Mama Needs a Cosmo

So, I had this wickedly awesome week of partying planned. Posts were laid out, drinks were mixed, and Mama was going to show you all how to do the UBP right.

But something dramatic took place in my little world that completely derailed my UBP plans. In fact, I ended up having a really good cry about it last night. I’m not usually one to go all emo on people in the middle of an awesome party, but I’ve got a good reason. Here’s the background:

I’ve known my very best friend in the whole wide world for almost 23 years. During that time, we’ve seen each other through so much crap that it would make Jerry Springer salivate and Judge Judy blush. We’re the ones that taught Romy and Michele how to do a class reunion and showed Thelma and Louise a thing or two about loyalty. Safe to say that we’re “pretty tight.”

My BFF and I also share a common bond that plagues millions of women world-wide: We’ve tried successfully to conceive only to have the pregnancy end in a miscarriage. For me, it was twice. For her, it was four times. During that last pregnancy, she even got past a critical benchmark stage only to suffer disappointment yet again. She feared that she had waited too long to get pregnant and had almost conceded that bearing a child of her own more than likely wasn’t in her future.

Soon after that, she had something of a significant breakthrough and turned to me for advice. And when she comes to me for words of wisdom, she does it because she knows I’ll give it to her straight and tell her what’s right instead of what she wants to hear. So, needless to say the pressure was on.

She had just returned home from a doctor appointment at which the doctor had told her that, while her body had made a full recovery, he didn’t think she “was mentally ready to try again,” and went on to say that she should probably wait another month or two before even revisiting the topic. But, instead of letting the news throw her into a deep, depressed state, she decided to take it as a challenge.

She said to me, “I was like, ‘Who the hell does this guy think he is, telling me how I feel?’”

And I said, “Do YOU think you’re ready? Because the only one who can tell you that you’re ready is you. And if you think you’re ready, then tell your husband to come home early because you’ve got some business to tend to.”

“THANK you,” she replied, “because I think I’m ready. I just needed to hear it said out loud from someone that isn’t married to me.”

That was late June of last year.

Two months later, she confirmed her pregnancy with a blood test.

And everyone in our circle of friends and family have been holding our collective breaths ever since. Adding HER doctor appointment days to our calendars, and anxiously waiting for the results of each and every one of her exams. Hell, I even gained some sympathy weight.

When her due date came and went, I wondered if the kid was going to give his mom some trouble when her body decided it was time to kick him out. Having endured a “past the due-date” pregnancy myself, I knew that the chances of the baby being bigger than average increased dramatically with each day that goes beyond the 40-week mark. And I’ve got the scars to prove it.

I received word that she was admitted to the hospital at 1:15am Monday morning (Nearly a week overdue). So, I spent the entire day completely unfocused and pacing like a caged tiger since I wasn’t allowed in the room with her. (The rules were that only one other coach was allowed in the birthing room besides her husband, and, while I could totally take her mom in a street fight, she ultimately won the battle of the baby watch.) Her husband did his best to keep me in the loop, though, and I did my best to do some patient advocacy from my end.

At 9:00pm, I got a text from him that stated, “She’s fully dilated; 100% effaced. Not pushing yet, though.”

And I was like, “Holy-Mother-of-God-just-get-that-kid-OUT-because-if-anything-happens-to-her-or-that-baby-I’m-gonna-bust-some-serious-f-ing-heads.”

Then my phone went silent. For nearly TWO HOURS.

I was a total wreck. I got up, had a drink, tried to watch TV, tried to blog, and even tried to shop. And when Mama can’t find anything to buy online after a cocktail, you know something is seriously amiss.

My phone buzzed and lit up at 10:50pm.

“HE’S HERE! 9LBS 7OZ 22 INCHES LONG!”

“Jesus! She gave birth to a toddler!” I replied, fumbling through the message with shaking hands and increasingly loud sobs. “I wish I was there.” Then I put the phone back on its charger and went into a full-on no-breath-having cry-like-a 4-year-old meltdown. But in a good way.

Yesterday morning was filled with lots more texts . . . baby is good, mom is good, no name yet, when are you going to get here . . . and, after YEARS of waiting for the moment, I finally got to hold my best friend’s first baby. I didn’t put him down for nearly two hours, and it was only out of necessity, since the little dude had pooped.

Sorry, this is all you get until I receive permission to post a picture of the baby's sweet little face.