It’s been a month since our daughter was born, and in that time, it feels like I’ve done nothing but serve as a human milk dispenser and binge all of the spooky Netflix series. (Do yourself a favor and skip Chilling Adventures of Sabrina; watch The Haunting of Hill House instead.)

But I know that’s not entirely true. Since Bijou’s arrival, we’ve visited with loved ones, ventured out to pumpkin patches and fall markets, hosted football-watching parties, taken short walks around our neighborhood, and even gone on a sushi date! But it’s all been a blur, to be honest—no doubt a direct result of the sleep deprivation and lack of any semblance of routine that comes with the newborn stage. I both love it and hate it.

Something that’s made this transition a thousand times easier, though: Judebug has been in Rayne (aka his Heaven) with my parents for the last week, and while I do miss his infectious energy and sweet cuddles, you’d think I’ve never known this kind of calm. It’s intoxicating! And also how I have any time at all to blog. The words aren’t really flowing these days, I’ll admit, but I want to make sure I get our girl’s birth story down before I begin to forget the nitty-gritty details. So here I am, reluctantly showing up in my bleary-eyed postpartum haze to document the single most intense night of my life.

FASHIONABLY LATE

Bijou’s official due date was September 28th, but I would’ve bet money that she was coming early. In fact, we were champing at the bit to get this show on the road only halfway through the month. I know that these things are impossible to plan, but it wasn’t for lack of trying: Our hospital bag was packed, our freezer was full of ready-to-eat meals, and my mom was already in town to help us with Jude. Not to mention, my partial placenta previa had completely resolved (which meant a vaginal birth was not only possible but likely!), Bijou was positioned head down, and at 37 weeks, I was 100% effaced and 3 cm dilated. All that to say, our fingers were crossed for a mid-September birthday.

So by the time Monday the 27th (Scott’s first day of paternity leave) rolled around, we were beginning to grow anxious. What if she decided she didn’t want to come until mid-October? (Cue nervous breakdown.) Babies go weeks past their due dates all the time, but I didn’t think I had it in me to be so patient. The next day, I sat in my OB’s office feeling somewhat defeated and reluctantly agreed to schedule an induction for the following Wednesday, even though I knew I didn’t want to be induced. Come on baby girl, I silently pleaded the whole drive home.

She must have heard me, because it turns out we wouldn’t have to wait much longer! I owe that in large part to my two sisters-in-law, both of whom suggested I start hand expressing breastmilk and/or pumping to get the oxytocin flowing. I was willing to try anything at this point, so around 9:45pm on the 28th (a couple hours after Jude had gone down for the night), I grabbed my breast pump and perched myself in front of the TV. Within twenty minutes, the contractions had started. I mentioned this to Scott when he joined me on the opposite side of the couch, but we still weren’t getting our hopes up: I wasn’t a stranger to Braxton Hicks, and they always eventually dissipated. I figured this was probably just more of those.

Needless to say, I was wrong! Mere moments later, I felt a huge gush of something wet spill out of me and onto the blanket I had draped around my lower half, causing me to gasp in shock. (Yes, the sensation was as weird as it sounds.) Scott quickly asked what had happened, and wide-eyed, I responded in no uncertain terms, “My water just broke.”

A DASH OUT THE DOOR

Looking back on that moment, I can’t help but laugh now because of how nervous I suddenly became. As “prepared” as I thought I was, my initial reaction (aside from worrying about the steady stream of amniotic fluid getting everywhere) was one of apprehension and fear: “Tonight?! I don’t want to do this tonight!”

But I didn’t have a choice. The cramps were already picking up in frequency as I rushed into our bedroom to change out of my pajamas and gather my things. I remember running around like a chicken with my head cut off, trying to decide what to wear and wondering if I should even bother packing the book on my nightstand I had planned to bring just in case I got bored during labor (LOL). I decided against it; something told me there would be no time for light reading.

In the middle of it all, I managed to call my mom and tell her to get over to our house quickly, as I suspected by the sudden intensity of my contractions that we needed to leave for the hospital ASAP. We were getting situated in the car when our Nest camera confirmed that she had arrived. Phew! The whole way there, my adrenaline was so high that I found myself actually shivering despite the 80 degree temps outside. This was really happening!

(NOT SO) SILENT NIGHT

We arrived at Medical City Frisco by 10:30pm, and as we made our way to the fourth floor to check in, I noticed how empty the hospital appeared to be at this late hour. The labor and delivery unit was like a ghost town: The lights were dim, and aside from one lady at the front desk, Scott and I felt eerily alone. (Later, my nurse would inform me that it was actually their busiest night in a long time, with four or five births taking place in the wee hours after midnight.)

We were ushered into Room 13—lucky us!—all the way down the hall by a staff member and then left to our own devices while they went to “put us into the system.” I set my stuff down in a corner, changed into the hospital gown provided, and for the next half hour or so, tried to focus on making myself comfortable. Scott and I chatted excitedly, taking bets on Bijou’s birth date—would she be born on the 28th or 29th?—and how much she would weigh—he guessed eight pounds while I put my money closer to seven.

It seemed like an eternity before our nurse, Naomi, came in to introduce herself and kick off the laundry list of procedures. First order of business, and always the most anxiety-inducing, was the cervical check: Luckily, I was 6 cm dilated, so I’d be able to stay. (Woo!) I got in the bed and tried as best as I could to make small talk through the discomfort as she placed my IV and strapped the fetal heart rate monitor to my waist. “That was a big contraction!” she noted, looking at the computer screen. “Way to breathe through it.”

