A Year of Terror Tactics & Mommy Fails - A Survivor's Tale

Tomorrow, the baby terrorist turns one. This is a monumental milestone for the Bug and me. We have had to navigate our way across some tricky terrain, a trail laden with dangerous explosive devices, booby traps at every turn (and I'm not just talking about breastfeeding), baby terror tactics and epic mommy fails. Tomorrow, I might pat myself on the back because I hate to brag (wink) but I kept that kid alive for an entire year. She thrived in spite of me. There were tears, there were meltdowns and there were battles waged with weapons of mass destruction but we both have lived to tell the tale. But, my friends, this is just a battle won - The war wages on.

This morning, we eyed each other with a sort of mutual respect.

And then she kissed me. A good kiss, right on the old smacker, letting me know that she begrudgingly admires my tenacity. It was a sweet moment, albeit awkward - There was a lot of weird eye contact, she lingered way too long and there was a lot of slobber, but you know what? I love you too, Bug.

This time last year I was over baked by three days and so ready to pop but as usual, the baby terrorist was on her own schedule. Then, as I was on the phone to my mother dramatically complaining about how I was probably doomed to be pregnant for all eternity, my water broke.

Only, I didn't believe that my water broke.

It wasn't dramatic, and if you know me, you know that I have a flair for that kind of thing, so I just didn't believe it could actually be happening to me. You know, because I wasn't 9 months pregnant and carrying around a gigantic belly that contorted constantly thanks to the in utero terrorism of a certain baby. So, rather than believe that I could possibly be in labor, I instead decided to watch a little Real Housewives, put on some makeup, wander aimlessly around the house and wait for a sign from God. Again, because you know, he hadn't already given me a huge sign.

A couple of hours later, I started thinking that maybe I should call my husband. It went a little something like this:

Me: "Hey, I think my water may have broken. But I'm totally not sure. I mean, it's probably nothing. In fact, forget I called."

Him: "Oh my God! Are you serious? Should I come home? I'm coming home."

Me: "No, don't worry about it. It's probably nothing. It's nothing. No, come to think of it, I'm sure it's nothing."

Him: "Ummm...."

Me: "Okay, bye."

About 30 minutes later, I thought, well self, it's probably nothing but maybe you should go to the hospital just in case. You know, because you don't want to be one of those women who birth a baby while thinking it's just a routine trip to the toilet. But self, you're so crazy, you know it's nothing, they are going to send you home.

So I waddled out of the house, got in the car without my hospital bag, certain I was overreacting, and drove myself to the hospital. I have never been in such a state of denial in all my life and let me tell you, it felt good! I called my husband on the way, and had a conversation that went a little something like this:

Me: "So...I am on the way to the hospital but it's nothing. It's totally nothing. Don't even worry."

Him: "OH MY GOD! Are you driving? I'm on my way."

Me: "No, no, that's the last thing I want. They are going to send me home. Don't even worry about it. And please, please don't tell anyone. I don't want everyone to be saying Oh that Brooke, such a drama queen."

Him: "Ummmm....."

Me: "Okay, bye!"

So into the hospital I strolled, with the swagger of an over due water breaking in some serious denial pregnant lady and announced to the front desk clerk with some bravado that I think my water might have broken, but it's probably nothing, I'm sure it's nothing.

She looked at me with a raised eyebrow and hustled me to the third floor Triage unit, where I giggled as I told them it was nothing, nothing, totally nothing.

And with that, my whole world changed. I was informed that it was something, something, totally something. That conversation went a little something like this:

Nurse: "Your water broke. We are going to need to admit you."

Me: "Oh, okay. Well I didn't bring my hospital bag. Or my husband, come to think of it. So I'll need to go home and get both and then I'll be back."

Nurse (in a slow voice she obviously reserved for small children and crazy people) - "Honey, that's not how this works.You can't go home. We are going to move you into a room."

As she finished that sentence, I simply stared at her - and then suddenly the sweet high of denial wore off and I was spun into a frantic frenzy of emotions. And, wouldn't you know, there wasn't any cell service on the floor I was on so I couldn't call anyone. Nine months of baking hadn't prepared me for the fact that I was having a baby and now here I stood, all bravado gone, shaking with a new kind of fear I had never before felt and, as a result of my own doing, I was alone.

But that husband of mine, the guy I sometimes want to punch in the face, the man I fell in love with even after he stole a steamroller, the boy who hoards rocks and hides them in the strangest of places...He deserves more credit than I give him. He knows me. He knows just how this twisted mind of mine thinks, and he was one step ahead of me with a hospital bag and fist pump. We were having a baby.

But not so fast...The baby terrorist wasn't going to arrive in this world without first trying to kill me. After almost a day of labor, 2 hours of pushing and finally a C-Section, at 10:17 a.m. on August 29 we first laid eyes on our baby girl.

And just like that, everything changed.

Happy Birthday, Bugsy May. You might be a baby terrorist, but I wouldn't expect anything less from a child of mine. And I couldn't possibly love anything more.