Landon's Birth Story: Part 3

Part 1 of Landon's Birth Story is here.    Part 2 of Landon's Birth Story is here.



For the next few contractions, I kept the pushy sensation to myself.  I felt like I needed to be sure it was a push feeling and not just a new intensity feeling.  To find out, I gave in to the pushing urge once and it felt so good that I knew it was real.  Justin held me up as I leaned into him.  I took deep gulps of air from where my face was buried in his chest, drawing his strength into myself. 

"I feel very pushy," I said to the room in general. 

The room responded with a resounding "Try not to push!" My nurses were awesome, but I always marvel at how they imagine one goes about not pushing when the baby's ready to come.  It's as right as scratching an itch.  As essential as closing your eyes during a sneeze.  As inescapable as a yawn begetting a yawn.  Pushing just is. 

Within five minutes, my doctor arrived cheerfully in the room.  He's very used to coaching medicated mothers; he's known for excellent, powerful, early epidurals.  He was confronted with me and my control issues in all my moaning glory, and still, he was jolly.  "Alright!  We gonna have a baby?!"

I didn't respond.  I was too busy pretending not to push through contractions.  The doctor wanted to check my progress, but I refused to move from the corner of the bed where I'd been perched for most of the labor.  "That's okay, you just stay put," he said.  "I can work where you are."

I have no idea how he did it, but he checked me while I sat mostly upright, and declared me to be almost there.  The hustle of nurses began -- moving supplies into position, arranging the bed just-so -- and still I did my laboring.  The instruction to crawl further onto the bed and get ready to push had me both worried and relieved; I expected the freedom to push would feel as divine as it had with Lauren, but I knew what pushing led to: crowning.

I think mothers must be more equipped than most to handle the promise of unpleasantness.  We stiffen our spines, bite our lips, and forge ahead, because there's nothing for it.  There's only one way forward.

At 5:39, I pushed a medically sanctioned push for the first time.  I'd been expecting some relief from the pain of contractions while pushing, but I was completely unrelieved.  That first push felt awful -- ineffective and blocked and awful.

"You need to sit up a little bit, Sarah."  The doctor told me to tilt my hips forward.  "Baby's head is stuck on your pubic bone...that's better....now on this next push, you give it ALL you've got, okay?  Really push as deep as you can."

I felt the next contraction building as he spoke, and I started to push.  Like I was born to push.  Like this was the pushing championship and I would die if I didn't win.  Like this push would determine the fate of the world.  Absently, I felt wetness around my eyes and realized I was crying.  Weeping, actually.  When the push was over, I leaned my head back and despaired.

"I can't...I can't..."  I spoke in whispers, too tired and scared to raise my voice. 

Justin and Jill were each supporting my legs, and one of them -- maybe both of them -- said "You are, Sarah!  You ARE!"

And even though I couldn't do it again, I did.  That was the third push.  Tears still streamed.  When Lauren was born, I pushed for an hour.  I cried because I couldn't bear to imagine an hour of this intensity, and I cried because I wanted to see my son, and I cried because I thought I must be doing it wrong if it hurt so bad. 

The doctor was busy.  He looked up at me after my third push and said, "Alright, now with this next push, you'll do it."

"Do what...?" I panted.  I was confused.  What was left to do?  Was the head still behind my pubic bone? Would the next push ease that awful pain?  Everyone stared at me for a beat of silence.  Jill smiled.

The doctor was straight-faced.  "What do you think -- we're gonna take your appendix out!"  I didn't laugh.  He looked at my mom.  "Not the best time for a joke, huh?"  He turned back to me.  "Sarah, you'll have this baby on the next push."

I think I smiled, but I can't be sure; the next contraction curled around me and I pushed against it.  I burned and screamed and died and blew away on a violent wind -- and there was Landon -- and I was alive again.

I reached down for his purple hands, and when the doctor said so, I gently pulled my baby boy the rest of the way free.  "You can let go now, Sarah."  But I couldn't.  Landon was gripping my thumbs so tightly that I couldn't bear to break loose. 

Then he was on my chest, being rubbed and wiped and marveled over, crying with strong, loud lungs. 

I kissed him and whispered.  We did it, baby boy.  We did it.

Happy Birthday, Landon Asher.  You are light and joy and fresh air and laughter.  We love you!

Landon's Birth Story: Part 2

Part 1 of Landon's Birth Story is here.



It was the most beautiful October day, I remember.  The sun was warm, the breeze was cool, and the sky was studded with puffball clouds.  Justin and I parked about as far away from the hospital as we could; I wasn't willing to search for a closer spot, and the weather was just right for a long walk to calm my nerves.  I'd been excited for labor to get underway, but the reality of painful contractions was beginning to do a number on my serenity. 

Justin carried our supplies until I clutched at his shoulder for support.  He  put the bags down to hold me through two contractions before we made it to the front desk.  They felt much better than any of the car-ride contractions had been, but were much closer than they'd been up to this point. 

At the front desk, we were required to wait until a nurse could bring a wheelchair for me.  I was horrified -- couldn't I please walk?  It was torturous to sit down, and I couldn't imagine my completely healthy self being rolled through hallways like an invalid.  Still, it was hospital policy, so I eased myself into the wheelchair with promises from the nurse that we could stop and stand up through contractions.  She urged me not to start pushing, though.  I almost laughed, until I realized that this was probably the entire reason for the wheelchair: no babies will be born in hallways as long as hospital staff can drive quickly. 

There was a room ready for us in Labor and Delivery.  When I got all settled and checked at 3PM, I was dilated to a 4, with contractions coming every two to three minutes.  As has been my history, none of my contractions ever showed up on the monitor.  Jill, my dear friend and stand-in doula, told me later that she timed each of my contractions and that they were incredibly easy to monitor without a word from me.  Each time a contraction was about to begin, my whole body would shift to accept its power. 

As time passed, I felt increasingly like my body wasn't in labor, but that my body had become labor.  Every cell of my self was required to weather each onslaught.  I curled my toes.  Swung my feet.  Rocked my pelvis on the edge of the bed.  Strong-armed Justin into supporting my weight.  Rolled my neck to relax.  Chanted okay, okay... when I felt the pressure of another coming contraction. 

Jill and my mom were silent bystanders, ready to give whatever I asked, only I never asked.  I was completely self-absorbed and speechless.

For the next two hours, I became lost in time.  With my water breaking so early, there was no steadying cushion to guard against the sharpest pains.  There was only speed and intensity.  If each contraction was a hill to climb in order to avoid being drowned by the next crushing wave, it wasn't long before I was completely submerged.  I don't know if I spoke it out loud, but I was thinking, I can't go on like this...I can't get on top of these...they're taking me away...

As the pains became more demanding, I became louder.  Childbirth is never a quiet experience for me, and I am only a little bit ashamed to admit that I'm certain I sounded more like a lowing cow than a human being a few times.  Although I was mostly unaware of how my body was moving and behaving -- I simply let it go where it would -- I was always very conscious of my noises.  I tried very hard to keep from becoming screechy, knowing a low-pitched tone would both calm me and help me open up to the work of labor. 

At one point, I kicked my poor father out of the room with some harsh words.

At one point, I required a fan and then had it almost immediately removed.

At 5:10, I was dilated to an eight.  I was almost frantic in my inability to manage the pain.  I shook my head and shuffled in fear of the next contraction.  Instead of prepping for a contraction by chanting okay, okay, okay, I began to chant, no-no-no-no...  It was too much, and while I wanted the progression, I felt desperate for a slowing. 

'Desperate' could sum up most of my labor, in fact.  I was overwhelmed, more so than I'd ever been with Lauren's birth.  I needed it to end so I could rest, but I was terrified of what would come next.  I urgently paddled up through wave after wave after increasingly insurmountable wave...

Then, when the space between contractions held tears instead of rest, my next pain brought something new: an involuntary push. 

