Chunky Monkey Butt!

Let me tell you, I’ve hatched two little humans myself, and maybe it’s the pain a woman feels during the baby-delivery process but seeing it happen feels much more like a miracle than actually doing it. Don’t get me wrong, seeing my little girl, my daughter, in pain just about ripped my heart out. No matter how old your babies get, you never stop wanting to be the boo-boo fixer. But unlike when my girl was young and thought scrapping her knee was the end of the world, no Smurf band aid was going to fix this.

Once or twice I was tempted remove a few body parts from her husband for getting her pregnant. How could this be fair that men didn’t have to suffer, too? But then my son-in-law, a true hero, was so sweet to his wife/my little girl that I decided to spare him. “Here, squeeze my hand,” he told her.

She looked up at him, pain clouding her eyes. “I don’t want to squeeze your hand.”

“But I don’t care if you hurt me,” he insisted as if he wanted to feel some of her pain to make it right.

Gritting her teeth, she answered, “But hurting you isn’t going to make me feel better.”

She didn’t say, “If it would help me, I’d kick your butt.” But it was pretty much implied.

For certain, I would have gladly taken the pain on if I could have saved her. But darn it, it doesn’t work that way. This was her time, her pain, her baby. But not for one minute did it mean she wasn’t still my little girl and for every pain she felt, my stomach knotted.

I stood by her side, brushing a hand over her brow, saying consoling words to comfort her, and spooning ice chips into her mouth. Once during a difficult contraction, her face pinched in pain, her eyes went wet with tears and she reared back her head and yelled out, “chunky, monkey butt!”

I swear that’s what she said. I waited for the pain to ease and then asked, “Baby, did you really just scream ‘chunky monkey butt’?”

“She doesn’t like to say bad words,” my son-in-law told the nurse who stood by monitoring her.

“I’m sorry,” I told my daughter, but I’m going to have to use that one in a book.” We all laughed. But I was serious, so you can guys can watch out for the words: chunky monkey butt to appear.

A good fifteen minutes later, things got serious. She reared back her head, and screamed, “Shit!”

Hmm…I guess chunky monkey butt, only covered mild contractions.

That’s when she got the epidural. Who ever invented those things needs a big award. My sweet daughter stretched back on the bed, got a goofy smile on her face and said, “Wow, this is great. I haven’t felt this good in nine months. It’s like two…no make that three . . . four margaritas.”

I really tried to get the doctor to give me one, but no cigar.

My hubby and my son, waiting in the family room, popped their head in every few minutes to wish her well. All the laughing stopped when a few hours later, doctor and nurse came scrambling into the room. I knew from their body language that something was wrong.

“Lay on your side,” they told my daughter.

“What’s wrong?” we all asked in unison and the seriousness in their eyes had my heart doing laps around my chest.

Air caught in my throat and fear swelled in my lungs as I waited for them to answer.

“Your baby’s heartbeat’s dropping,” the doctor explained. “I think the cord is around the neck. I’m thinking we’re going to have to do a C-section.”

My normally skittish daughter, the kind who would worry herself sick over getting blood drawn, proved to me right then that she was indeed a mother. She looked up at her husband, at me, and in the calmest of voices said. “I’m not afraid of surgery.” Then she looked the doctor in the eyes and said, “Take her now. Don’t wait. Get her out now. Please don’t wait. Don’t let anything happen to my baby.”

The doctor insisted they wait. My daughter, a smidgen away from panicking, kept staring at the monitor, tears glistening in her eyes; her husband, who never let go of her hand, kept murmuring words of encouragement. I stood close and prayed that whatever happened, my little girl and her little girl would be okay. I wanted so badly to cry, but I knew if any sign of weakness from me, and my daughter’s panic would increase three-fold. In a few minutes, all our prayers were answered when the heart beat went back to normal.

Hours passed. Finally, it was time. I hadn’t planned on being in the room when the baby was born, but the nurse gave me a job. Grab her leg. Her hubby had the other leg. There was counting, breath holding and a lot of pushing.

We’ve all heard it said that nothing is more beautiful than child birth. But let me correct that. It was amazing. It was a miracle. I’ve never seen anything so soul-shaking--so breathtaking. But it wasn’t beautiful. Nope.

My sweet adorable little girl who, thanks to her husband and me, had her legs held up beside her ears turned a bright purple with every intense push. Pushes in which her breath was held at counts of ten. There might have been a few more “chucky monkey butts,” screamed out. And I’ll admit it, I might even have been the one screaming it. You see, when she pushed, I pushed. When she held her breath, I held my breath. I’m lucky I didn’t mess my pants.

And then it happened, my granddaughter, Lily Dale, came into the world all covered in mush, drawing in her first breath, and letting everyone on the second floor of the hospital know that she was a force to be reckoned with. She weighed in at six pounds and six ounces, is 18 1/2 inches tall and has a set of lungs that don’t quit. She is perfect. My daughter is perfect. Life is amazing.

But the whole birth made me certain of one thing. You know how we all ooh and ahh over perfect heroes. Well, ladies we have it wrong. Women are indeed the superior gender. I mean, try to talk a man into opening up his body and pushing out another human being. Not happening, I tell you—especially if “said” entrance happened down by Uncle Jimmy and his boys.

So that’s the news at the Craig house.

Any birthing stories to share? Come on. Don’t be shy. I’d love to hear them.


Oh, I’m also giving you guys the heads up. Next week, I’m going to be giving away an ARC of Gotcha. That’s right you can get your hands on an early copy, with a few typos, of my June release. Also, next week Barbara Vey is celebrating her blog anniversary at: http://www.publishersweekly.com/blog/880000288.html and on Tuesday she’ll be giving away a copy of Gotcha! So plan to comment next Tuesday both here at Killer Fiction and Barbara’s Vey’s blog for a chance to win. And . . . on Thursday and Friday of next week Barbara Vey will be giving away a copy of The Everything Guide To Writing a Romance Novel.


Crime Scene Christie