Zoetrope: All-Story Extra

I was one week overdue with our first baby and the only shirt that fit me was my black and gold Pittsburgh Steelers jersey. I thanked God and Art Rooney that black is the predominant color in that scheme. Otherwise, I'd have looked like a school bus.

But black is a slimming color. Instead of a bus, I just looked like a VW Beetle with really big headlights.

"Your boobs look amazing." Bob gently rested a plate on my lap. My craving: a well-done chicken skin.

Let me set the mood. There was an upside-down boy inside me, hiccupping, stretching his feet into my throat and scratching his long nails toward the tunnel. I half-expected a paw to slip out. And somewhere on my lap, though I couldn't see over the hump, was a plate of greasy skin. Did I mention I wasn't interested in indulging anyone at the moment?

Truth is, you take a person who likes a sense of control over things and tell her that at any time, something the size of a log would force itself out a very small hole that's otherwise a source of pleasure, she's going to get pretty terrified of her own body. I did my best to think about something else. Like football.

Football had structure. Even when the ball is snapped and the game gives way to 15 seconds of glorious chaos, the whistle blows, everyone gets back in line, and structure returns. I believed I could bring this kind of structure to my pregnancy and decided I was going to push that baby out fearlessly, as if I were Greg Lloyd going for the sack.

So aside from the fact that I had a seven-day-old baby still inside me, I was in a pretty decent mood. The upcoming weekend brought the Steelers-Browns game, the last before Cleveland would head east to Baltimore for a sweeter stadium deal.

"Uh. No." The unwritten portion of the birthplan read: the baby will be born in time for the game.

We'd packed the bags for the midwifery and had them sitting by the front door for more than a month. I had everything set. I had three different colored razors for early labor, in case I wanted to shave my legs and get all dolled up for the birth. The likely choice would be the green razor, but I accounted for possible hormonal shifts in preference, so peach and lavender were included as well.

I also packed Jolly Ranchers, since you're not supposed to eat during labor. And Bob knew that he was not to eat either. Just because.

Other goodies in that suitcase: candles, a photo of our dog, magazines, unopened makeup, an ice pack and hot water bottle. And music, of course. Mozart Lullabies for Smart Tykes and Earth Wind and Fire's Greatest Hits in case I felt like dancing during the difficult bits. My husband tossed in his swimsuit so he could jump in the jacuzzi with me.

Yep, I had everything all set. I was especially looking forward to staying in the midwifery, that cute Victorian house with a bag full of little things I liked. It would be like staying at a bed & breakfast, except I'd be going home with a baby the next day.

As I approached motherhood, something calm and angelic came over me. Even when the contractions started, I didn't swear. I looked calmly at my husband and said, "Get the watch."

The only thing remotely alarming was the venomously low register of my voice. I attributed this to my hormonal state.

"Order. Some. Food." Venomously low register. Then slowly and calmly, "A hamburger and chocolate mousse cake . . . to help me relax."

Another contraction gripped me from the inside. When I caught my breath, I growled, "Chocolate mousse cake! Just tell me you already ordered it!"

That was the first time in my life I didn't finish my dessert. Not that I didn't try. Things were getting so painful that I dropped the fork. When Bob said to forego the last three bites of mousse and go to the midwifery, I agreed. "But put the rest in the fridge."

"This is perfect," I said, gleefully, descending the porch stairs toward the car. "The game is still three days off. The baby can watch it with us." I smiled at Bob, then bent over the handrail and bellowed like a foghorn.

The midwife met us at the door of the small Victorian home. I stripped down to nothing and headed for the full jacuzzi. Didn't feel like shaving my legs. No real room for pride by that stage. I just savored what would be the last moment of real peace and joy for the evening.

Baths are far more fun when you're not in labor. I could see I wasn't the first to leave nail marks in the fiberglass. The lullaby music was on its second play and my husband had forgotten to light the candles the way we planned.

"Do I need to write out the birthing plan for you?" I asked, then launched into another contraction, accompanied by an awful noise. The sound came from inside me somewhere, like the song of a humpback whale. The noise began as a sorrowful cry, then changed to a terrified shriek, the whale realizing it has been harpooned.

