If you're someone who likes to plan, organize, schedule, categorize, make lists, research, prepare, rank, prioritize, and execute, then childbirth probably isn't for you. As an experience, it defies all of the above -- no, it laughs at all of the above. I learned this firsthand, and the hard way. Being a little, well to be honest, anal retentive, I prepared for the birth of our child like a general readying for a siege. Books? I read every book. I surfed every website. I fed and watered my pregnant body as though it were a prize racehorse headed for the Derby. I prepared the nursery. I cooked and froze meals.

I bought extra supplies of things like laundry detergent and toilet paper so that we wouldn't run out. I paid bills, returned calls, cleaned closets, baseboards, the stove.

I frightened my husband, who kept reminding me that we were having a baby, not a platoon of invading soldiers, and would I please just calm down. But planning, for me, is calming, and so, when we finally left for the hospital to actually have the baby, we left a spotless house and headed into what I assumed would be a Perfect Birth That Would Go Exactly According To Plan.

It didn't. I had written a Childbirth Plan for my doctor ("Oh my God, you're like one of those nutcase mothers we deal with!" said my cousin, the labor and delivery nurse in New Jersey.) Our Plan covered things like episiotomies, epidural, c-sections, lighting, music, etc. We were hoping to have a totally drug-free childbirth, and had brought a pile of helpful focal objects and other gear to get me through the pain. Unfortunately, our baby was rather comfy in the womb and had apparently decided not to be born at all, making it necessary to induce labor. Induction involves being hooked up to an IV drip of a synthetic hormone called Pitocin. I'd heard that it could make contractions even more painful, but we figured that we'd at least try to stick to the Plan for as long as possible. We arrived at the hospital at 7 a.m. and met our nurse, Alisa. I put on the pink gown, climbed into the bed, and was hooked up to the IV. Finally -- we were going to have a baby! It wasn't too bad at first. The contractions began coming pretty regularly, and we timed them, did the breathing, held hands, played cards, and visited with my friends, Marsha, Kirby, and Anne, all of whom dropped by to lend support. I ate a few Popsicles, drank some ginger ale, and practiced my visualization. I imagined that each contraction was like a specific hill on my regular 5K route. All I had to do was make it to the top of that hill, and then I'd get to run down and take a rest. It's an indication of how difficult running is for me and how woefully unsuited to it I am that I was able to get through thirteen hours of labor by simply pretending that I was jogging. And to be frank, I've had uphill runs that were harder for me than a great many of those contractions.

Shift change brought a new nurse, Toni, who said at around 8 p.m., that I was enough of an earth mother for her, and would I like to have that epidural now? By that point, the pain was like nothing I'd ever imagined. It was obliterating. I thought that I might faint, vomit or die with every contraction. I couldn't think straight, couldn't even hear my husband's gentle coaching. Breathe? You try breathing while your spine is being ripped through your navel. I was exhausted and frantic. It was time for the epidural. The instant that it was in place, I fell into a numb, deep sleep, and was pretty much checked out for the next several hours. I'd wake to concerned faces, muted conversation, my husband looming over me. By midnight it was becoming apparent that things weren't progressing as they should. By now, our nurse was Barb, who squeezed my hand and reassured us that it would all be okay. At 1 a.m., Barb told us that my doctor felt that it was time to talk about a c-section. I was in tears. Wasn't there anything else we could try, I asked? My doctor agreed to give it a little more time, warning me that I was feverish and not doing well. Luckily, the baby's heart rate had remained steady and strong throughout, so we felt we could take a chance on another hour or so. But the extra time didn't help, and shortly before 2 a.m., Mark and I looked at each other and agreed that having a healthy baby was what mattered, not how the baby was born. It all happened so fast after that. Bright lights, a blue drape, Mark appearing at my side in surgical scrubs, voices telling me about feeling pressure, but not pain. There was a blur -- me throwing up, Mark wide-eyed behind his glasses, the sound of a baby's cry, then a baby appearing in the air above me, curled up and beautiful. In a daze of narcotics and fatigue I thought, "What a pretty baby! I wonder if that one is mine?" There was laughter and cries of "It's a little girl!" and then Mark was cradling her in his arms, crooning to her. I lay there; unaware that I was hemorrhaging, tears leaking out of my eyes, wondering when I'd be allowed to hold her.

They brought her to me in Recovery, and Barb said that I could try to nurse her if I liked. She gently laid the baby beside me, and for the first time I looked into my daughter's huge, dark blue eyes. She was calm, and pink, and exquisite, with soft reddish-brown hair and ten perfect, tiny fingers. She nuzzled against me, and then, latched on like a pro. I can't say that I forgot the pain at that moment, but I knew that it didn't matter, that it was a small price to pay, and worth every bit of it. That's much better than forgetting, don't you think?

The next twenty-four hours passed in a fog of beeping monitors, drugged sleep, blood pressure cuffs, thermometers, soft voices, and nursing. The very best part of that day was the three or so hours that I snoozed with my baby, tucked up in a blanket by my side. I was incredibly lucky that she knew just what to do where breastfeeding was concerned, seeing as how she had not just an incompetent mother, but also a weak and delirious one to boot. We made up for any bonding time we'd lost, and I marveled over her, a miraculous, tiny creature that I would apparently be allowed to keep for my very own. For her part, she made a great many faces at me, and graciously permitted me to nibble on her tiny feet, and tickle her pudgy belly. Her dad and I named her Olivia. We chose Olivia just because we really love the name; her middle name is that of her late great-grandmother, my Grandma Blackhair. All we wanted was to take her home, and after five days, we finally did.

There are things you can plan for, and things that just happen. Sometimes, things go wrong. I needed a lesson in that more than most new parents do, and am probably just beginning a lifetime course in how nothing will ever again go according to plan. When they say that having a child will change your life, they're right. What they don't say is how much you'll embrace that change. A few days before Olivia was born, a co-worker and mother of two said to me, "Everyone wants to give you advice now, but all I'll tell you is that you're about to meet the greatest love of your life." I just couldn't understand how true that was until Saturday, 2:40 a.m., May 19th.