After what seems like decades of waiting, my little girl made her way into the world on March 3rd, 2009. And people hate me for it. Why? Because I’m that .00001% for whom labor is EASY.

Before you jump to the conclusion that I probably also enjoy walking on fire and eating glass as a fun past time, let me tell you that I’ve never particularly liked pain and I go out of my way to avoid it at all costs. I would almost have to say that pain finds me, due to an unfortunate clumsiness that I’ve inherited as part of my genetic makeup. Thanks mom! While I’ve never broken any bones, at age 3 I had a close encounter with some marble steps that left me with a lovely “U-shaped” scar between my eyebrows. Later in life, while trying to show off my sweet Schwinn skills (try saying that 3 times fast) as a kid, I fell off my bike and acquired a permanant scar on my elbow that looks like Antarctica. I’ve managed to avoid any other major pain in life so far, though I will say that I attract paper cuts like Tatiana Del Toro on American Idol attracts annoying.

That said, I was all prepared for the worst when thinking about the birthing process. I’m one of those people who enjoy watching the baby shows on TLC that depict birth like an all out war: blood, guts, yelling…ice chips. There’s just something intriguing about watching someone bring a life into the world. Unfortunately though, they never show those women who have simple births. I mean, who wants to watch Jane Smith sitting peacefully in the hospital, with her hair and makeup perfectly done no less, push twice and produce the world’s next Gerber poster child? I mean, that’s just not reality right? Birthing is all about some poor sweaty woman who’s been in labor for 36 hours with her hair standing up in all directions, cursing the day her husband ever dared to come near her. Armed with the knowledge of every possible birthing situation, I was ready for any scenario:

1. I am eating lunch at Taco Bell while Patrick is at work. Labor starts quickly while I’m enjoying a delicious soft taco. I can’t make it to the hospital so the guy in charge of burrito assembly delivers the baby and uses his burrito-wrapping skills to swaddle baby. All celebrate with cinnamon twists.

2. Make it to the hospital in time to deliver. Endure 4 days of greuling labor. Awarded entry into Guinness Book of World Records as the “Woman With the Longest Labor Ever Recorded.”

3. Overcome by the lure of Subway’s “Five Dollar Foot Long” song, I begin to drive to the nearest Subway when suddenly, labor starts. Have baby in the car with the aid of a nearby jogger. In gratitude, give jogger the other half of my sub.

4. Go into labor and deliver healthy baby. Doctors accidentally switch baby. Spend the rest of my life in confusion trying to figure out whose looks the baby got.

We were ready, we had to be. I had been steadily dilating since week 25, so we had been warned that labor could start any day.We had the overnight bag packed, the nursery decorated, and enough diapers to rival a Pampers warehouse. I made it to 35 weeks and 2 days, and I was due for another weekly checkup. Like any other morning, I woke up, made phone calls for work, and left for my doctor’s appointment. At my appointment, my doctor checked me and made a surprised face. I was 7 centimeters dilated. For those of you who don’t know, 10 centimeters is the “magic number,” the number you have to hit in order to start pushing. Of course, most people KNOW they’re dilating because they feel contractions. Then there’s me, I was feeling nothing.

The doctor told me to drive to the hospital, saying I would probably have the baby that day or the next. Patrick met me at the hospital and we made our way to labor and delivery where, after being treated like a human pincushion as they inserted my IV, they hooked me up to some machines to monitor contractions. Sure enough, I was contracting without feeling much of anything. My family came and we all sat around and watched movies on TV until it was time for the hard work. The whole time, I’m waiting for heavy contractions to hit me and the cursing to begin, but they never came. Eventually, they asked if I would like an epidural. I am a big supporter of not feeling any pain, so while I didn’t need the drugs, I figure it’s an insult to science NOT to accept these wonderful drugs that were created for laboring women to have a comfortable birth. Even the anesthesiologist asked me if I was feeling any pain because I was so calm; I was a bit of an anomaly to all the nurses and medical staff that day.

