My Sister Pushed Out A Potroast

In honor of the one year anniversary of a day that will live in infamy, I proudly dedicate this blog to my niece, Potroast.

At 5pm on May 27 2010, I was washing my dogs because, frankly, they both smelled like dirty burritos. The phone rang. It was my sister who calmly said, “My water just broke.”  Then she hung up.  This was surprising to me because it was a month prior to the date in which I was expecting this call.  I called her back because I thought maybe I misunderstood the abruptness of the announcement. 

Me:    Did you just say your water broke?

Calm Sister:  Yes.

Me:     So, should I come to the hospital?

Calm Sister: Yes, dumbass.

Then she hung up again.   I was her self-proclaimed BIRTHING COACH.  Much to everyone’s surprise, I was taking this position seriously - I was quite sure that I wanted her to have either a hypno-birth, a water-birth, or a silent birth.  My sister was considered of “advanced maternal age” – she was 38, and she wanted me to shut the hell up because she was getting an epidural.  (I still tried to hypnotize her when I got there, but she tried to beat me with her IV pole.)

It was a three hour drive to the hospital. IN. RUSH. HOUR. TRAFFIC.  I literally jumped in my car with my wet, dirty dog washing clothes, no makeup, and my Betty Ford Clinic baseball cap.  My mother called and told me not to bother even coming because the baby would squirt out before I got there.  But, luckily I knew that my mom is almost always wrong.

When I arrived, the room was full of various people who were all sitting in the room with my sister, and they were all on their laptops. On Facebook.  Updating their status.  Except for my mother who cannot use a computer. My sister was 4 centimeters dilated and it was obviously going to be a long night.  By 2am, all the “others” left to go home, and I had the joy of sleeping on a couch with my brother-in-law, and my nieces Kate and Rose.  Comfy.

My niece, Rose was in her “transition” phase.  She had been the youngest daughter for 12 years, and now her birth-order was changing.. she was becoming the MIDDLE daughter. Her transition was neither easy nor pretty. 

About 3am, my sister was in more pain. Strangely, I felt more joyful.  However, my joy was ripped from me when the epidural doctor lady entered the room.  She was an old lady and was tired and looked pissed.  I tried my last effort to convince my sister to have a completely natural birth.. and then she screamed some profanities at me and told the old lady to shove the needle in her back or she was going to crush her windpipe with her bare hands.

Fast forward to 7am. Still no baby. 

This is where the fun began.  My brother-in-law had come straight to the hospital the night before from being out of town, so his suitcase and toiletries were still in his car.  He decided that he needed a shower, because clearly the baby needed to see a clean daddy when she squirted out full of goo and blood. He left the room to go to his car in the parking lot to get his change of clothes and shampoo, etc.   He had only been gone about 3 minutes when my sister started screaming “The baby’s coming out!”

I call Donnie on his cell and tell him.. and he seemed confused.

Confused brother-in-law:  I JUST left and everything was fine.

Me:     I know, but the baby’s coming out now.

Confused brother-in-law:   Are you sure?

Me:      Do I look like a damn doctor to you? Just get back up here.

But, Donnie doesn’t come back up.  He goes to the car, takes a stop to do #2 in the bathroom in the lobby, and then shuffles in  - and looked amazed at the chaos.  My sister’s epidural seemed to stop working (YAY!), the doctor was scrubbing up, there were about 3 nurses that had brought in a bunch of equipment into the room and my sister was already in the stirrups.

Somehow, this does not deter Donnie - he still wants to take his damn shower. He insists he’ll take a “fast” shower. My sister screams that he never takes a fast shower.  The shower is in the attached bathroom in the birth-suite, so he starts the shower and we all were resting easy that Donnie would at least be fresh and clean.  My sister tells “Middle” to beat on the bathroom door.  “Middle”  keeps beating on the door, but Donnie continues his shower as if nothing is happening.

My sister is in the stirrups, the baby is coming down the birth canal, and Donnie  emerges from his refreshing shower.  His hair is still wet and he has no shoes on.  Oddly enough, he still looks confused at the situation. Yes, Donnie, the baby is coming. We used duct tape to keep her in until you finished cleaning yourself. Welcome to the birth of your child.. glad you could join us.

My sister screamed profanities; Middle ran out of the room, I felt a confusing combination of delight and disgust while looking at my sister’s who-hole… and I grab the older niece and shove her head in between the stirrups in my attempt to keep her sexually inactive for as long as possible. (She’s 14, so she needed some sex-ed.)

After a few short pushes and shrieking “GET IT OUT OF ME…”  My sister pushed out the potroast.  She was small, and the nurses weighed her  - she was 5 lbs .. and I said, "I just cooked a potroast in my crockpot bigger than that."  Thus, how the name POTROAST was born.

I suppose the hospital staff may not have been accustomed to our family’s particular type of insanity… as my sister’s exit papers said “Mother displays bizarre behavior.”  We had no idea what they were talking about.  They obviously had NO frame of reference.  This is how we always are.

(example of normal behavior of my sister)

So, Potroast was here, Middle was adjusting to birth-order change, my brother-in-law was clean, my mom never made it to the hospital, my older niece will never have sex now…… I think I was the BEST birthing coach EVER.    The end.