When I could muster coherent sentences, they weren't pretty: "I changed my mind! I don't want a baby! I want a divorce! The water's too freaking cold! Would somebody PLEASE check if this baby is ready to come out? Just take it out! Take it!"

The midwife helped me lay down on a beautiful peach bed with spindled head and footboards. Then she stuck two fingers between my legs.

"Sorry," she said, pushing until her wrist, and I'm pretty sure her elbow, was inside. "I wish I had longer fingers."

Right then, I threw up on the pillow. Mostly chocolate mousse cake, but I was still glad for having eaten it. And glad for having thrown up on her peach-colored pillow.

Epidurals aren't allowed at a midwifery, but if you look crossly enough at a stumpy-fingered midwife, you might get lucky. I got a shot of Staydol in the butt.

I got pretty foggy, feeling like I was sinking into hours of heavy sleep between contractions. That angelic calm again.

"Joel Steed's got a fat ass," I continued. "But I wouldn't say it's lumpy. Bob? Are you listening?"

I looked at my husband's white and exhausted face. "The lullaby music," he said. "Can we turn it off? It's on its seventh run." He was actually shaking. "Are you ready for Earth Wind and Fire yet?"

"How could you even think to play something like that at a time like this?" I said. "Are you taking this seriously? And what about Joel Steed's butt?"

Then the pressure in my own butt and lower back became excruciating. "UGHHHHHHHHHH! This. Kid's. Not. Coming out. The right. Hole!"

She obviously didn't understand my birthing plan very well. Nor did she know why I began talking about Greg Lloyd. But she told me to stop pushing so hard or this baby was going to rip right through me.

I waited for the next blazing contraction and decided to be done with it. I kept thinking of the game coming up, thought about Greg Lloyd setting up just off the line, pointing to the Browns' left tackle and mouthing, "You're mine." I thought about the breath blowing from his flared nostrils and the veins popping out on both sides of his arms. "And you!" he pointed to the quarterback. His eyes didn't blink, his feet dug into the ground, ready to push off.

"AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAUGH!" He burst off the line, feeling a helmet blast into his ribs. The pain was electrifying. He was hungry for another hit. All he could see was Vinny Testaverde backpedaling, scanning the field like crazy. Lloyd reached Vinny's brown and orange jersey, grabbed right through to the skin and squeezed hard to release the adrenaline. "AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAUGHHHHHHHHHH!"

There was some tearing, all right. And we finally saw the rest of the hamburger. But my amazing nine-pound boy came out with the second push.

It was game day. I blew off the pregame show, opting instead to hold Owen on my stomach and remember the first time he'd laid like that, just three days before, his umbilical cord still attached. He was all greasy and white like a good-sized pimento loaf. And long fingernails too, I knew it! Somehow this slippery little guy managed to be most beautiful thing I'd ever laid eyes on.

He was even more beautiful as he lay against my stomach, which now looked like squashed souffle. I was wearing the giant fishnet underwear from the midwifery, plus a super maxipad, soaked in water and then frozen.

When Owen fell asleep, I laid him in the center of the bed and tried on the size 36D maternity bra I bought for when the milk came in. It was too tight.

I walked topless out of the bedroom to show my husband. My breasts were so heavy with milk, I had to cup my hands under each to hold them up. "Get a load of this," I said, thinking Bob would want to touch them, maybe sample some of the milk. At least ask to take a picture.

I was confused. Here I was, bigger than ever, and he wasn't interested. I limped to the bathroom, my thawing maxipad squishing between my thighs. Then I looked in the mirror.

My nipples were scabbed and hickeyed from all the sucking. The bloated nodules of milk stuck out in knotted clusters. And big blue veins crisscrossed over the top. Not even an airbrushing would make these jugs appealing.

I sat on the toilet, terrified of the sting of peeing. I tried to think about something else. "I wish we'd taken the placenta home," I shouted out of the bathroom. "That looked like the best steak ever."

November 26, 1995. It was the final regular season game at old Cleveland Municipal Stadium for the Steelers against the Browns. Just a month before, Art Modell had announced his intention of moving the Browns to Baltimore. By then, Cleveland wasn't a happy place. Most of those in the stands for the game were Steelers fans. A lot of yellow and black by Lake Erie.

