happy 4th birthday ji hong!

Four years, man. FOUR years old. Ji announced today (the day after his 4th birthday) that a) he no longer requires help wiping his bum, and b) he needs some new clothes, since he is now four, and his old three year old clothes no longer fit him.

It seems like about forty-six years since I had Ji. Neither Phet nor I can really accurately remember what it's like to have a newborn. I can't quite imagine just how small he used to be. Ji was a seriously scrawny baby, and the fact that he didn't figure out how to breastfeed until he was two weeks old and had already lost about a sixth of his body weight at a time when every ounce counted didn't really help matters much. Until he was a month old he pretty much looked like a plucked chicken. We, of course, thought he was perfection - and we still do.

I haven't ever written up a really good account of the birth so perhaps I'll take this opportunity to do so before I get premature Alzhheimers and can't remember anymore...

I went to Canada from Laos a couple of months before Ji was born. The flight from Vientiane to Bangkok was the HOTTEST flight I have ever been on. There's me, seven-and-a-bit months pregnant, trapped in a 44' Celsius convection oven on a burning fire hot Indochinese runway. If you've ever flown with Lao Aviation, you know quite well what that plane was like. Visible, rickety screws holding down the banks of picnic-quality chairs; '60s-style melamine on the cabin walls; particleboard back-of-seat trays; and of course everyone's favourite choice of fine ingestibles - Mirinda Orange, Pepsi, or Beer Lao, served with a deep fried hot dog roll. By the time we took off, the air con jets were spewing out waves of smoggy foggy white cloudy air that took a tiny edge off the blazing heat, and I was able to finally breathe and share some much-needed oxygen with my fetus.

After a couple of months in chilly Canada, I was headed towards the much anticipated labour experience. I'd gone to see Em in Montreal and Catherine in Quebec City, and had generally galumphed about very much enjoying being pregnant and not constantly fiendishly hot. I was due to deliver mid-December, and Phet came back with (we thought) several weeks to spare. However, a few short days after his arrival, and the day after my friends and fam had had a wee party for me, the contractions began.

We were staying at Phet's aunts' house, in their (nicely finished) basement, and I woke up around 7 am with an odd feeling. For some very strange reason I didn't say anything to Phet, but went into the nearby bedroom and had a little cry by myself. Looking back, perhaps my body was letting me know that I was in for it, and I would be in for it ALONE. Well, alone in the pain, though of course very much surrounded by caring family members.

So, again, weirdly enough I let Phet sleep for another hour and a half while I curled up in a fetal position (hm!) on the other bed. Finally, I talked to him, and later we talked to my Mum and decided that I was probably starting labour. Phet's Mum was visiting Canada for her first time ever, and she - having had seven kids herself - came down, checked things out, and then went about her business. I paced around the aunts' house for several hours, and around lunch time Mum came to pick us up to take us to the hospital.

Of course, since I had figured I had at least another ten days to go, I hadn't packed anything to take to the hospital. Soooo we drove up to Mum and Dad's house to get a few essentials. We were still not quite sure whether I'd be admitted, and we were waffling a little about leaving, and I found it to be the absolute top of coincidental karma when the song "Should I Stay or Should I Go" came on on Q107 while I was in Mum's kitchen. I very much enjoyed headbanging to the music after I'd run outside and told Mum to turn on the car radio while she was waiting. I can't remember what it was that we packed (we didn't have any birthing supplies, that was for sure) however I somehow managed to go to the hospital wearing the godawfulest pair of black jogging pants and a pair of hideous white tube socks. I had thought that I'd be really warm during the birth, and I did bring along a sleeveless nightgown, but then it turned out that I was mostly unbearably freezing cold (well, duh, suprise surprise since I don't actually have blood pressure of any sort). I therefore spent the entirety of the pre-delivery laff-fest in depression-inducing clothes.

