My youngest child recently celebrated his fourth birthday. He’s a bundle of energy—sharp-minded, incredibly sweet, and occasionally quite a handful.
The journey of carrying him was nothing short of excruciating. I’m not just talking about the typical discomforts like swollen ankles or back pain; I mean my body felt like it was breaking down. At one point, I found myself crawling around my home just to pick up toys. When you’re stuck on the couch, you adapt to your circumstances.
He was due on March 24, which meant I was either going to plant my garden on my hands and knees or with a newborn strapped to my back. From 14 weeks onward, I experienced daily contractions, as my uterus acted like a cranky toddler. The final week of my pregnancy was essentially one long labor, with contractions occurring every eight to ten minutes—annoyingly persistent but only occasionally resembling true labor.
On March 26, during a night filled with relentless contractions, my water broke. It wasn’t dramatic like in the movies, but it was enough to prompt a change of clothes and sheets. Since I had already been in labor for what felt like an eternity, the new contractions weren’t a surprise.
I woke my partner, Jake, informing him I’d had an accident and asked him to fill the birthing pool in our kitchen. I contacted my midwife, a wise 70-year-old woman with beautiful gray hair tied in a bun. I mentioned that things weren’t progressing quickly, and she assured me she’d arrive in the early hours.
My doula rushed over, and I called my oldest daughter, Mia, who was 17, to watch over my youngest, Lily, who was barely two. I even baked a chocolate cake because that’s just what I do, and whipped up some buttercream frosting because, well, who can resist?
Time passed slowly. In the early afternoon, my midwife suggested I try some tinctures to help stimulate contractions (and yes, they tasted just as unpleasant as they sound). I pumped and nursed my 17-month-old to encourage labor (yes, I fully embraced the hippie vibe), while my midwife made a Costco run—presumably for a bulk supply of paper towels.
Despite the flurry of activity, my labor didn’t change much. Suddenly, the room felt smaller as my contractions intensified, coupled with increasing pain. Afternoon turned to evening, and the birthing pool became a gathering place for people enjoying the chicken noodle soup I had prepared weeks earlier. Still, no baby.
As night fell, I noticed some blood and more water, and my baby’s head remained stubbornly high, unwilling to descend. Jake put Lily to bed while our home buzzed with conversation, including that of a guest midwife who practiced yoga in my living room while discussing her broken car—not exactly what I needed to hear.
By the time we hit the 24-hour mark since my water had broken, I was exhausted and stuck at 7 to 8 centimeters. Panic set in, compounded by past trauma from a previous labor experience. Jake and I decided to take a shower, where he comforted me as I navigated the waves of contractions.
After a brief rest, we exchanged a look that conveyed the heart-wrenching decision to leave the comfort of our home, our birthing pool, and our family behind to head to the hospital. This is where people often express relief that we transferred, or reassure me that all I truly wanted was a healthy baby.
But I wept as I put on a dress. I cried while packing my hospital bag, while hugging my kids goodbye, and during the twenty-five-minute drive to the hospital. Upon arrival, I sobbed through the intake process, donning a hospital gown, and receiving an IV.
I was fortunate to have a dedicated team of professionals advocating for a natural birth, but I still sobbed. I had a midwife willing to remain by my side for seven hours to assist my stubborn son, but I cried nonetheless. I was grateful that my body responded to the small dose of pitocin I needed to get things moving, but I still sobbed.
Despite the good fortune of avoiding a C-section and delivering a healthy baby boy weighing over 10 pounds with just two pushes, I continued to cry. This was not the birth experience I had envisioned.
His arrival was meant to be serene, a gentle swim into the world surrounded by family, with cake and champagne waiting. I had hoped his delivery would be a healing experience after the trauma of my previous labor. Instead, it fell short of everything I had hoped for.
I do not wish to hear, “Well, at least you have a healthy baby,” ever again.
In summary, the emotional complexity surrounding my son’s birth experience highlights the importance of acknowledging the multifaceted feelings that can arise in the context of childbirth. The journey can be filled with unexpected challenges and heartache, even amidst the joy of bringing a new life into the world.
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