Bob sat in the red leather chair and I stretched out on the couch with my boy lying against my bare chest. Milk oozed out of Owen's sleeping mouth and dribbled down to the waist of my sweatpants. My dog's head was in my lap. We watched the game with the TV sound turned down, Myron Cope's color commentary playing over the radio.

"You like this, sweets?" I asked my little guy. I kissed the top of his head and left my lips there. He smelled like powder and something else so known to me that I could sniff him out of a forest if I had to. He just smelled like my son.

Cope's voice got louder and higher as it looked like Vinny Interceptiverde was going to cough up the ball. I squeezed Owen tighter, awaiting the crunch. "Not much is better than clobbering the Browns right there at the Dawg Pound, huh, sweets?" Then I hooked my finger around his. "Except for having you here."

For a moment, I forgot the game and got lost in every wrinkle of Owen's little hand. I looked at my darling son, still pink and scratched from the birth, his squinty eyes trying to take in my face. I brushed three fingers down his cheek and smelled his bald head.

That's when I decided to indulge him. After the game. I'd tell him at the next commercial break.

We weren't going to have sex, obviously. None of that for another few weeks. But I had plans to break out the bassinet, massage the knotted milk nodules out, dim the lights enough to hide the blue lines, and make good use of my temporary jugs.

I knew that would make him pretty happy. And as we watched the replay of Greg Lloyd bowling over the quarterback, I realized I wouldn't even care if the Steelers lost the game.