It was 5:25 PM and I'd only been laboring for four mind-blowing hours.



Whew!  I'll be back as soon as I can with Part 3 -- It's the best part, I promise :)

Landon's Birth Story: Part 1

There are things I want to remember about childbirth.  The beautiful feeling of being released from a contraction.  The way my world narrowed to exist only within the confines of my husband's arms.  The undeniability of my body's forward momentum.  The heaviness of the baby being laid on my chest for the first time; the wet, warm weight.

And it's already been one year.  Twelve months.  Fifty two weeks.  One hundred milestones.  Happy Birthday, baby boy.  Here goes the remembering.

------------

The house was quiet.  The big sisters were taking naps while Justin cleaned out the garage.  It was a Sunday afternoon, three days past my due date, and I was good and irritated.  The baby won't come today, just like he didn't come yesterday.  Just like he didn't come last week.  Every day is one step closer to a mandatory c-section.

I'd been down this road before with Lauren, whose birth ended up being perfect in every way.  Magical, I'd even say.  Part of me feared the consequences of being allowed too much perfection.  Surely the other shoe would drop, and I feared it would land right on top of this baby's slow exit. 

I sat on the couch, distracting myself with minute counting.  There were contractions, as usual.  I'd been certain of labor at least  three times in the past two weeks.  I'd counted seconds and watched midnight clocks and smiled excited smiles, but they had all amounted to nothing.  Not nothing, I told myself.  They're doing good work.  False labor is just early labor.  My body knows...my body knows...

As always, nothing is ever happening until everything is happening.  I rocked back and forth, swaying with a low, irritating contraction, and my water broke.  Just like that.  Six years earlier, when my water broke with Mia, I swore that I had heard and felt it.  Hers was a faint flicking sensation, deep inside.  When Landon's labor began, there was nothing faint about it.  The snap ricocheted around my belly with an audible pop and snap. 

I froze.  I must have smiled a wondrous, geeky grin while I marked the moment.  It's now.  1:30 on Sunday afternoon.  October 9th will be his birthday.

I didn't expect the birth to take long; Mia's labor and birth lasted less than twelve hours.  Lauren's was under seven.  This boy was going to come quickly, and I wanted to savor it all.  I stayed on the couch for another minute or so, reveling in my relief.  Spontaneous labor means no cesarean; I was happier than I'd been in weeks.

In the garage, Justin had everything away from the walls, sweeping around and organizing our accumulated mess of storage.  Of course this was the moment my labor began: when Justin was completely occupied elsewhere.  I opened the door to tell him, still with the goofy grin on my face.  "My water broke," I said.  "It's time!"

Justin shook his head and laughed.  "Very funny."  He pushed his broom around another swipe, while giggles bubbled up from my chest.

"Babe.  BABE!  I'm serious.  My water broke." 

He stopped.  His eyes got big and round, and he spun a half-circle in the messy garage.  "Now?!  It can't be now, I'm a mess!"

"Well, come inside and get cleaned up!  The baby's coming!"  I started to go back inside to find a towel, but Justin began frantically pushing and shoving boxes and shelves back into their places on the walls.  I must have made an impatient noise in my throat.

"I have to put it all back so I can find the car seat -- it's in here somewhere..."

I shook my head and closed the door.  The contractions I'd been having were mostly just minor irritations.  Within ten minutes of my water breaking, though, they picked up in intensity.  While Justin finished putting the garage back together and taking a shower, I pattered around the house aimlessly.  I made phone calls to my mom and my aunt, who was going to watch the girls.  I called my friend Jill who was going to be my doula.  I pulled the hospital bag into the living room. 

As an hour passed, we slowly got ready to leave for the hospital.  Part of me wanted to labor comfortably at home for a long time, but I worried about the speed of the birth.  Plus, I was leaking amniotic fluid with every step, and I didn't want to worry about making messes at home.  We left home around 2:35.

All the while, the contractions were steady at about five minutes apart.  They were wonderfully predictable.

But as soon as we headed to the hospital, the predictability ended.  Labor kicked in wholeheartedly on the short drive.  A particularly intense contraction gripped me while we were speeding through a stop light; I blindly clutched at Justin's arm while begging him to take the turn more slowly.  Cars honked at us as we crawled through a clogged intersection, blocking traffic from all sides. 

And I absolutely did not care.  Let them honk, I remember thinking.  I've got a baby to deliver.



Stick around for part 2!  It will be up later today and you WON'T want to miss it. 

Danielle's Birth Story

While I'm basking in the sweetness of my new baby, I've asked some friends to share their birth stories at This Heavenly Life.  Danielle of Sugar and Snails shares her story today and -- as usual for sweet Danielle -- it's beautifully told.  Be sure to make her feel welcome and then hop over to her blog to get to know her better.  You'll be so glad you did.



I had my first baby in a hospital.

The labor was 36 hours long and in my humble opinion, it was arduous and harrowing.

My baby girl was healthy. I was healthy. By most accounts it was a successful birth, if not entirely perfect.

Two years later, I was expecting our second child and my husband, Nick, and I decided we wanted things to be more relaxed and peaceful than they had been at our daughter’s birth.  We chose a free-standing birth center with a midwife instead of a hospital in an effort to improve our odds of having a natural delivery in a tranquil setting.

We had a plan and a place; now it was all about timing – waiting for our baby’s birthday to arrive.

The following is the story of how the timing part got in the way of our best-laid plans and how I learned a new way to measure my own success at delivering a baby.

Here is my birth story:




It was a Saturday evening in late May and summer in north Florida was just starting to kick into high gear. Nick had left that morning for one final business trip to Dallas before our baby’s due date in three weeks.
I had settled our then 2-year-old, Liliana, into her bed and curled up on the couch to rest.

I scooted the old white T-shirt of Nick’s that I was wearing over my belly to reveal the tiny elbows and knees rolling under my tightly stretched skin. I laughed at the prenatal gymnastics going on in there and got to thinking about how soon this baby would be in my arms. Then, realizing how tired I was, I decided to head to bed.

A few hours later, I woke up in a puddle of warm fluid.

For a good five minutes I lay in bed, vacillating between shock and denial at the labor-prompting development that had just happened. When I just couldn’t ignore the discomfort anymore, I rolled out of bed, grabbed a towel and called our midwife to ask if this slow, continual leak could be something else – not real labor.

She said no, this was indeed the real deal and that I needed to get my husband home pronto. That was bad news, for sure, but it was the next part of the conversation that was the hardest for me to come to terms with.

My midwife told me that if I delivered within the next 48 hours, I would still only be 36 weeks pregnant, which isn’t actually considered full-term. She was not allowed to deliver pre-term babies at the birth center, so I would have to have our baby at a hospital -- the type of birth I had so hoped to avoid.

I tried not to panic while I called Nick and started thinking up a new plan.

I packed a bag and made a list of friends to call in the morning to arrange for care for Liliana and a back-up labor coach should Nick not make it home in time.

The hours ticked away slowly as I tried to rest and not freak out.

By mid-morning, my contractions still eluded me, which was a blessing until Nick came home. Then, I would have done anything to feel those comforting, familiar pains of early labor. At this point, the longer we waited for labor to begin, the greater the risk of infection to our baby without the protection of amniotic fluid.

Nick and I ferried Liliana to a friend’s house that evening, and we went out to dinner. I ate spicy food and walked and walked. Still no contractions. By 6 the next morning – day two of our situation -- I felt like we needed some help.

We had to go to a hospital.

It was Memorial Day, so the labor-and-delivery floor was pretty quiet – no scheduled inductions or C-sections on account of the holiday.

We filled out reams of paperwork, and then a nurse led me to a triage room, where I was coerced into removing my favorite Counting Crows concert T-shirt in order to don a hospital gown.

This was really happening now.

