My first child was in no rush to enter the world. While my body was fully prepared, my little one had other plans. In fact, my doctor confidently stated, “There’s no way this baby will be late,” but the due date came and went without any sign of labor. It was just me, feeling very pregnant and waiting.
During my pregnancy, my husband and I took a birthing class that prepared us for the intensity of labor by having us hold an ice cube. (For those who haven’t experienced childbirth, let me tell you, that’s hardly comparable.) Like many expectant moms, I was determined to have a “natural” labor—no medications, just breathing and the assurance that it would soon be over.
To encourage nature, I tried almost every old wives’ tale about inducing labor. I walked hilly three-mile routes every day, practiced yoga poses like downward dog and cat-cow, and even experimented with chicken parm and eggplant parm, unsure which one was supposed to work. I doused everything in hot sauce and drank raspberry leaf tea like it was going out of style. But alas, nothing happened.
By now, I was a week into my maternity leave, which I had anticipated would be a joyful time, but instead, I was feeling the pressure of returning to work still pregnant. So, I reluctantly scheduled an induction for ten days past my due date, fully expecting my little one to arrive on their own before that.
Then came the day before my scheduled induction, and still no baby. In a last-ditch effort, I visited an acupuncturist. As she skillfully placed needles, she asked, “Why are you so determined to avoid induction?” I explained my desire for a “natural” birth, to experience everything authentically. She looked me in the eye and said, “Regardless of what happens, this will be your unique birth experience.”
That moment struck a chord with me. I had fixated so much on doing things “right” that I lost sight of the true significance of the day. This was about welcoming our child into the world and becoming parents, and I shouldn’t let my fixation on perfection overshadow this monumental experience. If Pitocin was necessary, then so be it.
Ultimately, my first child, along with my subsequent children, had to be gently persuaded into the world. My husband and I even created a code phrase for when I wanted an epidural: “I’m serious, dang it!” However, labor progressed so swiftly that I didn’t even have time for the epidural. But if I had needed it, I would have been perfectly okay with that.
Looking back on that day, I don’t dwell on the medical assistance I required to initiate labor. Instead, I remember the awe of suddenly having a new person in the room and realizing we were no longer just a couple but a family. I recall how he announced his arrival with a loud cry followed by an impressive shower of pee that caught everyone off guard. He looked both exactly like I had imagined and shockingly different at the same time. I was overwhelmed by how tiny he was, despite how grand he felt in my mind. The relief flooded over me—I had done it, he was here, alive and well, and I finally got to hold him.
It was our experience, our family’s experience. And in every way, it was perfect.
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In summary, I learned that the journey to parenthood can take unexpected turns, and embracing the experience—regardless of how it unfolds—can lead to the most beautiful moments.