		My Immaculate Reception by Susan M. Henderson I was one week overdue with our first baby and the only shirt that fit me was my black and gold Pittsburgh Steelers jersey. I thanked God and Art Rooney that black is the predominant color in that scheme. Otherwise, I'd have looked like a school bus. But black is a slimming color. Instead of a bus, I just looked like a VW Beetle with really big headlights. "Your boobs look amazing." Bob gently rested a plate on my lap. My craving: a well-done chicken skin. "Just don't touch them." Let me set the mood. There was an upside-down boy inside me, hiccupping, stretching his feet into my throat and scratching his long nails toward the tunnel. I half-expected a paw to slip out. And somewhere on my lap, though I couldn't see over the hump, was a plate of greasy skin. Did I mention I wasn't interested in indulging anyone at the moment? I kept hoping Bob would go buy a magazine. Truth is, you take a person who likes a sense of control over things and tell her that at any time, something the size of a log would force itself out a very small hole that's otherwise a source of pleasure, she's going to get pretty terrified of her own body. I did my best to think about something else. Like football. Football had structure. Even when the ball is snapped and the game gives way to 15 seconds of glorious chaos, the whistle blows, everyone gets back in line, and structure returns. I believed I could bring this kind of structure to my pregnancy and decided I was going to push that baby out fearlessly, as if I were Greg Lloyd going for the sack. So aside from the fact that I had a seven-day-old baby still inside me, I was in a pretty decent mood. The upcoming weekend brought the Steelers-Browns game, the last before Cleveland would head east to Baltimore for a sweeter stadium deal. "We could miss the game, you know," Bob said. He wasn't helping. "Uh. No." The unwritten portion of the birthplan read: the baby will be born in time for the game. We'd packed the bags for the midwifery and had them sitting by the front door for more than a month. I had everything set. I had three different colored razors for early labor, in case I wanted to shave my legs and get all dolled up for the birth. The likely choice would be the green razor, but I accounted for possible hormonal shifts in preference, so peach and lavender were included as well. "You won't go for peach," Bob said. "Hey, I'll be in labor. Crazier things have happened. Or so I've heard." I also packed Jolly Ranchers, since you're not supposed to eat during labor. And Bob knew that he was not to eat either. Just because. Other goodies in that suitcase: candles, a photo of our dog, magazines, unopened makeup, an ice pack and hot water bottle. And music, of course. Mozart Lullabies for Smart Tykes and Earth Wind and Fire's Greatest Hits in case I felt like dancing during the difficult bits. My husband tossed in his swimsuit so he could jump in the jacuzzi with me. Yep, I had everything all set. I was especially looking forward to staying in the midwifery, that cute Victorian house with a bag full of little things I liked. It would be like staying at a bed & breakfast, except I'd be going home with a baby the next day. As I approached motherhood, something calm and angelic came over me. Even when the contractions started, I didn't swear. I looked calmly at my husband and said, "Get the watch." The only thing remotely alarming was the venomously low register of my voice. I attributed this to my hormonal state. Bob sat on the couch with his digital watch, tracking time. "How are you?" he said. "Hungry. " "You aren't supposed to eat, right?" "Order. Some. Food." Venomously low register. Then slowly and calmly, "A hamburger and chocolate mousse cake . . . to help me relax." Another contraction gripped me from the inside. When I caught my breath, I growled, "Chocolate mousse cake! Just tell me you already ordered it!" ~ That was the first time in my life I didn't finish my dessert. Not that I didn't try. Things were getting so painful that I dropped the fork. When Bob said to forego the last three bites of mousse and go to the midwifery, I agreed. "But put the rest in the fridge." Between contractions, everything was great. I didn't hurt in the slightest. "This is perfect," I said, gleefully, descending the porch stairs toward the car. "The game is still three days off. The baby can watch it with us." I smiled at Bob, then bent over the handrail and bellowed like a foghorn. Bob rubbed my back. "Aw, my delicate little flower." "Hands off," I barked, moving again toward the car. "Just drive!" ~ The midwife met us at the door of the small Victorian home. I stripped down to nothing and headed for the full jacuzzi. Didn't feel like shaving my legs. No real room for pride by that stage. I just savored what would be the last moment of real peace and joy for the evening. Baths are far more fun when you're not in labor. I could see I wasn't the first to leave nail marks in the fiberglass. The lullaby music was on its second play and my husband had forgotten to light the candles the way we planned. "Do I need to write out the birthing plan for you?" I asked, then launched into another contraction, accompanied by an awful noise. The sound came from inside me somewhere, like the song of a humpback whale. The noise began as a sorrowful cry, then changed to a terrified shriek, the whale realizing it has been harpooned. When I could muster coherent sentences, they weren't pretty: "I changed my mind! I don't want a baby! I want a divorce! The water's too freaking cold! Would somebody PLEASE check if this baby is ready to come out? Just take it out! Take it!" The midwife helped me lay down on a beautiful peach bed with spindled head and footboards. Then she stuck two fingers between my legs. "Sorry," she said, pushing until her wrist, and I'm pretty sure her elbow, was inside. "I wish I had longer fingers." Right then, I threw up on the pillow. Mostly chocolate mousse cake, but I was still glad for having eaten it. And glad for having thrown up on her peach-colored pillow. "You're only dilated five centimeters," she said. "There's a ways to go still." Epidurals aren't allowed at a midwifery, but if you look crossly enough at a stumpy-fingered midwife, you might get lucky. I got a shot of Staydol