The doctor who was in charge of my care introduced herself and she seemed competent and caring. She also had some good news for us. Since I was already five centimeters dilated, a little Pitocin would jumpstart some contractions and the baby would be out in no time.

Soon there were needles in my arm, antibiotics and artificial hormones pulsing through my veins and two bulky heart-rate monitors strapped uncomfortably around my mid-section. I couldn’t see how I was supposed to have a natural delivery under these circumstances. I wasn’t allowed to get up or to eat and I was discouraged from moving at all, so as not to disrupt the heart-rate monitor feeds.

Tears pooled in my eyes as I stared at white hospital walls and waited for the contractions.

Then, there was Nick.

While the nurses settled me into the delivery room, he had run to the car to grab the portable CD player and my favorite pillow. He even smuggled in a granola bar for me when the nurses weren’t looking.

It had seemed to me that no one else was thinking of my comfort, but Nick was.

In the next few hours, the contractions finally started and I felt the real work of labor taking hold. It was welcome pain. Within an hour, though, the Pitocin-spiked contractions reached a new level. They sent a hot, searing pain to the core of my body, the intensity of which I had never felt before.

In a desperate attempt to gain some control over my body’s reaction to the pain, I found Nick’s eyes again and he reminded me that those intense contractions meant that we would meet our new son or daughter any minute now.
I started to moan and yell and twist, and my body started to do on its own what I wasn’t capable of telling it to do.
When I realized what was happening, all I could say was: Push. Push. PUSH!

In an instant the doctor and nurses were around me, animated and loud. The lights seemed so bright and I didn’t want to be on my back for another second, but I couldn’t gather enough words to tell anyone that, so I just continued to push.

I pushed from my soul, from my toenails and from the very depths of my being once, twice, maybe a third time, and at last, our baby emerged.

He was a perfect, 5-pound squalling baby boy with spiky hair and fuzzy, bird-like limbs.

When the nurses placed my son in my arms and with my husband at our side, the hospital and all of its cords, lights and beeping noises drifted far away from us.

Here was Calvin Ray and he was perfect.

I nursed him. I swaddled him and kissed him. I touched his dark hair and held him close. I was in awe of the beautiful thing that had emerged from this ugly situation.

The doctor congratulated me and remarked at how well I had handled the pain. She told me I had made it look so easy and that Nick and I should teach classes on how to do that.

I hadn’t felt like it was easy. I hadn’t felt comfortable with anything that had happened to me that day. I had wanted it to be so different. But when I heard the doctor tell me how it looked from the outside, I realized why it had seemed so effortless: I had been forced to relinquish my control and something greater had taken over.

The pain and the momentum of the labor forced my strong will to get out of the way, and to let my body do its work.

Our children don’t know it, but they’re always teaching us things. My tiny Calvin showed me that some of our most treasured moments happen in the midst of messed up circumstances.

His entry into the world taught me that sometimes I need to let go and that doesn’t mean everything is going to fall apart on us. There’s something bigger holding us up all the time.

I also think whatever happens to us in childbirth tells a story about how we might handle adversity as parents. I hope Calvin’s birth story has prompted me to step out of the way when what I have planned just isn’t working for us.

I also hope that it will remind me to let Calvin be who he’s supposed to be, because I’m certain it’s a whole lot more remarkable than anything Nick and I could design on our own.

Lucy's Birth Story

While I'm basking in the sweetness of my new baby, I've asked some friends to share their birth stories at This Heavenly Life.  Today, I'm proud to have Lucy the Valiant tell us her story -- in true Lucy-style.  Make SURE you visit her blog and poke around in her archives.  She's magic, Lucy is.  Magic.


Okay, so, my birth story! Brace yourselves! It’s kind of…gross.  At the time, I was so mortified by parts of this story that I could barely bring myself to post it on MY OWN blog. And now, here I am a year later, happily guest posting it for even MORE people to read! Time really must heal all wounds, even mortification!

Ahem.

(Please remember, you guys, this story is Not Cute. This is no gauzy, romantic birthing experience, the memory of which will be retold and cherished for generations. In fact, it gets kind of seriously gross, and I would much rather forget parts of it entirely, FOREVER)

I think I subconsciously expected this birth to be exactly like the last one, only quicker and less dramatic. Which would kind of make it an ideal birth, but that didn't really occur to me. 

At first, though, it was a lot better. Instead of being stuck in pre-labor for over a week, I went to the midwife, had my membranes stripped, walked vigorously for an hour (and managed to get a huge, hideously painful blister on the pad of my foot) and then went home with every expectation of going promptly into labor sometime over the weekend. My favorite midwife told me to call her whenever my labor started, even though she wasn't on call, and I had a back-up appointment for Tuesday to start labor if it hadn't yet.

And there was NO WAY that I wasn't going to go into labor before Tuesday!

Except for, absolutely nothing happened, all weekend.  Sigh.

So bright and early on Tuesday morning, I got up and vacuumed all the floors and finished up various obsessive cleaning/organizing projects. Then we took Ariel to my sister's house, and picked up my mama and Kanga, and made the drive to the birth center.

We waited around for an hour or so, making jokes and being silly, while they cleaned up from an earlier birth. Then the midwife broke my water the rest of the way, and sent me off to do various labor-starting activities. Nipple stimulation and vigorous walking, primarily. But not at the same time, because THAT would be awkward! My contractions finally started up, but they weren't too intense, and the most discomfort that I had from walking around the little park next to the birth center was due to the fact that it was stinkin' hot outside, and I was wearing my Shape-Ups and my calves were killing me.

I walked for forty-five minutes, and then went in for a popsicle and a shower. It is official, I LOVE showers when in labor. Detach the shower head, rest on the little bench in there, and go off into a little pain-management place in your head. This is where I like to labor. 

I don't know how long I was in there, but eventually I wandered out and the midwife went ahead and checked me. I think I had gone from two centimeters to three and a half, and she went ahead and gave me something off-label to bring the contractions on stronger. I had to lay down for an hour with that stuff, and so I labored in bed, which isn't really my favorite, but wasn't too bad just then. The contractions got a lot stronger, and Joey went from occupying himself with sudoku to coaching me through them. He was amazingly comforting, and I still felt very peaceful and confident.

After the hour was up, I got up and sat on the birthing ball for a while, but it was too unwieldy to really help. So I got back in the shower.

The great irony is that right around this point, I was managing my contractions really well, and as I stared at my reflection through the steam in the bathroom, I felt truly beautiful. Graceful and powerful and primeval. Like something out of a painting, a Birth Warrior. I very much doubt that for the rest of my life, I will ever feel that beautiful and strong again.

You can see where this is going?

(A hint: Not down paths of primeval grace, that's for sure.)

I got out of the shower after a while because I was feeling overheated, and I was very sure that I had made a lot of progress, centimeters-wise, and I wanted to be checked.

I was a four, which isn't really that much progress, is it?

This is when I started to get discouraged, because I had felt like I was going through a lot of intense contractions, but obviously they weren't intense enough, and obviously I had a long way to go. Also, I felt horrible... overheated and dizzy and tired. The midwife suggested that I needed an IV for fluids, which I declined. She also told me to go walk some more, which nearly broke my heart.

It was July. In Texas. At the hottest part of the afternoon. And I already felt overheated. Blech.

Adding insult to injury, the assistant who came out to walk with us was the one person who insisted on talking to me or other people while I was having contractions. Everyone else understood that this was NOT okay to do, that I wanted silence to focus on relaxing, but this lady kept right on chatting, telling me to "blow it out like a birthday candle" and telling Joey to walk me through visualizations of places that we had been together.

Um, not so much.

But I outsmarted them! After a few minutes of this treatment, I threw up all over my shoes.

So after that, I got to go back inside. I demanded some water, and refused an IV, and I'm not really sure where I labored for the next little while. It was starting to get seriously Rough.

