Two years ago today, I decided that I had finally had enough of at-home labor and called the doctor, telling him that we were going to the hospital.
Not that I wanted to spend much time at the hospital.
I just wanted drugs. Right then.
Did I get them? No. Not until about 5 minutes before Clara was born.
(Granted, this may not have been entirely my doctor's/the hospital's fault . . . it is one of the risks of delivering a baby in the middle of the night, and I know they did have trouble locating the anesthesiologist. However, given comparisons between my experience and my friends' experiences giving birth in Mexico, they do tend to put off the epidural until the very last minute. I'll be much more explicit with my doctor about my wishes for as many drugs as possible this time around. And I'll keep in mind that I probably won't get them.)
Last year, when Clara turned 1, a friend of mine told me that her mother told her about how she was born every year on her birthday. She remembers these recollections fondly.
Apparently, even a year later, I was still a bit shell-shocked, so I began my story to Clara last year with, "A year ago today, I woke up at 6am thinking, "oh shit--this is going to hurt." It's possible that I elaborated even more.
I'm so glad she won't remember that.
This year I was able to tone it down a bit, saying, "two years ago today, I knew you were going to be born. But you waited until tomorrow, so we could call you Clara instead of Angela."
Much better.
And yes, January 27th is St. Angela's Day (one of my favorite girls' names) and January 28th is St. Clara's Day. We had already decided to name her Clara, regardless of the day she was born on. However, according to my thoughts, if she was born on the 27th, I might just be able to convince Mario that she was really meant to be called Angela.
I guess she decided that she'd rather be called Clara.
Today revealed to me that time really does heal all wounds.
Thank goodness . . . just in time to do it again.
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