in the butt. I got pretty foggy, feeling like I was sinking into hours of heavy sleep between contractions. That angelic calm again. "Honey?" I said. "Think there's such a thing as a nose tackle who doesn't have a fat ass?" Surely I wasn't the only one thinking about football. "Joel Steed's got a fat ass," I continued. "But I wouldn't say it's lumpy. Bob? Are you listening?" I looked at my husband's white and exhausted face. "The lullaby music," he said. "Can we turn it off? It's on its seventh run." He was actually shaking. "Are you ready for Earth Wind and Fire yet?" "How could you even think to play something like that at a time like this?" I said. "Are you taking this seriously? And what about Joel Steed's butt?" Then the pressure in my own butt and lower back became excruciating. "UGHHHHHHHHHH! This. Kid's. Not. Coming out. The right. Hole!" "You can push now," the midwife announced. She obviously didn't understand my birthing plan very well. Nor did she know why I began talking about Greg Lloyd. But she told me to stop pushing so hard or this baby was going to rip right through me. I waited for the next blazing contraction and decided to be done with it. I kept thinking of the game coming up, thought about Greg Lloyd setting up just off the line, pointing to the Browns' left tackle and mouthing, "You're mine." I thought about the breath blowing from his flared nostrils and the veins popping out on both sides of his arms. "And you!" he pointed to the quarterback. His eyes didn't blink, his feet dug into the ground, ready to push off. "AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAUGH!" He burst off the line, feeling a helmet blast into his ribs. The pain was electrifying. He was hungry for another hit. All he could see was Vinny Testaverde backpedaling, scanning the field like crazy. Lloyd reached Vinny's brown and orange jersey, grabbed right through to the skin and squeezed hard to release the adrenaline. "AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAUGHHHHHHHHHH!" There was some tearing, all right. And we finally saw the rest of the hamburger. But my amazing nine-pound boy came out with the second push. ~ It was game day. I blew off the pregame show, opting instead to hold Owen on my stomach and remember the first time he'd laid like that, just three days before, his umbilical cord still attached. He was all greasy and white like a good-sized pimento loaf. And long fingernails too, I knew it! Somehow this slippery little guy managed to be most beautiful thing I'd ever laid eyes on. He was even more beautiful as he lay against my stomach, which now looked like squashed souffle. I was wearing the giant fishnet underwear from the midwifery, plus a super maxipad, soaked in water and then frozen. When Owen fell asleep, I laid him in the center of the bed and tried on the size 36D maternity bra I bought for when the milk came in. It was too tight. I walked topless out of the bedroom to show my husband. My breasts were so heavy with milk, I had to cup my hands under each to hold them up. "Get a load of this," I said, thinking Bob would want to touch them, maybe sample some of the milk. At least ask to take a picture. "You're cute," he replied. But he didn't touch. I was confused. Here I was, bigger than ever, and he wasn't interested. I limped to the bathroom, my thawing maxipad squishing between my thighs. Then I looked in the mirror. Oh. My nipples were scabbed and hickeyed from all the sucking. The bloated nodules of milk stuck out in knotted clusters. And big blue veins crisscrossed over the top. Not even an airbrushing would make these jugs appealing. At least they were jugs, I kept telling myself. I sat on the toilet, terrified of the sting of peeing. I tried to think about something else. "I wish we'd taken the placenta home," I shouted out of the bathroom. "That looked like the best steak ever." "What?" Bob hollered from downstairs. "Kickoff in five minutes. Are you coming?" November 26, 1995. It was the final regular season game at old Cleveland Municipal Stadium for the Steelers against the Browns. Just a month before, Art Modell had announced his intention of moving the Browns to Baltimore. By then, Cleveland wasn't a happy place. Most of those in the stands for the game were Steelers fans. A lot of yellow and black by Lake Erie. Bob sat in the red leather chair and I stretched out on the couch with my boy lying against my bare chest. Milk oozed out of Owen's sleeping mouth and dribbled down to the waist of my sweatpants. My dog's head was in my lap. We watched the game with the TV sound turned down, Myron Cope's color commentary playing over the radio. The Brownies were just getting whupped. "You like this, sweets?" I asked my little guy. I kissed the top of his head and left my lips there. He smelled like powder and something else so known to me that I could sniff him out of a forest if I had to. He just smelled like my son. Cope's voice got louder and higher as it looked like Vinny Interceptiverde was going to cough up the ball. I squeezed Owen tighter, awaiting the crunch. "Not much is better than clobbering the Browns right there at the Dawg Pound, huh, sweets?" Then I hooked my finger around his. "Except for having you here." For a moment, I forgot the game and got lost in every wrinkle of Owen's little hand. I looked at my darling son, still pink and scratched from the birth, his squinty eyes trying to take in my face. I brushed three fingers down his cheek and smelled his bald head. I looked up to see Bob with tears in his eyes. "You look amazing," he said. "Are you kidding? I look like a nose tackle! How amazing is that?" "Amazing." "You still like me?" I asked. "I do. A lot." "Not just because I got this really great rack now?" "That's not the only reason." That's when I decided to indulge him. After the game. I'd tell him at the next commercial break. We weren't going to have sex, obviously. None of that for another few weeks. But I had plans to break out the bassinet, massage the knotted milk nodules out, dim the lights enough to hide the blue lines, and make good use of my temporary jugs. I knew that would make him pretty happy. And as we watched the replay of Greg Lloyd bowling over the quarterback, I realized I wouldn't even care if the Steelers lost the game. But what a kicker. We all won. Back to Top