And when the midwife checked me again and I was STILL a FOUR... I was pretty sure that I would just die. Since I couldn't be trusted to go outside and walk, and anyway, it was storming by then, the midwife gave me another dose of whatever medication it was.

And I promptly threw that up, and continued to heave. Dry heaving WHILE contracting is a miserable experience, is all I have to say. I lost all my focus and discipline and Bradley training for a while there. Instead I just kind of writhed on the bed and cried and clutched at Joey.

The midwife insisted that I take the IV, and she gave me fluids and an anti-nausea medicine. As soon as the bag emptied, I was shaking uncontrollably from the cold fluids, and I went BACK to the shower to warm up.

I also completely stopped speaking to anyone, and would only nod or shake my head. I'm pretty sure that I stopped even thinking in words, if that makes any sense. I was so tired and wilted-feeling already, and the anti-nausea medicine made me drowsy on top of that. So I sat firmly on the bench in the shower and ran the shower head around and around my belly in circles. In between contractions I actually fell asleep, and during contractions I was able to manage the pain again, focusing it all downward into the bench. I stopped crying and moaning, and barely made a sound at all, just drifted in and out. There was always someone in the room with me, usually Joey, but they could have been a million miles away for all I knew.

After about an hour, I came back to myself enough to worry that if I stayed in the shower any longer, I would start to get overheated again. I stepped out, and asked to be checked again, and I was dilated to... an EIGHT. That is four centimeters in an HOUR. Everyone congratulated me and I nodded briefly. The midwife wanted me to go empty my bladder, and I discovered that sitting upright on the toilet was nearly as good as sitting on the bench in the shower, only without the risk of passing out from too much hot water. So they tucked a pillow behind my back, and I sat there a few minutes, focusing the pain downwards again, which really did help, and not talking to anyone.

And then. I realized that I needed to...poop.

Probably you already know that when you're in labor, and you start pushing, some poop comes out. I was aware of this fact last time, and I really had hoped that I would be so busy pushing a baby out that I wouldn't even NOTICE if I was so unfortunate as to poop in front of God and everybody. That wasn't the case last time, and I always felt embarrassed about it. (Little did I know!) So when I felt that urge this time, I thought, fine. I'm already on the toilet, I'm going to be fully dilated soon, how great would it be if I could just get the poo out of the way decently without anyone seeing?

So I went with it. And promptly started screaming and gripping onto the bars next to the toilet with all my might. The midwife heard me and ran back down the stairs, and suddenly everyone was in my face. Hardly the private elimination that I had been hoping for!

And then they started trying to pull me off the toilet, but met with little success because of how tightly I was clinging to those bars.

"Really, I'm fine!" I gasped, "I just am pooping!"

"No honey," Someone said, "You're pushing!"

"No I PROMISE, I'm just pooping, I can FEEL it!"

"Lucy, you don't want to have this baby on the toilet, you need to come over to the bed now."

"Yeah, but just let me finish this first, okay? I am POOPING HERE!" 

"Well, come and poop on the bed, then." Said the imperturbable midwife.

"LEAVE ME ALONE!" I shrieked, but to no avail, they hauled me off the toilet and to the bed. And out came Nessie's head.

Now, I distinctly remembered what pushing was like from last time. The midwife checks you, and tells you that you are fully dilated and may begin pushing. You wait for the next contraction, and then push when you are told to. You do this enough times, and voila! A baby comes out!

This was so far from that nice, predictable experience that I could not register it as the same thing at all. I was so upset that I completely LOST my head. All I could think of was fighting everything that was going on, because it all felt so out of control. I clamped my legs together, and it took Joey on one side, and about four people on the other, pulling my knees apart (I still have bruises on one leg) so that the midwife could deliver the rest of the baby, which took literally no time at all.

I calmed down once they put her on my stomach, and after I stopped cooing at the baby, I said, "WHAT the HECK was THAT?" to the room at large.


After that, everything was amazingly smooth sailing. You know, apart from the soul-crushing humiliation that I had been screaming about poop while my daughter was entering the world, and that I had physically fought everyone, and that I had lost my head so completely, and that you KNOW I am going down in birth center history as the Girl Who Wouldn't Get Off The Toilet To Have Her Baby... things like that.

It's seriously so embarrassing.

But we were all in great shape physically, and Nessie carried on the theme of the evening by covering both of us in meconium. We both had baths and got checked over (and I DID NOT TEAR ONE BIT, HALLELUJA!) and everyone ate some delicious take-out, and then we signed a waiver to go home early. And we picked up Ariel, even though it was midnight, because I couldn't stand for her to spend the night away from me, and we went home to be a family of four.

The End.

Now, admit it, you TOTALLY feel better about yourself after reading that, don't you? It's okay, I understand.

Londa's Birth Story

While I'm basking in the sweetness of my new baby, I've asked some friends to share their birth stories at This Heavenly Life.  Today's story comes from Londa at The Sneaky Mommy, where she writes about all things wonderful: her sweet family, faith, simple tips and tricks, and DELICIOUS-looking recipes that always make me want to go bake something immediately.  Be sure to stop by and say hello!

 

Awhile back, a young college girl scoffingly said to me, "Why do moms always have to share their birth stories?"  I was completely caught off guard by her statement.  I couldn't imagine not loving baby stories.  I stammered a quick apology if I'd ever offended her with my stories, but her comment continued to linger in my mind.

As I was nursing our new baby a few days later in the company of two other moms, I threw out the question:  Why do we always feel so compelled to share our babies' birth stories?  One mom quickly threw back: Because it instantly bonds us!  That's it!  I love to hear and share the stories of babies because it does create an instant bond with other moms!  So here we go:  let's bond a bit!

Our Little Surprise
Last fall, my husband and I received the biggest surprise ever: we were pregnant with baby number FOUR!  I don't exactly remember how I got from our bathroom to my husband in the living room with the positive test waving in my shaky hand.  I couldn't utter a single word--it was pure shock!  Our other children were four year old twin boys and a seven year old girl--a new baby wasn't exactly in our plans.  Yet we couldn't help but be excited!  Would it be a boy? a girl? twins?

We dutifully went to all the monthly doctor appointments--always bringing along our other three children.  We wanted them to share in this special surprise for our family.   We even began hoping for a girl to even the genders in our family, but, to our surprise, this baby would be a boy! 

At 37 weeks along, I was really beginning to feel the discomforts of pregnancy.  We were all getting more and more excited and antsy to meet our new baby!  Just three weeks to go...so we thought!  After a fun 4th of July celebration, I just couldn't fall asleep.  It seemed there was something going on.  I'm pretty sure I made a million trips to the bathroom in the night.

  
The next morning came and my contractions started to fall into a little rhythm.  I called the doctor.  Could they see me and just make sure everything was okay? Hesitantly, they scheduled an appointment with the on-call doctor.  Surely, I was just overreacting.  We still had three weeks to prepare, right?  The kids all came along...I was sure I'd be sent home.

My name was called and I corralled our three children into the little exam room.  The nurse had me lie on my back and wait for the doctor.  Not only was it painful, there was also something else going on...wetness!  I was absolutely mortified!  When the doctor finally came in, he took one look at me...one look at the puddle...and said, "It looks like you'll be having a baby today!  Congratulations!"  The kids all cheered and I cried!  Having our baby come three weeks early was yet another surprise for which I wasn't prepared.

After throwing together a hospital bag, purchasing Happy Meals for the kids, and notifying both grandmas, we were on our way to the hospital.  The contractions were picking up with intensity.  I was sure this would be a quick labor! 

Once settled at the hospital, our good friend, Audra, took over as my labor nurse.  (I can't even tell you how wonderful it was to have a good friend as our nurse!)  We speculated how dilated I would be--6, 7, 8?  No.  Three.  Three measly centimeters.  It suddenly seemed like the day was going to start dragging on forever.  The kids were kissed and whisked away by Grandma.   An epidural was put in place and pitocin was started to help get this show on the road.  I was ready for a little rest.  However, once again, our baby boy had a surprise for us. 

