When I woke up on Monday morning, I did not think I’d be going into labor that day. Granted, I was 39 weeks pregnant, so it’s not like it was inconceivable. And I had felt the baby drop that weekend. And I couldn’t set foot outside of my house without getting comments about how huge my belly was – but I’d been getting “must be coming any day now” since I was 32 weeks along, so that was nothing new.
But my husband had a busy couple days at work, and I wanted to make it to my second chiropractor appointment the next day, and there were a few more things still to cross off my to-do list. So I told the baby to stay put until Wednesday and she was free to come after that.
So confidant was I that the baby wasn’t coming, I was a complete slacker come naptime. Instead of eating a healthy lunch and then napping while Miriam napped, as I’d been doing to properly prepare myself for labor, I ate an entire bowl of popcorn and played on Pinterest.
While on there I found this great Joan of Arc quote:
And when I looked it up just to make sure she had actually said it, I discovered that the full quote was even better:
I told myself I had to print that out before giving birth. Then I looked in my printer tray and noticed I still hadn’t done anything with all those Bible verses I’d printed out for inspiration during labor. Maybe I’d get around to that tomorrow.
Later that afternoon, I noticed a little something on the wipe after I used the bathroom. And a little something in the toilet. Hm, was this part of my mucus plug? Or a bloody show? What was the difference, anyway? And couldn’t you still go a few days after it had happened before labor started?
Since it wasn’t like I was having contractions, I decided to ignore it. But it happened every time I went to the bathroom, which was happening more frequently. By the time my husband got home from work, I warned him that he might need to work from home that night, because the baby probably wasn’t going to wait for the weekend. And maybe go to the grocery store that night. And hm, maybe I was having a few very light contractions.
By the time supper was over, I decided to call the midwife just in case. And as we went about putting Miriam to bed, I decided I was indeed having contractions. But they were so easy (I could continue reading aloud through them) that I figured I still had a long road ahead of me. Miriam’s labor had taken some 19 hours, and while I assumed this one would be shorter, I didn’t want to get too psyched up too soon.
To determine whether this was really it, I decided to take a nice long bath and see if the contractions slowed. When they didn’t, I picked up my watch. When Greg came to check on me twenty minutes later, I informed him that my contractions were 45 seconds long and 5-6 minutes apart. But they were still pretty easy…
“What?! Really?! Get out of there and get downstairs!” He did not want to risk me getting too far along and having to carry me down the stairs. Smart man.
I took my time getting out and changed into the gown I had bought especially for this. (I had put waaay too much thought into getting a special labor and delivery gown. But there were so many cute ones on Etsy! Or maybe I should just sew my own. I was so indecisive that I ran out of time and ended up just buying a short v-neck nightgown at the superstore the week before.) I went downstairs and lied down on the floor in front of the TV, and since there was nothing good on we watched the news between contractions. They were very long but further apart. We called the midwife to update her.
I kept having to get up to go to the bathroom. I had read so many times how some women like to labor on the toilet – but I thought it was awful! For me it was by far the worst place to go through contractions.
The midwife called to check on us and let us know she was going to the birth center. We could go whenever we wanted. I was still wary of having a long labor so instead of heading over we decided to switch positions. We moved me to the exercise ball and the contractions became much harder. Now they were shorter but closer together – only 2-3 minutes apart.
I read a lot of romantic birth stories where the husband coaches the wife through each and every contraction. That is not really my husband’s style. Don’t get me wrong – he’s there right beside me the whole time. It’s just he’s not constantly reminding me how to breathe or telling me to relax my face or anything. But at this point he kissed me and told me I was doing great, and I was amazed at how motivating that was. He’s not one to say something unless he means it, so I knew he really meant it. I was encouraged and labored on.
