, and we would be back as soon as we could be, but I’m not sure I said it with any confidence. I was never so grateful for my sister, who was staying behind with them, as I was at that point. The oldest children were old enough to be alone with the rest, but leaving them in such a state would have been wrenching.

As soon as we left, my sister lept into action. She gathered the troops and they all prayed that things would go well. Then she did what she does best: cleaned and commanded. Giving everyone a job, they scrubbed and vacuumed and dusted and stayed generally distracted for as long as possible. 

Meanwhile, we arrived at the hospital and were admitted. Obviously, coming into a hospital as a homebirth transfer is a tricky proposition. We had no idea what kind of mentality we would come up against. Would they be hostile? Accusatory? Would the OB lecture us on our “carelessness”? Ruth was a brick, staying by my side at all times and fielding every question about my history and the pregnancy and labor thus far.

For the most part, the nurses were kindly and supportive. The OB on call was Dr. R and, whatever his opinions, he kept them to himself, which was good enough for us. I lay in the bed and cried quietly, feeling utterly defeated. My request for an epidural was filled in short order, and I drifted off into blissful, pain-free sleep.

Just an hour later, after a dose of pitocin to convince my uterus that there was still work to be done, Dr. R returned and declared that I was fully dilated. I was propped up and pushed as I recalled pushing should feel like, although the epi was completely successful and I never felt a thing. All my experience up to that point, however, came in handy and I managed to push him out within the space of half an hour.

I honestly couldn’t believe I had a baby. I had pretty much forgotten there was a baby involved in the nightmare at all. How could something so sweet come from so much pain? Nevertheless, there he was, in my arms, completely healthy and as adorable as all get-out. I forgave him immediately for his part in the trauma.

It was Ruth’s opinion, as well as the OB’s, that my uterus would need pitocin from this point forth if I continued to have babies. It was just plain pooped, to their minds. I’m still not convinced this is the case, but the possibility of having to transfer again to the hospital should this be true has been enough to bring us to the conclusion that our homebirth days are over.

We canvassed the woulda-coulda-shoulda possibilities over the next few days, but always came back with a shrug to the Way It Was. To this day I’m not sure if anything would have been better had we made different decisions. At any rate, the opinion on the final product was unanimous: 

Perfect. 

Stats
Baby: Gabriel
Weight: 8lbs 11oz
Labor: 21 hrs