Baby's heart rate started dropping during the contractions.  Not wanting to take any chances, the doctor was called and we began to hear whispers of a c-section.  I was fine with this plan as long as it meant my baby would be safe.  Suddenly, the baby's heart rate dropped with a contraction and never bounced back up.  This is when things began to really move.  Sweet Audra got very close to my face and calmly said, "You're going to need to go in for an emergency c-section.  Things are going to get very wild, loud, and fast.  You will be fine.  Hang on."  Yet another surprise with this little guy!

Maddox made his dramatic entrance into the world just seven minutes later!   My husband held our baby, and I kissed his sweet little head.  It felt like pure velvet.  I was overwhelmed with love for our perfect, beautiful little baby. 

Back in our room, family flooded in to see our new little guy.  Everyone was instantly smitten with his perfect little lips, big dark eyes, soft chubby cheeks, and tiny fingers.  He was perfect!

Twelve weeks later...Maddox is as sweet as can be.  He is so full of smiles, coos, and giggles!   What a perfect surprise!

 

Robin's Birth Story

While I'm basking in the sweetness of my new baby, I've asked some friends to share their birth stories at This Heavenly Life.  I'm so happy to share Robin's birth story today!  If you've never met her, you must remedy that now; Robin is an outstanding writer and storyteller, a generous and supportive friend, and the best kind of mother.  You NEED Robin in your life -- get started now at her blog, The Not-Ever-Still Life. 



I have two daughters followed by a son, so I'm feeling very simpatico with Sarah right now. My oldest is in kindergarten as well, and my second child is three (and three quarters, she'd insist I add), but my baby boy is 19 months old, and the allure of birth stories is something I haven't considered in a while. My boy's birth was my most tense, a dramatic one following freak blizzards and week-long power outages, but I've already written that one before. This is the birth story of my eldest, the story that took me from person to mama.

I had an enviable pregnancy. I know this because my girlfriends mocked me. "Are you sure you're even pregnant?" I had a few symptoms: my breasts were sore. I fell asleep typing, twice. At work. In the middle of a busy office. No biggie. But I never threw up and my ankles didn't swell and my skin looked great and my fine hair grew thick and I never had to wear those beach ball maternity underpants. I just more or less went about my regular life in my low-rise jeans for almost the whole thing.

My blood pressure was low and my weight gain was unremarkable and my body chemistry never went wonky, so I had the 20-week ultrasound to confirm that she existed (she did), and then we measured my belly and laughed at hiccups in my pelvis and bought pink onesies and a new house and our first video camera and assembled a crib and I kept working. I was making my (childless) supervisor nervous, he told me more than once, but I felt fine! I kept working. I kept working and had minimal medical supervision.

At 40 weeks and 5 days, that moment happened - you know the one - the one where the fake contractions and the weird sensations and the warm-up maneuvers prove themselves all to have been just for show, because good grief SOMETHING IS HAPPENING down there and YOU'RE ABOUT TO HAVE A BABY!!??

My moment happened at the gas station. I was a mile from home, and I stopped to get gas. Stopping to get gas was fine. Standing up out of my car to pump it, though -- totally different story.

I stood up and something uncorked, although my water didn't break, but I swear to you some..thing...unattached itself inside. It felt like when you pretend that you know how to use a yoyo so you unleash it once, fine, you feel good about it so you do it again, and that pretty sparkly circle comes right back up to your hand all nice and obedient, and you get cocky and thrust it down with a sparkle in your eye and it drops - thud - straight to the ground and looks up at you; no, GLARES at you - I'm not moving. I like it down here and down here is where I'm staying and if you want me ever to come back up you're going to have to wind me up yourself.

My baby, or my uterus, or the very last ligament that held my center of gravity up at a reasonable height on my not-so-tall body - it pulled a sullen yoyo on me. I knew our daughter was ready to be born.

I got gas and drove home, because that's what you do when you've already driven to the gas station, and I changed into comfy pants and waited for my husband, because even though I knew, I still didn't believe that I knew-knew. My every instinct was screaming "go time!" by my brain was saying second-guess brain things like "but you feel so not-different..."

My internal monologue tends to argue with itself under the calmest of circumstances, and these were not those circumstances.

But that's okay, because my husband did no better! He came home and changed out of his suit and got on the computer and I said something tragically sitcom-cliche-ish like, "honey, it's time to go to the hospital" and he said "okay," and kept typing whatever he was typing. And then I had to say with faux-annoyance, even though I wasn't really annoyed at all, just amused because we're such live-in-our-heads types, both of us, that of course we'd forget to go to the hospital: "BABE."

And then he looked up, finally, and said: "oh. Oh!"

And then I insisted he wait for me while I take a shower.

We went the the hospital eventually, and just like my pregnancy, I had a really uninteresting labor. I did pretty great, I must say. Around 5am the nurses offered to check me again, which you know is just code for seeing how many fingers they can squeeze inside you, and declared that I was there! Ten centimeters! Lookin' good! And then the nurse spoke the fateful words that I will never, ever forget.

If I tell you that on the eve of delivering my first child, a nurse spoke some fateful words, are you imagining "congratulations, you're going to be a mama" or something prosaic like "it's time to push!" or something encouraging like "you can do this?" Maybe that's how it happens sometimes. But in my story, you're imagining wrong.

Instead:

"Hang on. I think I see your baby's butt hole. Don't push. I'm running to get the doctor."

And she ran, and I felt the need to push, and was told not to do that.

So it turned out that in my low-intervention pregnancy, we had had no late-stage ultrasounds, and my skinny baby's scrawny butt felt enough like softish newborn head that no manual check had ever provided that information, either. Suddenly we were concerned about her oxygen levels and her cord placement and five minutes after "I see your baby's butt hole," I was in surgery.

Oh, was that not how I had planned for this birth to happen. But I will tell you this: she was born at 6:01am on the 26th of January, and as the doctor lifted her out of me and we heard her indignant screams, he declared "that's the loudest baby I delivered all month." At the time, we thought he was just congratulating us by way of letting us know that strong screams mean a healthy baby. In time, though, as we looked back at my pregnancy and her birth, we've come to decide that he was neither exaggerating nor speaking reassuringly; rather, she truly is the loudest creature we know, prone to speak her mind, wear her heart on her sleeve and in her vocal cords, and make us remember each and every day that just like when she was born, she will do things HER way at HER pace when SHE is ready. And we should accept her as she is, and love her all the more for it.

And having made us learn that lesson from the get-go, I think she prepared us for parenthood in the most effective way possible.

Dear Sarah,

Truly the world didn't have enough of your flavor of Heavenly yet - thank you for fixing that for us. We're all so happy for you. Also, of all the things I've written online, one of my very favorite pieces is a pep talk at Simple Mom for becoming a third-time mama. I want you to read it because you're going to be so great at being outnumbered. Much love and happiness to your new family of five.

Robin

Amber's Birth Story

While I'm basking in the sweetness of my new baby, I've asked some friends to share their birth stories at This Heavenly Life.  Today's story is from Amber at Making the Moments Count.  Amber is never afraid to share her heart, during either joy or sadness.  Be sure to make her feel welcome!

To Emily: Your Arrival

Though I was a week late on my period, I refused to take a test.  At least until I could surprise Ben.  Naturally, as soon as he heard the test wrapper--at 4 am--he couldn't resist tumbling into the bathroom.  Since it wasn't a secret anymore, he sat with me as we waited for the results.

And there they were: two pink lines.  A perfect gift to your father on his birthday.

At exactly 22 weeks, while I was sitting in my morning class, I felt the first kick.  I had waited, somewhat impatiently, to feel those movements.  The location of my placenta--directly in front (behind?) of my belly button, insulated my skin from feeling your movements sooner.  Anyway, I felt the first movement and immediately stopped paying attention to the lecture.  I could hardly wait until I could call your father.

