Alopecia Baby

Okay, so yesterday was a miserable day. I mean, it was sort of miserable and sort of regular, and then , of course, it was a little bit funny. Funny because that's how it unfolds round these parts sometimes, drama and comedy are close bedfellows in this here casa.

Okay. Okay. June 8 didn't start out like most everyone else's. It was a busy night at the hospital for me, which ended with me delivering baby number kabillion of the night at 0641 in the morning. The patient was trying my patience and I just wanted the night to be o-v-e-r. Long story. Needs to be shorter. Condense, I will try. So, anyhow, there I was, sitting on the end of Lucy's bed while she was in the mind-over-matter stage of pushing her baby out. That's the stage, as many of you natural birthers are familiar with, where that sharp and pointy baby's head is crowning, ripping your poor hiney to shreds, bomb exploding in your sacrum, legs trembling, air being sucked out of your core but the baby is right there and could be born any second if you could just say "#$%^ it" and let your body finish the contraction. If you're a midwife and you're at this stage (you personally) then you have to act cool and laugh with it (remember that, Jess, old pal), but if you're an everyday type then you have a green light for screaming your ever-loving brains out until your sweet baby emerges and is plopped into your sweaty arms. Okay, those are the two options. Nowhere, I repeat, nowhere for God's sake is it at all acceptable that while in the midst of pushing your FIFTH (5th, one two three four five), yes fifth, baby out should you stop pushing after birthing the baby up to only her eyebrows, then proceed to climb up to the head of the bed, and calmly look at me and say "no puedo." Never, ever. I tried, I did. All night long I tried to be sweet and kind and midwifey to contrary Lucy. No puedo my ass, Lucy. If you no puedo, then I no puedo. I no puedo help you missy. Now push. But push she wouldn't. Heart tones on that poor little baby were less than 100. No puedo. I calmly advised her to push. I sweetly begged her to push. I caroused and cajoled. I cried out, "puuuuuuuuuush." No puedo, I can't. Then I took Lucy's head, pressed my forehead against hers and spat out (in Spanish), "if . . . you . . . do . . . not . . . push . . . now . . . your . . . baby . . . will . . . die!"
Then, her response, "no puedo." Of course you can woman! You pushed a 9-pound baby out of your 4-foot 7-inch frame 2-years ago. Golly dingbat, cheese sauce rice, oh for crying out lound -- I shouted. Baby is wilting. The nurses stared at me with fear and anger in their eyes. Things were getting out of control. We were all in disbelief. I wrapped my hands around the baby's eyebrows and I pulled. I got the rest of the head. Still no help from the world's wimpiest patient I've ever dealt with, ever (okay, well since January). I placed both my hands into her vagina and tried to cork screw the baby out (a true obstetric maneuver). A little bit of shoulder. Limp baby head drooping downward. I swept the baby's posterior arm (or down-side arm) out, and swept is simply an understatement because the word swept has a very carefree connotation. You don't "sweep" anything out of a canal that has the suction force of a lamprey, you more or less heave. Then I pulled with all the strength the good creator gave me, grunting at her with my efforts "pujale, pujale, pujale porrrrrrrrr favorrrrrrr!" Baby out. Cord clamped and cut. Baby handed to nurse. I rushed over to the warmer where we did respiratory resuscitation. Waaaaaaaaah! And, whew. Baby's arm/clavicle was broken but otherwise Little Man was right as rain.
I came home, exhausted and annoyed. Frustrated and ornery. Baby Tova and I had a long day together of me craving sleep and her denying me of it in favor of nursing and smiling at me. After I gathered the rest of my Viking crew in the afternoon, I came home and fell to the couch, confident that Tova could be off my boobs just a little bit because the rest of the Nut Squad was home to entertain her. The most regrettable thought I had all day . . .
It's always Soren who catches them in the act. Poor little Tattle Teller, never knows when the time is right to snitch, this time he waited a little long. He was the one, at the age of 2-years, to come across Petra as she cut 10-inches of hair off her head the summer she turned four. He was the one to come to me yesterday to tell me, "Mommy, Annike's cutting her hair." Sho' nuff, I ran over to Annike, kiddie scissors in hand with her pony pulled over the top of her head snipping her ends. I snatched the scissors, grabbed the crying Baby Tova and sent Annike elsewhere. All I wanted was sleep. Oh, dear sweet Sleep, how I love you. How I want to carress you in my arms. Oh dear, I fantasized about sleeping while I stroked Tova's little head. Oh dear me. Oh dear God, what is going on here?! Tova's head felt odd, bristly, buzz cutty. Oh mother of pearl. I yelled out in my most magnificent gravelly mad crazy mama voice, "Annike Maria . . . "
She began to wail.
Tova's hair. No more. Cut willy nilly, here and there. Her precious downy hair cut off her head by a pair of Play-Doh encrusted kiddie scissors.
Lord help 'em all. Those poor chilluns of mine. The poor neighbors. Poor baldy Tova. Most of all poor me, the unslept mommy at the edge of the Cliff of Holy Nuttiness. I had few choices. Too few choices. The children are alive, most of all Annike is still breathing. I, myself, took a good breath shed a quick tear that came out of nowhere and then called my husband, whereupon I busted out in guffaws telling him the story of our cosmetelogically oriented preschooler. We shared a nice moment reflecting on the little aliens we brought into this world. Later that night, I was finally able to meet up with sleep in my bed. All is well, if not a little hairless.