After 6 1/2 hours of laying around watching TV and talking to my family, the nurses found that I was 10 centimeters dilated and asked if I would like to start pushing. After 30 minutes of pushing, Haley Nicole McCaffrey was born at 6:44 pm at 6 pounds 2 oz and 18 1/2 inches long, which is pretty darn good for a preemie who’s 4 1/2 weeks early. And she was born in time for me to watch American Idol. What a good kid.

After such a calm, easy pregnancy and delivery, the nurses were amazed at how well everything went. A few of them laughed and told me that they hated me for how easy I had it. They also warned me that I’m the kind of person who goes out there and has 20 kids. Maybe I’ll make Guinness Book of World Records afterall.

First, a belly picture from a 3 or so-ish weeks ago. I have been growing exponentially in the past few weeks…from a recent check up, I’ve gained 18 pounds (which I guess isn’t so bad for almost 7 months) And I thought I would have trouble gaining weight. Hello Holiday season. When this kid is born, I wouldn’t be surprised if the doctors told me that she has gravy in her bloodstream. Every one keeps telling me that I don’t look pregnant from the back, so they proved it by taking a couple of pictures.

I’m almost 27 weeks now, and the books tell me that now is when she starts to pack on the pounds because she’s pretty much done growing lungs and whatnot, so I suppose the roomy apartment my little developing daughter has been living in for the past 7 months is about to turn into a duplex. Despite all things considered, I’m pretty lucky though. I haven’t had any morning sickness, aches and pains, swelling, or unusual cravings for pork chops with strawberry jelly. I’ve also discovered the moment you tell people you haven’t had problems is the moment that something goes wrong.

I’ve been going to the doctor every 2 weeks to monitor my cervix because, as they discovered about 11 weeks into the pregnancy, I have a small cervix. It’s been 16 weeks since the diagnosis, and I have learned several things about this particular diagnosis:

1. Everyone seems to want me to tell them I have had some kind of surgical work done on my cervix because it’s smaller than usual. The same people ask me each time they see me, as if one day I’m going to surprise them and say, “Oh yeah, I remember now! I actually used to be a man. This cervix is just a borrowed one I picked up at the Good Will down the street. Is that unusual?”

2. Even though this condition could potentially push me into an early labor, it’s a pretty darn good time to build up a photo album filled with fetus pictures. I’ve had about 8 or more ultrasounds and gotten pictures each time. The machine is so advanced, they can see the tiniest detail and track her growth journey from sesame seed to pumpkin. One of these times I’m going to ask if they could arrange some kind of background in there with props so we can get Haley posing in front of a winter backdrop for a holiday card.

Despite the 2-week visits to the doctor to load up on ultrasound pics, the whole small cervix thing hasn’t been a problem. Until I said so in an email to a friend about a week ago. I just had to jinx the good luck. The husband and I had plans to visit my inlaws for Christmas in Pittsburgh this year since we spent it with my family last year. When we went in for a routine checkup 2 days before Christmas, the doctor walked in and said the one sentence no one wants to hear.

“I’m sorry to rain on your parade, but…”

This is never a good way to start out any conversation because you know whatever comes next won’t be something you want to hear. It’s not like anyone ever says, “I’m sorry to rain on your parade, but I just won the lottery and I have all these large bills that I was going to give to you, but I don’t know if your purse is big enough.” No, it’s always something quite the opposite. In my case, it was “I’m sorry to rain on your parade, but your cervix seems to be dialating some and I’m going to need you to go to the hospital to make sure you don’t go into early labor.”

And that is where I spent December 23rd through the 26th, my first Christmas together with my husband as a married couple. It was better than it could have been I suppose. I was only there for three days, and during that time I watched the all-day House marathon, experienced a new array of barely edible foods, discovered that it is possible to draw quarts of blood from several places in an arm, and mastered the art of Go Fish. Since escaping from the hospital, I have been ordered by the doctor to be on bed rest for the next 7 weeks (until the baby reaches 34 weeks old). To many, this may seem like a blessing in disguise, but it’s really not as great as it seems considering I’m only allowed to get up to go to the bathroom, take a quick shower, and make a sandwich. I have become very predictable lately.

I guess that means I’ll finally be updating my blog more in the next 8 weeks!