Two weeks later, I had an appendectomy.  It was a terrifying experience.  I am extremely glad nothing happened to you.

Finally, things settled down.  I eagerly awaited, and prepared, for your birth.

At 38 weeks, 10 days before your official due date, I took castor oil to get things going.  Within hours, I was having regular contractions.  Per the birth training I had used (hypnobirthing), I breathed through them.  They were intense, but I did not feel any pain.  By midnight, your father convinced me to pack our bags and head to the hospital.

Once there, we settled in for the hour wait to see if we would be admitted.  While I continued to breathe through the contractions--the peaks continued growing while the time between was shrinking--your father watched the Olympics.  At that time of night, the only event on was speed walking.  Talk about thrilling.

Though I had not progressed too far, the nurse convinced my midwife to admit me because clearly my contractions were not going to slow down.

The nurse wheeled me to our room and Ben turned on calm music.  I used a variety of breathing techniques to keep my body relaxed and felt as comfortable as I could.  Between contractions (which were happening every 30 seconds), I dozed.

Although I should have felt exhausted, I could not wipe the smile off my face; nor rid my body of the adrenaline.  I was to meet my little girl soon!  I would be seeing the face I had pictured so perfectly for the last 9 months.  I was ready.

As with most first pregnancies, the labor was slow and intense.  I was admitted in the hospital at 1 am.  By 7 am, I had progressed to a 6 and the midwife encouraged me to have my membranes ruptured.  I was too exhausted to argue, so she went ahead. Though things had progressed calmly, once my membranes were ruptured, the pain rocked through my body.  Sending me into spasms.  I tried everything.  I went to the bath, walked around (the hospital's strict policy of constant fetal monitoring did not ease my sufferings), and had Ben massage my back.  I breathed.  I pictured calm images.  Nothing worked.  At 9 am, a different midwife (one who I did not like) looked in, checked me, and insisted I start on a Pitocin drip.  Her reasoning was I had slowed down.  Since I was clearly in pain, and not in a condition to respond rationally, I agreed only after requesting an epidural.  My plan of natural birth went out the window, and I was okay with that.  And so was Ben.

I hunkered down, waiting for the anesthesiologist.  When he arrived, he asked that I stay still.  Since my contractions were still overlapping, with only a few seconds break in between, I knew this request would be utterly impossible.  With Ben's stabling hand, I held still long enough for the doctor to insert the needle.

Once the anesthesia spread through my blood, my body relaxed.  I was able to breathe slowly again and finally able to rest.  After a few hours, the nurse checked me and, much to my surprise, announced I had progressed to a ten.  She called the midwife and everyone else who is involved with the birthing part (I don't even remember who was in there, I just remember it was a big group of people).

Unfortunately, the midwife was not patient and holistic like she had learned in training.  After only one push, she said she would need to perform an episiotomy.  I refused.  Each push she would say the same thing and I would vehemently disagree. I knew I didn't need one.  I held her off long enough to push you out.  By that time, only 15-30 minutes had passed and I had pushed maybe 5 times.  When I felt your head and feet come out, heard your cries, and saw your face, I had a rush of emotions.

The silly midwife did not give you directly to me.  Instead, she handed you off to the nurses for your first bath as she sewed my few tears up.  Your daddy and I had to wait until almost 10-15 minutes after your arrival to hold you.  Everything felt surreal.  I couldn't quite grasp that you were really mine; that I was your mom and Ben was your dad.  I held you and, between exhaustion and fear, felt disconnected from the moment.

When I finally sat down to nurse you, it was both beautiful and incredibly painful.  I bore the pain and successfully managed to nurse you almost the entire time in the hospital. (It took 4 months for the pain to finally subside, but I grew to really love it and have never regretted sticking with it.)

There were many things I felt angry about with your birth.  As time progresses, the pain, anxiety, and fear of those first negative experiences fade.  I now look fondly on the labor and birth.  You were the first; as such, there are many special moments that are incomparable.

That first night, Ben held you.  I was physically and emotionally spent and needed some sleep.  You were awake that entire night, just looking at everything around you, exploring your new world.  As I woke up sporadically throughout the night, I would see you and your father gazing at each other.  You with curiosity, your daddy with amazement, and I fell in love with you and your father (again).  I knew those moments he had were moments that would be repeated--with both of us--over our lifetime.

There are many moments that I worry I have let you down.  As I grow more confident, I feel I am growing into being your mother. From birth to now, I still feel this sweet connection with you.  I love to hug, kiss, and snuggle you.  Thank you for loving me despite my many imperfections.

I remember our small family then.  You were--still are--the center of our attention.

Even though you share our time with your brother, my love for your has never divided.  Instead, it has multiplied the more I come to know you, your nuances, and your amazing personality.  I love you to pieces, now until forever.

Love, Momma

Dwija's Birth Story

While I'm basking in the sweetness of my new baby, I've asked some friends to share their birth stories at This Heavenly Life.  Today, Dwija of House Unseen writes about her crazy-wild speed race of a delivery.  After reading this, you HAVE to stop by her place and get to know her better; she's a wonderful writer with a heart of gold.



If you’ve never been in labor in the front seat of a mini-van that’s dodging traffic, then you haven’t lived.

Paul Anthony Borobia arrived on Friday, August 24th at 8:27 am, weighing 7lbs, 6oz and measuring 19 inches long. I had not planned on an unmedicated delivery, but plans have a tendency to go awry when we’re bringing an actual human into the world.

But the whole thing starts with an email, so let's start there, with a paste of an actual email I sent at the beginning of that fateful day...

"As you may notice, it is, like 3:30 am. I got up around 2:30 just to go potty (and was thankful I had slept all night until then), smashed into the foot board, tripped over a pillow, stubbed my toe on the stupid baby bathtub in the bathroom, said bad words, woke up Tommy, and proceeded to start having contractions....again. Dangit! So I got back in bed hoping to go back to sleep, but I can't sleep through them, so I drink some water, start choking on it, get mad at the water, purposely exclaim loudly about how evil the water is so as to wake Tommy from his peaceful slumber (hey, if I'm not sleeping, neither is he!), then grumble grouchily when he is able to immediately go back to sleep. So I don't bother timing the stupid, evil contractions (can you tell I'm totally over this whole thing?) and decide that I need to eat some toast. But then they got stronger while I'm getting out the jelly and I decided that fine, I might as well at least note the time-

3:18

3:28

3:35

3:43


Hmmmmm, looks promising ( but that's pretty normal these days!) so we'll see what happens from here... "

So I wrote the rest of the email, and while writing, inserted contraction times: 3:51, 3:58, 4:05...

At that point I was pretty confident that it was the real thing, but I didn't want to have Tommy call in to work, have his brother/sister/mom/whomever get up and drive to our house, just to have them stop, or to arrive at the hospital only to have them tell me to walk around. Or worse- sit and wait.

But by the time Tommy's alarm went off at 5 am, I had decided he was staying home. I wasn't quite at an urgent place psychologically, though (although apparently I should have been!), so we waited and chatted. Finally, at 6:30, he called his sister and his brother, so that at least one of them would be ready to come and watch the girls. Please keep in mind that we just moved the previous Saturday, so instead of being 2 blocks from the hospital, we are several exits down the highway. This small difference ends up almost being a big, huge problem...

Tommy's brother John lived the closest at the time, so he decided to come first. But "Oh, there's no rush" we say and "Take your time" we say. So he believes us and takes a shower and gets ready at a leisurely pace.

Uh oh- now it's 7 and I am beyond discomfort. The girls are up and starting to get nervous- my sweet Katie is 6 and little Lizzy just 5. They're excited and trying to comfort me. If you've ever had a baby, you'll know that "comfort" is not really the first word that comes to your mind when a five year-old climbs on top of you while you're laying on the couch trying to find some small moment of peace.

