Segundo

Primero celebrated his first birthday in our new house (or the "hell hole", as I came to call it with no affection whatsoever). That April was warm and sunny, unlike the frozen month of Primero's birth. While April's weather wasn't cruel that year, settling into the hell hole was.

By now there was a proper door on the bathroom, so visitors could actually stay for a second cup of coffee. Jack had torn out the divider (two hacked-off pieces of ubiquitous paneling nailed over a frame of popsicle sticks, or so it appeared to me) between the miniscule dining room and living room, both made even smaller by the swirling orange and green shag that hid and grimly hung onto bits of everything, even when pummeled with the vacuum cleaner.

Primero's birthday party was attended by family and friends--there was a flock of kids in attendance. Rollie and Dee's two boys Rollie Jr. and Nicholas were six and four--we already had them pegged as future babysitting material. Duane and his wife Natalie's twin boys Evan and Luke were a year older than Primero. We'd met a couple who lived across the street from our hell hole--Joe and Allie, whose boy Cameron was also a year older than Primero. For a one-year old, he already had a lot of friends.

And of course there were assorted grandparents, aunts and uncles--even a cousin. Jack's brother Walt and his wife Nancy had just had baby Jessica--a two-week-old scrap of baby girl with red hair and blue-black eyes. Jack's sister Chloe and husband Duncan were there, Chloe four months pregnant with Anna.

Then there were Gramma and Grampa (Jack's parents) and Nanna and Poppa (my parents). Primero was the first grandchild on both sides, and within easy range of being spoiled rotten. Thank God baby Jessica had come along to take some of the heat. Gramma had baked her signature angel food birthday cake--the kind with the big hole in the middle, which she'd filled with a giant candle.

There we were--sitting on the ratty back lawn behind the crumbling stucco of the hell hole's back wall. We perched on lawn chairs and on logs artfully arranged around the fire pit made from broken concrete slabs we'd dug up in the back yard. The kids were crammed into the sandbox--a gigantic tractor tire filled with sand. All that was missing was a trailer and some pink flamingos, although I thought the house stood in quite nicely for the trailer.

As I look at the photos of that first birthday (the first of years and years of birthday parties, noise, goodie bags, noise, hot dogs, noise, cake, noise, ice-cream, noise) I am struck by how young we all were--in our twenties, with little money and prospects of making more still years away--and by how much fun we had together in that shabby yard. And how many kids there already were--crawling, toddling, staggering, walking, running. It seemed there were kids everywhere--and there would be more to come.

Primero was one entire year old, so we started thinking about the second child, the spare. After all, we were established--we had a house (of sorts), friends, family, lots of love and attention to spread around--we needed another kid to soak some of this up. And we were getting the hang of this child-rearing thing--we were the pros from Dover.

That summer, Jack tore off the paneling in the living room, raised the roof, added the front entry, re-framed the walls--we no longer lived inside a small chocolate.

That fall, I became pregnant with Segundo. It's strange, but when you are pregnant with your first kid, everyone is extremely solicitous. People insist you get lots of rest, will not disturb you in case you're sleeping, drop off meals and groceries and other treats. However, get pregnant more than once and you're on your own. When you could really use some solicitousness, there's none to be found. It's assumed that you are no longer a rookie--training period is over. You are now a mom and should be able to handle a toddler and pregnancy and housework and cooking and all the daily requirements of life. Sleep? That's for amateurs--the real pros don't need no stinkin' sleep!

By fall, we had a new living room and front entry. One day in November, Jack's parents came to visit. Sitting at the table, Jack told his dad his new plan--to replace the dining room thermal pane with a bay window so we could grow plants.

"Window?" said Jack's dad. "That's for pikers--why not add on a greenhouse?" Jack's dad was also a chronic renovator--what Jack didn't learn at Close Enough Construction, he learned from his dad. Apparently there is a renovating gene and it too follows the male line.

All winter, Jack drew and re-drew his plans. I was dubious, but was finally convinced because he told me all the mess would be outside (the first time I fell for this, and, alas, not the last) because he wouldn't break through the wall until the addition was completely finished. At that point, I didn't realize that completely finished to Jack was different from any normal understanding of the term. But I would learn. As they say in the mystery novels, usually just after the murder, "early days yet." (I also learned to triple all time and money estimates of Jack's to at least make it into the ballpark's lower level bathrooms.

That spring was early and hot--rare for the prairies. Rollie and Jack spent days digging out yards of earth for the see-ment pond and the greenhouse foundations. By May, I had planted petunias and the walls were up on the greenhouse. Jack spent all his evenings and weekends in a sweat to get it closed in. By June, it was--just. "Close enough," said Jack, and took a break.

We'd read all the baby books about preparing the older sibling for the newborn's arrival. Primero helped us set up the crib (he watched, anyway). He picked out teddy bears and arrange them on the dresser. He offered suggestions for names. His favourites were Oscar (at two, he was a die-hard Sesame Street fan) and Poopie (I think he just liked the sound of that one).