The following thirty minutes or so is complete mush in my mind, probably because my eyes were squeezed shut for most of it. Not gonna lie, the pain was absolute torture—more so than I recall from Jude’s birth—and with each passing minute, I was surprised that I didn’t split right in two. Through gritted teeth, I somehow relayed the message to Scott and our nurse that I wanted an epidural. I’d hit my limit, and they could tell how serious I was by the expression on my face. Or perhaps it was the crescendo of screams rising steadily from my throat again and again that gave me away. Even now, I’m embarrassed by how vocal I was, but in the moment, letting it out was the only way I could cope.

Between howls, I asked Naomi if she could check my cervix one last time before calling the anesthesiologist, and it’s a good thing she did: I was 9 cm, which sadly meant no epidural for me. Despite the mental and physical chaos of labor, I immediately sensed her whole manner of being morph from one of “we’ve got all night” to that of a nurse on a mission. Scrambling, she grabbed her cell phone to text my doctor, who I prayed would be able to make it in time. I was already starting to feel some pressure down yonder, and I knew it wouldn’t be long until Bijou made her grand debut.

FAST AND FURIOUS

It was almost midnight, and what I remember most clearly—aside from the near-constant tidal wave of excruciating agony followed by momentary relief—was Scott standing by my side whispering words of encouragement in my ear. (Thank God for that man.) The need to push was coming on strong at this point, but there was still no sign of my OB.

“Try not to push,” Naomi instructed as she checked her phone for the umpteenth time. “The doctor’s only ten minutes away, and I don’t plan on catching a baby tonight.”

Her words both frustrated and terrified me, to be real, because:

A) I’m a rule follower by nature and typically always do what I’m told, but my uterus couldn’t have cared less about following the rules in this case—so she basically set off a war between my mind and my body. Not what a woman in labor needs, y’all.

B) And, alright, correct me if I’m wrong, but shouldn’t an L&D nurse be trained in the practice of catching babies? I mean, there’s got to be a back-up plan in case the doctor can’t get to the scene on time! Call me crazy, but the fact that our nurse (aka the person in charge) wasn’t prepared to deliver my baby was enough to literally scare the Bijou out of me!

I looked at Scott on the verge of panic and quickly muttered that I didn’t think I could hold off for a whole ten minutes. Luckily, Dr. Thibodeaux (yes, my OB is Cajun, one of the many reasons why I adore her) must have gotten the memo because in she ran about five minutes later, a huge smile on her face—even in the middle of the night—and suited up to do the dang thing.

Okay, this next part is suuuper embarrassing, but in the spirit of full transparency (hello, my blog ain’t called “With Candor” for nothing), right before I was given the green light to begin pushing, I think I said something to Dr. T. about needing to poop and apologizing if I did. I kid you not, but that’s exactly how it felt, like I was going to #2 right there on the table! Handling my cringe-worthy proclamation like a champ, she simply replied, “No ma’am, what you’re feeling is the baby’s head! A couple pushes and she’ll be out!” Thank goodness, I thought!

I waited for the next contraction and then gave it my all, screaming fiercely as I bore down with all my weight. It only took three pushes, but let me tell you, I felt everything this time around—including the “ring of fire” that so many women talk about—as first her head and then her shoulders broke through the surface. My eyes were still partially closed from the effort, so I didn’t witness Dr. Thibodeaux swiftly and smoothly untangle the umbilical cord around Bijou’s neck. It was only when our daughter let out her first big cry and was placed right on my chest that I finally opened my eyes.

AYLA MAREN BLASIK

The time of birth was 12:19 AM on Wednesday, September 29th. Scott was crying (again) as he cut the cord and I marveled at our baby girl. We both looked on as they weighed her—only 6 pounds, 15 ounces!—and wiped her down under the lamp light. After delivering the placenta, Dr. T. assessed the damage: I was relieved to hear that I hadn’t torn at all, which meant I wouldn’t need stitches like last time. Yay!

We waited a few hours until the three of us were alone together before discussing what her name would be. Maren had been our first choice for her middle name for months, and a no-brainer when it came time to make it official. Not only is it a modern twist on the classic name Marie—which happens to be both the first name of my great-grandmother and the middle name of Ayla’s godmother—but I love that it’s also a perfect combination of our mothers’ names (Mary + Karen). We also appreciated how uncommon it is.

As for her first name: We had several contenders that we mutually loved going into the hospital, and I wanted Scott to make the final call. I’m a sucker for a good surprise, after all! In the end, he chose simple and sweet Ayla, and I couldn’t have been happier with his decision. There’s just something about “Ayla Maren Blasik” that rings nicely to us. It’s both feminine and strong—a winner indeed. Truth be told, though, she’ll always be first and foremost my Bijou.

LITTLE SISTER

The rest of our 36-hour hospital stay was uneventful, to say the least, with the exception of a mind-blowing slice of cheesecake that came with our celebratory steak dinner. Scott left Wednesday night to relieve my mom of Jude duty, and she was able to swing by to meet her first granddaughter. That night alone was a sleepless one because of Ayla’s cluster-feeding, but we made it to morning without much of a fuss.

The highlight of the whole experience went down a few hours later, right after Ayla and I were discharged: Scott and Jude arrived together to bring us home, and big brother got to see his little sister for the very first time. I can’t even describe how happy Jude was to finally meet her, but I was able to capture the adorable moment via video on my iPhone. I’m so glad I did, too, because I’ll want to relive that precious initial interaction between siblings forever and ever. Honestly, there’s nothing better.