I was a typical first time pregnant woman, all aglow with belly pride. I shoved my pregnancy into everybody's face, assuming each individual with whom I came in contact was just as excited as I was about my impending labor and delivery. As far as I was concerned, life -- everybody's life -- revolved around my fetal kick count.
Then, at 6:30 p.m. on my due date, July 3, I felt my first non-Braxton Hicks contraction. I was sweeping up in the kitchen when my in-laws walked through our door with dinner.
"I think it's happening," I told my mother-in-law, as I grasped my boulder of a belly through the clench of another contraction.
For the remainder of the evening, we timed my contractions. They went on, in erratic spurts for unpredictable lengths until 10:40 p.m. At that point, I decided to lay down and try to sleep, as I was not yet in pain enough to prevent rest. My in-laws and husband, being night owls, remained in our home, expecting me to emerge minutes later with more intense labor.
I didn't.
At 1 a.m. in the morning, on the Fourth of July, I woke up to a jolt of pain in my midsection. It felt like I was being painfully stretched, but the pain didn't last more than half a minute. I dozed back off, just to wake at 1:15 ... and then 2 ... and then 2:07, and subsequently throughout the night, but never less than seven minutes from the last time I woke. Each time I awoke, the pain grew exponentially more intense.
The rule of thumb, is usually that a woman doesn't consider going to the hospital before her contractions are five minutes apart and fairly painful. At 7 a.m., I called my doctor, and explained what had been happening.
"Hey, I've been getting contract -- hold on -- mmph, having ... one," I told my doctor, as I grasped the wall in a cold sweat of pain.
"How far apart are they?" she asked.
"Never sooner than seven minutes apar -- grph -- hold ... on," I said. I caught my breath. "They really hurt! That one came quicker!"
"Just keep doing your breathing, and hang in there. When they are consistently five minutes apart, head to the hospital. Please call if you have any questions in the meantime, OK?" my doctor said.
OK. So, I'd wait, then. Laboring at home would be a heck of a lot better than doing it in a hospital bed, anyway. And, I'd already been in labor since 6:30 the previous evening, so I didn't imagine labor would drag on past 6:30 that night. I mean, that would be 24 hours of labor! My mom had shorter labors. I was bound to follow suit, right?
Wrong.
After more than 36 hours of hard labor with most of it spent at "a fingertip dilated," five walks up and down the block with my mother, a morphine shot, an epidural, some cuss words, a lot of tears, and all the Fourth of July fireworks my husband could watch on television, we had a baby. Silas Robert Janosko was born on July 5 at 11:41 a.m., weighing in at 8 pounds, 12 1/2 ounces. I was exhausted, and this was not to be Silas's first late and stubborn arrival in life.
He sat up unassisted at 9 months. He didn't walk until he was 19 months. He cut his first tooth at 15 months, and he wore a corrective helmet after flattening his head from refusing to turn it. Silas wouldn't do a damn thing when he was "supposed" to. But, when it came to talking, I believe he exited the womb exclaiming, "Wow! Check out all this light! It's so nice to meet all of you -- hey, what's that oozing out of Mom? A placenta?! Plahhhhh-sennnn-tahh. Got it. What does it do? Can I touch it?"
By the age of 2, Silas's vocabulary was better than that of the average first-grader. He fell when he ran, and couldn't climb a snail, but he could explain every emotion he felt and the break down causative relationships pertaining to his environment. He could reason and understand abstract concepts, and by the age of 3, (unfortunately through his own life's experiences), he could explain even the idea of death, and express his sadness about it. He also extended himself to strangers. He wanted to know everybody's name, their age, if they had a "woman" or a "man," or a child, or a car, or a job. He also told everybody about our family. His love of how things work grew every day, from trying to understand how germs made him sick, to analyzing the mechanical arm of a garbage truck. Early on, it was clear Silas was not intended for brawn or athleticism, but for intellect, science, and socializing.
When we moved down here, to North Carolina from Michigan, I was pregnant with my second son Asher. And, while the pregnancy was moving along as smoothly as uncomfortable pregnancies can go, my doctor's found I had gestational diabetes, which required twice-a-week monitoring in Asheville -- 40 minutes from where we were currently living. I knew no one, and therefore had to take Silas to every obstetrician appointment and fetal monitoring session. It gave us an opportunity to talk about the pregnancy, and for me to answer every question he had about how labor and delivery worked. Alongside me, he watched my contractions on the monitor, and helped me press the button every time Asher kicked. He also grew accustomed to standing behind a curtain when I received my cervical checks; my Braxton Hicks contractions were showing up so intensely on the monitor, the doctors repeatedly thought I was in labor. It was during one of these cervical checks the doctor told me I was dilated to two centimeters, which was exciting news, considering my lack of progress with Silas's birth. Silas overheard, and understood.
"Is your cervix open? Is the little door opening? Is my brother coming??" I heard from behind the curtain, as my PA, Crystal held him back.
"Yes, buddy. Your brother is coming -- not right away, but he's trying to open the little door to come out," I explained.
As I walked back out into the waiting room to check out with the receptionist, an excited Silas exclaimed throughout the echoing walls, "Mom's cervix is open!"
After the appointment, we rode to Babies R Us discussing how "cervix" was spelled and why it did not start with an "s." We also discussed how this was not something to blurt out in the waiting room, nor in public. So, when we got to Babies R Us, and Silas found a woman shopping for Boppys, he tugged on my shirt and quietly whispered, "Mom? Can I tell her about the cervix and that it's opening?" (I did not let him.)
Since that day, Silas has mastered the understanding of a few more concepts I'd not have expected. He owns approximately three adult books on sea creatures and oceans, and can successfully identify more than 50 species of sea life. He can tell me their diets, their tendencies and their habits. He knows more "Star Wars" lore than the average adult geek, but he also understands Darth Vader's internal struggles as a bad guy with good still remaining in his damaged heart. He'd prefer to count backward, in negative numbers than forward -- in the ways his teachers would prefer. He is a salmon, constantly swimming against the current. His creativity and ability to problem solve or find a way to do what he wants is beyond me, as well. He is the most resourceful 4 1/2 year old I know. Two weeks ago, when we first closed on our new home, (a foreclosure we're renovating), I took Silas over to the house without toys. When he asked what he could play with, I handed him a paint tray, some paper cups, and a whole bunch of blue painter's tape.
"Here," I said, "Figure out something to do with all of this."
Thirty minutes later, he came back to me with a ship he'd built, using the paint tray as a base, the cups as symmetrical engines, and a whole bunch of paper towels he'd collected as other ship components.
Does he count to 100? No. Does he write all his letters correctly? Absolutely not. Can he draw better than the average child. Uh-uh. Can he read? Nope. But, Silas cannot do these things because he won't. He's stubborn. And, this scares me.
When one raises a strong-willed brain, one must bear in mind her child is smart. Silas can manipulate, fake and instigate. It is for this reason, I will have to be an especially alert parent. He could go one of many ways; he could get bored in school, refuse to even try, and put his efforts into dangerous activities. Or, he'll have a mom and a dad who hold him accountable for pretending to be stupid. Or, he may be a self-starter and do just fine. We shall see.
As we embark upon the end of pre-school and the beginning of kindergarten, I'm watching him like a hawk and taking in all the advice and counsel of parents of other stubborn brainiacs. I have a handful of other moms who are good at providing me with tips from their own experiences, and thank God for them, because I have no idea what I'm doing.
For now, I have at least enrolled him in tee-ball to teach him the values of teamwork and listening to others. You may judge for yourself how that is going. He's the one facing backward in the number 55 jersey.
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