Why I love the Green Bay Packers

On September 9, 2004, I sat in my obstetrician's office, two days past my due date and desperate to get that child out of me. No dilating, no effacing...no sign that the baby had any intention of making an appearance any time soon.

The doctor called the hospital and gave me two options for induction: Saturday, September 11, or Monday, September 13.

We chose Monday.

I arrived at the hospital at 8:00, checked in, and was hooked up to pitocin. Then we waited. And waited. And waited.

They ramped up my drip to well over the recommended maximum dosage. I was contracting, but not well enough to actually cause a baby to come out. My pain level rarely went above a 3 or a 4, only once or twice hitting a 5. And we waited.

Do you remember the Oprah show when she gave away a car to everyone in her audience? Well, about halfway through that one, my water broke. Apparently, quite to the relief of the nurse who thought she would need to check me out that evening only to come back in the morning.

Within an hour my pain level went from a 4 or a 5 to a 45. All the pitocin they had flooded into my system decided to kick in at once.

Oh.my.freakin.heck...OUCH.

I thought I had heard the nurse say I couldn't have an epidural until I was 7 or 8 centimeters dialated. It seems that I was not listening well while I was watching my contractions peak well off the charts every, oh, minute or so. At about 7 centimeters, the nurse came in to tell me that it was epidural then or not at all.

I am a sane woman. One of my few distinct memories of labor (besides farting at the doctor) is how the pocket of my husbands cargo shorts felt as I leaned over with my head on his abdomen, clutching that pocket, button ground into my palm, as the doctor stuck the needle in my back as I watched my contractions come and go on the monitor.

I know all sorts of controversy surrounds epidurals. And I'm sure I would have survived labor without it. But sweet, wonderful drugs...within minutes not only was I pain free, I was ready for the last good nap I would get before I became a mom.

I laid back in my bed, managing somehow to find a comfortable spot, while my husband sat in a recliner next to my bed watching the first Monday Night Football game of the season. I closed my eyes, I began to drift.

No sooner did I relax than the doctor came in and asked if I was ready to push. I was jarred awake by one thought: Push?! Was he freakin' kidding me?! You do not steal from a woman the last good nap she'll get before motherhood. Not cool, buddy. Not cool.

By 6:45, the T.V. was off, the stirrups were up, and...I will spare you the details (I think the farting admission was quite enough, thank you). At 7:27, MiniMe arrived. All 8 lbs., 7 oz., and 21 inches furry of him.

After all of the nose-sucking, bathing, weighing, and swaddling, the doctors and nurses left our new little trio in peace.

I was part of a family the moment I married the Hubs. Our lives together have always included a child. But that moment was different for both of us. MiniMe was my first. And it was an experience entirely unlike the Hubs had with the Eldest. Fundamentally nothing had changed, and yet, everything was different.

I leaned back on my bed with my new son in my arms. My husband sat next to me and turned the game back on.

It was comfortable and normal. It was genuine. It was as though everything had always been the way things were right in that moment. It was the way our lives were supposed to be.

The three of us, for the first time together, sharing a bed and watching the remainder of the game--watching the Green Bay Packers beat the Carolina Panthers in the first Monday Night Football game of the season.