At this point, Tommy is preparing an elaborate and delicious breakfast for all of us and asks calmly "Honey, are you even going to want any of this?"- at 7:30 am. One hour before delivering my child. "Noooooooooooo....I can't do this......we have to leave now.....I'm going to have this baby in the car.....where's John?!?!?!?".

Oh thank god, he's pulling in right now. The phone is now ringing off the hook. I'm trying to call my OB and the hospital. Yes, myself. It was not easy. John comes in, I kiss my girls and we make it into the van between contractions. Now I'm like one of those women in the movies, moaning like a fool in the front seat of her vehicle, praying for green lights and no traffic.

Tommy busts out his emergency vehicle driving techniques on the highway, a holdover from his days as an Oceanside police officer. It would have been way more awesome if we weren't in a Toyota Sienna.

Now he's weaving between cars and rolling stops through intersections.

I'm freaking out in the passenger seat.

We're stuck now behind a semi-truck on the 2 lane road leading from the highway to the hospital. The windy, long, 2-way road mocks me the entire way.

I look at the clock- 8:07. "Won't it be great if Paul thinks it's funny to be born at 8:24 on 8/24?" I ask. And by "great" I mean "totally awful", thinking of course that I have at least a little bit of time and that 8:24 really is a joke. Because they say if you can still tell jokes then the baby is not about to be born. So maybe I should tell some jokes so I don't have this baby in my vehicle. See how logical I am?

Then finally...

hospital-

wheel chair-

O.B. racing down the hall, scrubs clutched in her hand-

nurses scrambling to get my room ready-

"Just put this gown on..." Holy crap, a gown? You have GOT to be kidding me...

Doctor checks me, for the very first time in my labor and I hear this: "She's complete, at plus 2 station. I need a tray please. Okay Dwija, on the next contraction, just wait, but then after that, we're gonna start pushing."

Pushing!?!?!? No! I'm not ready! I want my epidural! I want some water. I want anything. I want someone to turn off QVC that's on the t.v. in the room. I want more time, that's all...just a little more time.

Sorry, no can do. And now it's time to push. 1 contraction down and I realize that the hard part's over. This pushing business is nothing compared to what I was feeling in the van. Okay, I can do this. And the fastest way for it to be over is for me to have this baby, so we're just gonna make this happen.

2nd contraction and they're counting to 10. Screw 10! I'm gonna have this baby. I have great lung capacity and strong abs for a pregnant woman and he is coming out. Tommy could tell. "C'mon honey" he whispers in my ear "he's right there. Don't stop, don't stop!".

8:27.

He's here! Wait a second- unwrap the cord from his neck and here comes the rest of him. Relief.

Now I hear a voice, my voice- "Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee, blessed are you amongst women, blessed is the fruit of thy womb Jesus..."

And just like that the panic turns to joy. The confusion to gratitude. I bask in the glory of a miracle.

We love you, Paul! Thank you for being a part of our family.

Brook's Birth Story

While I'm basking in my new baby's sweetness, I've asked some friends to share their birth stories at This Heavenly Life.  Today's story is from Brook of Redhead Reverie.  She's honest and kind and funny -- be sure to visit her blog and get to know her!



It was April, and spring had sprung in Iowa. I was getting closer to my due date. Baby boy number two would be making his appearance at the end of May, first part of June. We had plenty of time to get the nursery ready, wash onesies, unpack the breast pump (oh joy). Or so I thought…

With spring came blooming trees, grass, weeds and other allergy-inducing greenery so of course I immediately attributed my itchy hands and feet to spring hayfever. As I was rubbing my bare feet on the floor under my desk, I quickly emailed my OB to inquire whether I could take Benadryl for allergies. I needed something to STOP the itching and help me sleep.

Her response, “I need to see you TODAY.”

What? Well, ok …

I sauntered into her office later that day without a care in the world - other than the extra twenty pounds I was carrying and a foot in my ribcage. When I saw her face I knew something was up.

She said she thought I had Cholestasis, a condition in which the normal flow of bile in the gallbladder is affected by the high amounts of pregnancy hormones. It may increase the risks for fetal distress, and is common in people of Swedish decent (that’s me!). Then the clincher – I would need to be induced three weeks early.

Boom! There went our plan.
Amidst the chaos, there was a plus side - NSTs (Non Stress Tests). Twice a week I sat in a recliner crunching on ice chips while watching trash TV with a heart rate monitor on the baby. With everything going on, it was nice to turn the world off for a bit.

Then we received the news about my dad. He was coming back to the UI Hospitals because his infection was getting worse. Before he was transferred I told him I'd visit him at the hospital the next day after my NST.

It was a nightmare trying to find the ICU the next day. I just kept waddling around the hospital and finally after 20 minutes I found him. Unfortunately, I was two minutes too late because they had already intubated him. I’m not sure if he knew I was there or not, but I left him a note and told the nurses to read it to him.

That was a Tuesday and on Thursday he passed away.

Immediately I thought. “We just needed two more weeks…just two and he could have met his second grandson.”

In the days following, B2 was painting, moving furniture and setting up the crib. Meanwhile I was on the phone with my family and the pastor making funeral arrangements.

I went to Target in an attempt to find a black maternity dress and an outfit for E to wear to the funeral. There was nothing. No black. I started hyperventilating in the store and left thinking “screw it. Dad won’t care what we wear.”

Before we traveled three hours to the visitation and the funeral I had to OK it with my OB. She said I would be fine and not to worry...um…yeah she doesn’t know me very well.

I remember every moment of those two days.

Once we returned home life kept going. E went to preschool. I went to work. We even had our maternity photos taken. The rooms were done, and things were coming along. But…I was scared. More scared than I was when I had E.

I heard horror stories about being induced; long painful labor, emergency c-sections plus the risks of delivering three weeks early.

We arrived at the hospital on the morning of May 12 before the sun even came up. Our birth suite overlooked the football stadium. Had I been thinking I would have taken a picture, instead B2 and I watched movies and episodes of Chuck.

It was around lunchtime when they broke my water. Thinking it would be a while B2 headed to the cafeteria for a bite to eat. Ten minutes after he left my contractions increased and I felt like an alien baby was trying to escape. “Epidural please!”

I called B2 and he arrived two minutes before the Anesthesiologist. I hunched over holding B2 hands waiting for the prick and the pressure (wait isn’t that what got me here). Then there were issues getting it in … Really! About this time seeing all the wires and tubes, made me think about dad and I started to panic and get sad. Then it was in and done…freak out averted.

Back to watching TV, snoozing, visiting with my delivery nurse. Whose name was Rachel the same as my OB, and the OB resident, which proved quite confusing so we numbered them.
It was getting close to 5 p.m. and I wanted to make sure my OB would be able to deliver the babe. (FYI … that’s one of the MAJOR benefits of being induced).

“Are you ready to have a baby?” she asked.
“Yep,” I said smiling.

I pushed, and then chatted with the doctor and delivery nurse. I pushed harder, chatted some more. According to the monitor I was having one long contraction, but thanks to the epidural I had no clue.

I pushed again.  “He has red hair,” exclaimed the OB.

“What? Wait. Where was I nine months ago,” joked B2.

I laughed one of those belly laughs and then boom little G popped out.

I cried. I laughed. B2 snapped pictures.

They weighed him and much to our astonishment he weighed an ounce shy of nine pounds. Imagine how big he would have been had he cooked three more weeks? YIKES!

G snuggled into my chest as tears filled m eyes. Then they asked what his name was. I told them G and his middle name is Benjamin after my dad.

And the sadness of the past month was erased by our little redheaded bundle of joy.

