On the very last day of July, two days past my due date, Ashton decided to make his grand entrance. But not with fanfare. Oh no. He kicked things off with… poop.
It was around midnight when I went to the bathroom and had, without exaggeration, the biggest crap of my entire life. Monumental. Historic. A bowel movement worthy of legend. And for some reason, I told everyone about it. Don't ask me why. I wasn't even ashamed. Just proud. Like I'd unlocked a new level of womanhood.
Afterward, I wiped and noticed something weird, I was wet. Not pee-wet, just… wet. Constantly. Like a tiny, polite faucet had been left running.
Now, in the movies, your water breaking is this dramatic moment— either a dramatic sploosh or an "oops I peed myself" situation. Mine? It was a slow trickle. A leaky faucet of amniotic mystery.
Naturally, I called my sister. Who told my mom. Who promptly started heading my way.
At about 12:30, she let me know Larissa, my guardian angel/John's CO's wife, was coming to sit with me, just in case. Cool. Fine. I was calm. My water broke, but I wasn't in pain. Everything was chill.
Larissa shows up, and we're chatting. I casually let her know, "Yeah, my water broke, but nothing hurts. I'm fine."
I shift in my chair. Slight discomfort.
A little while later, I shift again.
Larissa gives me a side-eye. "What are you doing?"
I shrug. "I don't know. I just feel like I need to poop."
(Pause for drama)
"But not to be TMI, I already took the biggest crap of my life earlier."
She stares. Waits. Watches me shift again. Then looks at the clock.
"You're having contractions every four minutes."
Excuse me, what now?
"No, I'm not." I laughed. Actually laughed.
Because that's not how it works. Not in the movies. Not in my birth class. No.
By the time contractions are four minutes apart, you're supposed to be screaming, biting things, breaking your husband's fingers. I felt… fine. Like I maybe had to poop.
She gives me a look. The look women give when they know you're wrong but are too polite to say it. "Nope. You are. We're going to the hospital."
Larissa calls her husband to go through the chain of command so they can alert John that his son is making his debut. I call my sister and say, "Apparently I'm having contractions every four minutes?"
We pull up to the hospital. I walk inside. Calm as can be. Just another Tuesday.
The woman at the front desk asks, "What's going on?"
I glance at my watch. "My water broke, and I'm having contractions every three minutes now."
She blinked at me. Slowly. Like I'd grown a second head.
"You're… having contractions every three minutes... and your water broke?"
I nodded, smiling like a lunatic. "Yup."
"And you're still standing here?"
I looked her dead in the eyes and said, "Yeah. I just feel like I need to poop."
They finally got me back to a room. First things first, they ran one of those little swab tests to confirm my water had actually broken. I guess they need scientific proof that you're not just peeing yourself in dramatic fashion. Shock of all shocks: the test came back positive.
Yes, Karen, the faucet of amniotic fluid I described was real.
The nurse walked in, all calm and professional, and asked what was going on.
I told her, "My contractions are every three minutes."
Cue the third woman in a row to look at me like I was a crazy person.
"You're really calm for that," she said.
"I just feel like I need to poop," I replied cheerfully. At this point, that was apparently my catchphrase.
She checks me— dilated to a six. Six. I was already over halfway there. I mean… cool, cool. Just four more to go. Easy, right?
She said they'd called my doctor and stepped out to start my vitals. Meanwhile, Larissa was still sitting nearby, probably wondering how on earth I was cracking poop jokes mid-labor.
Then someone new entered the room.
A woman. No name. No "Hi, I'm So-and-So." No badge. No explanation.
She just walked up to my bed, gloved up, and without saying a word, starts poking around in my business. Up in me.
I'm talking full invasive maneuver with zero warning. It was painful. Violating. And confusing as hell.
Naturally, I lost it.
"Excuse me— what are you doing?" My voice had flipped from polite to threat level orange.
"I have to do this," she muttered. That's it. No details. Just "I have to."
"I don't even know who you are! Why are you touching me?!" My tone had now escalated to full "I will end you".
She kept going. Kept hurting me.
I locked eyes with her. Cold. Unblinking. And said, "If you don't stop, I'm going to kick you in the face."
That got her attention.
She froze. Looked at me. Then looked at the nurse. The nurse, bless her soul, gave her one look and said,
"You need to leave."
That woman turned and bolted. Like her life depended on it.
I turned to the nurse, breathing hard, still furious.
"I would have kicked her in the face."
The nurse didn't even hesitate. "I know. She would've deserved it."
I asked her, "Do you even know who she was?"
She shook her head. "No clue. No idea what she was doing in here."
Around 1:45 in the morning, my mom and sister finally arrived. Rim, my future brother-in-law, came with them but wisely stayed in the hallway. Smart man. He knew better than to wade into the estrogen-charged warzone unfolding inside.
My mom asked how I was doing. I grinned and said, "I'm having contractions every two minutes, but I just feel like I have to poop."
My mom and sister burst out laughing. Apparently, that was hilarious. I was still chipper, still cracking jokes. Honestly, I was feeling kind of smug. Like maybe I was going to breeze through labor and have one of those peaceful, glowy, unicorn birth stories.
Spoiler alert: I was not.
Because about five minutes later— I died.
No, seriously. I died. My soul left my body. I floated above the hospital bed for a second, watched my own eyes go wide in shock, and thought, "Well, this is how I go. Goodbye, cruel world."
The pain hit like a goddamn freight train. No warning. One minute I was laughing with my mom, and the next I was being ripped in half by some unseen force from the depths of hell. It was like my uterus turned into the final boss in a video game and decided to fight me all at once.
I went from peaceful earth goddess to full-blown banshee in 0.2 seconds.
Screaming. Crying. Panicking. Flailing. I was having a full-on, completely justified meltdown. Think: exorcism-level possession. My body was doing things I did not approve of.
"I'M GONNA DIE!" I howled. "I'M NOT READY! TAKE IT BACK! TAKE IT BACK!"
My mom and sister scrambled into action, trying everything— calming me, rubbing my shoulders, reminding me to breathe. Larissa? Larissa just sat in the corner, watching the circus unfold with wide eyes, silently thanking the Lord above for modern medicine and the sweet, numbing gift of epidurals. That she was smart enough to use with her own births. She looked like someone watching a horror movie she knew she'd never survive.
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