One bright, hot June day, we'd gone into town for my regular (and hopefully last) check up with Doctor Heather. She assured me that next time I saw her, it would be in the hospital. Heather, to my delight, had switched hospitals. The previous one (where I'd had Primero) ran its maternity ward like a prison--no visitors other than "hubby" (as the nurses burbled cheerily), no leaving the floor, no having friends visit, no nothing. The day after I'd had Primero, I was passing the nurses' station, heading for the elevator and the main floor's gift-shop for a magazine. "Where do you think you're going?" demanded the grey-haired nurse my roommate and I had dubbed The Angel of Death. "Uh, downstairs?" I ventured. "Not allowed!" she barked, turning to her paperwork. Chastened, I crept back to my room.

But the new hospital had no such medieval procedures. Plus it was two blocks from Jack's parents' house--Primero would stay with them.

By late afternoon, the sky was a brassy blue, and the day's heat still hung close and heavy. On the way out of town, we stopped for take-out--I didn't feel like cooking and it was too hot, anyway. As Jack paid for pizza, I took the grease-spotted box, headed for the car, and stopped in mid-step. "Uh oh," I said.

"What?" said Jack. "What? Is it the baby? What? Now? What?"

A twinge--no more than that, but now I knew what those twinges meant--labour, and lots of it. It's strange, but you quickly forget what contractions actually feel like. Doubtless this handy amnesia is a way of perpetuating the species. If women really remembered what childbirth really felt like, there really would be no second children, ever. Husbands might become endangered as well.

"Uh, I think we should go to your parents'--I think it's starting." We knocked on Jack's parents' door, pizza in hand. Primero was thrilled at spending the night with Gramma and Grampa. I ate a half-slice--pepperoni--all I could manage, as the contractions got stronger. Finally, we headed for the hospital.

What a difference from the wild ride down the icy highway two years ago. A leisurely five-minute ride saw us pull up to the Emergency Room. The long June dusk seeped into the deep blue night sky--it never gets completely dark on the northern plains in high summer. The air was still warm from the heat of the day--late blooming lilacs scented the air.

This time my water hadn't broken early. No one seemed to be in a hurry, so I thought, well, okay, who am I to buck a trend? I'll just relax and go with the flow.

Jack and I had decided to give natural childbirth another try, despite eighteen hours of hard labour. Everything I'd read suggested that second labours were faster than first ones. The cervix is all limbered up from practice and raring to go, or something like that. My bag had been packed by month four--this time I remembered the tennis balls--and stowed in the car. We'd done this once--number two would be a piece of cake, and I would have the tennis balls in case of back labour. (I still had no idea of what back labour was, but I was about to find out).

The new hospital didn't "prep"--I loved the place already. The nurses just popped me into a backless gown and into a bed--again, the monitor was attached. Again Jack became completely absorbed in the monitor's read-out. As the first really big contraction hit, the memory of what they felt like came flooding back. "Damn," I breathed. "That was it, alright."

"What?" asked Jack, frowning at the feedback strip. "It doesn't look like a particularly big one--those don't come until later." Jack loved being in the labour room--he loved being part of the delivery. If there was such a profession as itinerant labour coach, Jack would have applied. And if the nurses had let him, he would have wandered the halls on the lookout for lone women in labour, bent on offering his service. Thank God the nurses didn't let him.

"Thanks for the reminder," I muttered. I had made him promise to eat no stew--beef or otherwise, or any kind of food his mom might send him, no matter how hungry he got. He reluctantly agreed, although I strongly suspect he slipped out several times for peanuts from the vending machine down the hall.

And so I settled down to surfing the contractions once more--while the memory might come surging back, so does the ability to surf the waves. Hours and hours passed, doctors and nurses kept checking me to see how much I had dilated. This was taking a long time.

After about twelve hours, a new doctor stopped by--apparently I was outlasting the shifts. Checking my stomach, my cervix, my monitor, he asked, "Are we experiencing discomfort yet?"

I was far too busy surfing to respond to such a moronic question with anything more than "Whaaa..?" It has stayed with me, though, all these years--that daft transmuting of a perfectly clear, single syllable into that banal weasel-word. Discomfort indeed. "I'm in PAIN, asshole!" I roared inside my head. Outside, I could only breath deeply, trying to keep on top of the waves.

I kept asking Jack for the time, convinced that this baby would be born in less time than Primero. The eighteenth hour assumed talismanic proportions--it would be over before then--second labours were faster--all the books said so.

The eighteenth hour approached--no land in sight for me yet, as the waves kept surging higher. The nineteenth hour came and went, as did various doctors and nurses. My stubborn cervix, obviously not practiced or familiar enough with the books, had opened only so far and decided it was in no hurry. Nothing to do but ride it out, announced the latest doctor on the ward. "Sadistic bastards," I muttered.

TO BE CONTINUED