Hyacynth's Birth Story

While I'm basking in my new baby's sweetness, I've asked some friends to share their birth stories at This Heavenly Life.  I'm so happy to share today the sweet, calm homebirth of Baby E, from my dear friend Hyacynth.  She writes at Undercover Mother about her family, her faith, and her heart.  All of which are beautiful.



The Story of Baby E. {Originally posted on Undercover Mother, 9/7/09}


It must be that babies' personalities are shaped somewhat by their entrances into our world. Baby E. was a very easy-going, mellow newborn who had a beautiful, peaceful birth at home in our bed.

"In your bed?" you might be asking.

Yes, in our bed. And it did get a little dirty. Baby E. was ready to enter the world before the birthing pool was even all the way filled with water; my body labored extremely efficiently, and our relaxation practices helped to progress the labor very quickly. So, while we didn't have our water birth, as I had hoped, we had a very empowering and successful natural homebirth.

Sunday at 12 a.m., exactly 39 weeks into the pregnancy, I began showing sign posts of early labor. I had a bloody show and contractions that lasted through out the night, though I could sleep mostly through all of them. When we awoke Sunday morning, the contractions were still present, but they were sporadic and easy to talk, eat and walk through. My mother in law came over to help care for the toddler while the hubs cleaned up and I relaxed. She then suggested we go for a walk, and that made me feel really quite good. We came home, and I napped while the toddler refused his normal nap and opted instead to play with his daddy. The contractions seemed to lull during my nap, and I thought perhaps I wasn't actually in labor. When I woke around 3, they reappeared, and I began showing more (unpleasant) signs of labor. If you have a weak stomach, bypass the rest of this paragraph. I had lots of loose stool, and at one point I thought my water broke while going to the bathroom because I felt a huge gush of fluid unlike urination. Many of you mamas know that loose stools are a classic signpost of labor because it's one way the body clears itself and readies mom for pushing.


At this point, I was pretty sure labor was pending even though the contractions still seemed really mild. Have I mentioned I am a huge ninny? Like, huge! I do not handle pain well, so I thought that I really probably was still in very early labor stages if anything. You can imagine how surprised I was around 5 p.m. when my contractions became regular but I could still handle them no problem while draping my chest over the birth ball in the living room. During this time, it was really important for me to have a soft blanket under the birth ball to touch. For some reason it was really soothing, and it helped the contractions sail by smoothly.

We called our midwife, Debbie Boucher, around 5:30 when the contractions jumped from being ten minutes apart to 3 to 4. The intensity picked up a little, but each wave of contractions was still extremely manageable. Our midwife listened to my breathing over the phone and decided that based on that, she should come over. When she arrived, she coached me through some contractions and we talked about my first labor and how glad I was to be at home. She was awesome support. Her voice was constant and soothing, and she really hit all of the wonderful spots on my back during each contraction. She then checked my vital signs and my cervix for dilation. I was in complete shock when she told me I was 4-5 centimeters dilated after having only very manageable contractions for an hour. (Remember, I am a HUGE wuss!) I almost began crying I was so happy that my body was doing it's job because with my first son, I was stalled out at the hospital at 3-4 centimeters for 26 hours. That's right, 26 hours! Our midwife celebrated with me that my body was so able to perform during this second labor, and we praised God for it there on the living room floor!

My mom called during this time, too, to let the hubs know she was on her way because she had a feeling I was going to go sooner than I thought. I had talked to her an hour before and told her I still wasn't sure if I was even in labor.

I decided shortly after that I wanted to retreat to my room for quiet and the comfort of my own bed. The hubs was filling the pool when I got upstairs; that's when my labor really kicked into gear and our midwife took one look at me and began scrambling to all of her birthing equipment from the car. I quickly moved from active labor into transition, and the hubs said I showed all of the emotional sign posts of a laboring woman. My body rapidly began contracting at increasingly close intervals, and I found myself saying, "I can't do this!" "We cannot have another baby again!" "This sucks!" "Wow, this is intense!" Those were the signs that I had entered transition, and when our midwife checked me I was at 9 centimeters. As my mom walked in the door, she was told I was at 9 centimeters and said she couldn't believe I went from not knowing I was in labor to getting ready to deliver!

During this time, our labor assistant and doula, both midwives in training, arrived. Becky, our labor assistant, immediately began helping me with comfort measures while my poor husband and Debbie worked diligently to fill that tub with warm enough water and get supplies together. Our doula, Lynette, held my hand while Becky rubbed my back, each of them telling me how wonderfully I was doing. All three of our labor staff are Christian women, and they prayed with me and helped me relax during the transition stage (read: the part where you feel like your whole body is opening and stretching to maximum capacity). It was quite wonderful even though, like I said, it was really intense and the pain was greater than I had ever anticipated. My mother in law arrived in time to start carrying buckets of boiling water to the pool in an attempt to get it filled and warm enough for delivery. But the transition stage was almost over and my body prepared to push before there was ever any hope of the tub being ready. My hubby went into the bathroom and submerged a washcloth in some ice cold water mixed with lavender essential oil and placed it over my neck, which was relaxing and wonderful feeling during the contraction lulls. Finally, my mom arrived, too, and then I felt emotionally ready to start pushing.

The transition was really intense, and the waves of contractions were extremely hard, but the pushing phase was even harder for me because of the burning sensation around the birth canal and perineum. I can honestly say that was the most painful part. Pushing felt oddly better than him being stuck in the birth canal, but it was very hard work to get him out. I was pushing while lying on my side, but our midwife suggested to go on my hands and knees. I first had the hubs holding my entire weight before demanding the birth ball to rest my chest on. My mom sat in front of the birth ball and rubbed my sweat-soaked head and talked me through the pushing, which helped so much. The hubs rubbed my back and kept me cool with the lavender, cold soaked washcloth. He was so smart. He even thought to unhook my bra during labor to try to maximize my comfort. I couldn't really say much and I completely zoned out during transition and pushing while I prayed for strength and peace. God was awesome to give me both, and he gave me the power to let the contractions really take over my body, which helped give way to a faster birth.

Our labor support staff said, though, that I really only pushed for about 20 minutes, which is really not much. But it felt like an eternity with all of the burning and pressure. Finally, when his head came out, I gave a series of small pushes to deliver his shoulders and a few more to deliver the rest of his body. He came out very gently.

And, oh, the relief when he was out!! He cried pretty quickly. I was honestly so exhausted that I didn't really even hold him for the first 10 minutes or so, plus the after-labor cramps were incredibly painful as was the hip that has been going out of place for how many weeks now.

Finally, we did skin-to-skin, and I met my beautiful little boy. He nursed rather quickly and had an excellent latch on the first try. Both the hubs and I were in love! At this point, I noticed how little control I actually had over all of my bodily functions during labor, and I felt like a huge, sweaty mess.

At this point, I also finally realized how many people were at the birth. My sister-in-law and my sister had both made it in time, and it felt exactly right to have all the family there that was at our first born's birth.

I was really surprised at how painful the after-labor cramps were because the first time around it was not really hard. However, it was soooo extremely nice to be in the comfort of my own bed with my own bathroom and all of my personal-items just a few feet away from my bed. There was no digging through bags for what I wanted, and I knew exactly how to maneuver through our space to the bathroom while still very uncomfortable from the birth.

We found out I had a minor tear after our midwife checked me, but, honestly, I was way less sore than I had been the first time around, and it remains that way. We had a good night's sleep in our own bed while the baby decided to sleep, and we had all of our comforts within our reach -- blankets, clothes, diapers, Lanolin, my favorite coffee from the shop down the street, soothing pads, essential aroma therapy oils -- you name it, we had it on hand.

So then we just snuggled in to enjoy learning about our new family. It was the most empowering birth, and it gave me a huge self-esteem boost after our first very hard birth. I am now more trusting of the body and instincts God gave me, and I feel very blessed to be able to share our story with you. The toddler was (and still is!) very smitten with his baby brother, as well.