Note to self: If I have another kid, I must remember to buy a nice pair of dark-coloured but not black sweat pants from the Gap and to be sure to have several pairs of adorable, cozy socks on hand. I think I was also wearing some rejected and sloppy long-sleeved cotton shirt. Now, I know that no one else gave a damn what I was wearing. It's not that I wanted to look good. Like, y'all know I don't wear lipstick or high heels and I certainly don't spend much money on clothes. But I do kind of believe that if you think you look like a hobo you'll feel like a hobo. And did I ever hate feeling like a hobo who was also having to pooh out a watermelon.

Once we got to Women's College Hospital, I went and used the first floor washroom, still feeling quite uneasy and anxious. Not about having the baby; it was a continuation of that go-lie-alone-in-bed-and-cry feeling. I think you just start tuning yourself inwards as you go through the birth, and you feel removed from the people - all of them - around you. You get a kind of tunnel vision. Upstairs on the labour and delivery floor, I got checked out, and they told me that I was well enough dilated that I should stay in the hospital. They let me lie down in the checking-in room and then Phet and Mum stayed with me timing my contractions. As they got closer together, they got me checked again and I was at last admitted.

It gets a little blurry after that. I was put in a room, and it happened to be the very room that my pre-birth class had toured a few weeks earlier. Back then we were all very chipper and all the ladies had checked out the handy adjoining shower room saying, "Oh won't this be convenient!". I could think of nothing I would have hated more than to have gotten cold and wet and to have had dripping, freezing hair during my labour. But it had sort of seemed like a good idea at the time. For the first couple of hours after being admitted I was able to pace up and down in my hallway. I felt that I was handling the pain pretty well. I was surprised at how the contractions felt; they were mostly like really awful period pains embedded in my back. I had expected my stomach to feel like it was squeezing or something, but that wasn't the case. It was mostly lower back pain.

It might've been around 4ish that the doctor came to see me about breaking my waters. They hadn't broken yet and he explained that breaking them would make the labour progress more quickly and that it was also just generally a good idea to get that taken care of. At least, that's what I recall. I was dazed, but it sounded reasonable and so I agreed. The actual breaking was no big deal, but the big deal to me (squeamishness warning!) was that it felt WONDERFUL to have warm 'water' running down my legs. That's how cold I was.

Well, and sure enough, after that the labour kicked in big time. The pain was no longer adequately manageable it was just dreadfully, awfully painful. Now, you may ask, 'Didn't they check if you wanted an epidural?' Yes, indeed they did. In fact, they checked several times. There are a couple of cousins in my distant family who have malignant hyperthermia, which is a very serious reaction to anaesthesia that used to be 90% fatal. Nowadays, that number is down to 10%. However, if it is known that MH runs in a family, hospitals must take serious precautions with administering anaesthetic. I had noted on my hospital form that there was MH very distantly in my family, and therefore the doctors felt that it would be a good idea for me to have an epidural early on so that in case of any adverse reaction they could deal with it then, rather than wait until I might possibly require an emergency c-section, at which time it would be very hard to deal with any negative reaction to whatever anaesthetic they used.

I, however, did NOT want the epidural. I had this thought in mind that if all the women in developing countries (like the one I'd spent most of my pregnancy in) and also my own mother managed to give birth without epidurals, I ought to be able to do so as well. I also thought - and still think - that births seem to go quicker without epidurals. There seems to be less chance of having to eventually use more invasive methods or to have to have a caesarian. But really, when it comes down to it, it took a goddamn lot of stubborness to keep saying no to the epidural. I finally got really mad at the anaesthetist when he came in for the third time, and by then the pain had finally hit the point of making me weep, and he sat there all jolly and jaunty and offering this f-----g thing that I didn't want, and I was furious. I don't know whether I said this, but I my feeling was, I am trying to deal with this pain MY WAY, so why don't you get the hell out of here and let me do that, asshole. Of course he was just trying to be helpful. But ladies who are about to give birth are not interested in other people's stupid motives. They just want to get the baby OUT.

The really awful part of the labour lasted about an eternity too long. All the birthing videos and classes tell you that you will reach a point when you feel like you just simply cannot go through with the task you're in the middle of, and I certainly reached that point. During contractions, I'd push against Mum and Phet, and clench Phet's hands, and even bit him - really hard - on the hand at one point to congenially share the pain. I could've very easily also ripped off any of his appendages if I'd only had the opportunity. Both of my supporters were mashed black and blue, though they kept up their exceedingly helpful and kind assistance.