I was in a bit of denial about how far along I was. I’m not sure if I knew the contractions were so close or not. Greg certainly knew, and was antsy to get me to the birth center. But my last labor had seemed so long, and I still felt good and completely coherent between contractions. I had just asked Greg about where oranges were indigenous to, so certainly I still had a ways to go. He finally insisted that we had to go. He called our neighbor to come over, then called the midwife while I headed to the bathroom one last time. It was 11:00.
I was annoyed that I wasn’t actually able to pee this time and had to go through two contractions on the toilet. Finally I got up and as I walked into the kitchen, I felt liquid running down my leg.
“Oh Greg, I peed my pants!” I moaned.
It kept coming. At this point he knew very well that my water had broken, right there on the kitchen floor, but for some reason I still thought that I was peeing on myself. Apparently I wasn’t as lucid as I thought. The neighbor walked in and I smiled and made some small talk until the next contraction hit. Then I moaned to her also about peeing myself (she has five kids, so I figured that it was okay to share) as Greg half dragged/half carried me out the door to the car. Naturally we didn’t have any towels in the car, and I was mumbling about changing clothes between the contractions, which were now coming very quickly. He wisely ignored my pleas for new underwear and jumped in the driver’s seat.
Now I had heard about another gal who was supposed to deliver at our birth center, but ended up giving birth in the car less than a mile away because they had gotten pulled over for speeding. So all I wanted was for Greg to drive the speed limit so we could make sure and get there without getting pulled over. He did not, to put it mildly. He flew. I begged him to slow down between contractions, but seeing as the contractions were right on top of each other, there was no slowing him.
At this point I remembered the Joan of Arc quote, and chanted it a few times. "I am not afraid, for God is with me. I was born for this." I calmed down, and was able to handle the next few contractions until we got there. We squealed to a stop right in front of the sidewalk, and I didn’t even think the ignition was shut off before Greg was hauling me out of the car and attempting to get me inside. I had three or four more contractions on the short walk from the car to the front door. I was moaning like a cow. The midwife heard me from inside (seriously, I was loud) and came out to help him get me in.
“Come on, Elizabeth, just get inside,” Greg encouraged. “You’re going to see your baby soon, just another hour or two.”
“Less than that,” the midwife commented.
I made it into the birth center and back to the room, and that was as far as I was going. I dropped to my knees in front of the bed and there I planted myself. With my arms and face on the bed and my knees on a towel on the ground, I labored for a short time. Then I gasped.
“I’m pushing!” I cried.
“Okay,” said the midwife calmly. “Would you like to get on the bed?”
“No,” I moaned, and that was that. There was no checking to see how dilated I was, no moving me into a more ideal position for her, no telling me when to push. Just a natural progression from letting my body guide the contractions to letting my body guide the pushing.
I didn’t feel the ring of fire the first time I gave birth, but I definitely did this time. It hurt! However, either the nurse or the midwife gently instructed me, “Push down, not out.” I was amazed at how helpful that suggestion was, and that I knew exactly what she meant at that point. Greg was also amazed, as he said I completely shifted my body position. Oh, I was still on my knees with my arms splayed and face smashed on the bed, but my lower half moved into a position that must have been much more effective.
Then there was a head, then a body, and suddenly I was sitting down on the floor with my new baby girl in my arms! “She’s beautiful!” I gushed.
At 11:38 p.m., only a half hour after we arrived at the birth center, after less than five hours of active labor, Cecilia Teresa was born. I finally got onto the bed and spent the next hour or so snuggling my naked newborn and occasionally musing to myself “That was the best birth ever!” After a bit the midwife helped me deliver the placenta, and when the cord had completely stopped pulsing, they cut it. When I was ready to get up to go to the bathroom, they weighed and measured Cecilia. She was 8 pounds, 9 ounces and 21 ¼ inches long. Greg was shocked at how big she was!
When we came home the next morning, Miriam was excited to meet her new baby sister. We introduced them to each other and there was not an ounce of jealousy – just pure joy. For weeks she kept saying “She’s so little!” and “Look at her tiny little fingers!” and “I love her very much.”
And I discovered just how much I could love.