When I finally got to the pushing stage, I thought it would be a matter of a couple of pushes and tah-dah! Boy, was I wrong. It took at least an hour and a half. When I could open my eyes and they weren't streaming with tears, I checked the clock. Time seemed to move interminably slowly. Mum says I demanded to know at one point exactly how much longer this delivery was going to take. I definitely felt that my ability to carry on was gone. If I'd been out in a desperate snowstorm, I would've have pleaded with my family to - for god's sake - just leave me alone to die. Instead, I kept kept kept on pushing. The nurse offered to bring in a mirror so I could monitor the baby's progress, but the idea of seeing how desperately futile the whole endeavour seemed (baby exiting at a millimetre per 10 minutes of excruciating pain) completely stupid. I watched the faces of the folks who were gathered around - the nurses, Mum, Phet, and then eventually the doctor, to tell how things were progressing.

They kept saying 'We see the head!', but the head would NOT exit. Then, they all gawped in horror when the about-to-occur episiotomy was rendered unnecessary by a rending of my flesh. Niiiiice. Then, there was yet another eternity of agony, and FINALLY - oh JOYOUS DAY - OH CHORUSES OF HALLELUIAS - OH MARVELLOUS, SPECTACULAR MOMENT OF RELIEF - the baby's head came out. I immediately felt great. Like, not just emotionally happy that the baby was just about completely into the universe, but physically I was instantly feeling amazing. There is a holy motherlode of endorphins of joy that are released when that baby finally exits, and it was almost (notice I say almost) worth not having had the epidural to feel that wave of awesomeness enter me. Then the baby's shoulders came out, and that was that.

I remember asking to see the placenta, and I did, but I can't quite remember what it looked like. Next time I'll get Phet to take a picture. I didn't have to ask to see my baby; he got handed right over. His hair was wet and looked like it had grown in tight curls. He looked absolutely, utterly perfect (though I do admit that I noticed one nostril seemed a little wider than the other, and his ears were crinkly and still are to this very day). After all the cord cutting and drying up and weighing and such, the doctor put in 20 stiches in me. It was not pleasant, but it didn't actually hurt. I think they gave me some local anaesthetic. I got transferred quickly to a regular hospital room, and was absolutely thrilled to see my brother, my sister, my father, and Phet's family. I was utterly RAVENOUS and horfed down a huge plate of beef stroganoff and an entire can of Coke. And several brownies. And that was my first day with Ji.

Back to Bangkok, for Ji's birthday we took him out for dinner at an exceedingly fancy place he chose from our 'Chic Bangkok' restaurant guide. The very, very classy and posh Mum of my student from last year had given it to me for teacher's day, and we'd never used it until yesterday. Ji's first choice was the 68th-floor rooftop steakhouse of a downtown hotel, and we agreed, but the first available reservation was for 10 pm. So instead, Phet, Ji, me, and Uncle Trung headed to Face Bangkok, just 10 minutes from our place. It was a gorgeous spot - stilt house style Thai houses built with dark hard wood and curved-beam roofs. Inside, the restaurant was candle-lit and filled with gorgeous Thai carvings. Very cool. We feasted on waaaaay too much food, and I had soft-shelled crabs for the first time. I've got only one question: why do people bother to eat hard-shelled crabs when the soft ones are so much yummier and easier to eat, and you don't spray your fellow diners with crab juice when you eat them? For dessert we had a tasty choclate mousse for Ji to make his wish on. Move your mouse over the picture to see Ji blow out his candle:

During the dinner, Phet had too much red wine. He was cheery during dinner, but disaster struck when we went home to open gifts. Yes, Ji's father passed out during the gift-opening fiesta. Ah well, at least he was a rock of solid support during the birth and every other day since then. [Ji Hong-27-November-2005]

this one's for you, deacon dwyer

"Mum, sometimes I do Jesus's cross on my forehead with my spit." [Ji Hong-18-November-2005]