The
warmth of the early July suns greets me through my bedroom window,
caressing my tired and aching body as a familiar tightening pulls across
my swollen belly. I am awake
now. It is four days before
my fourth baby’s estimated due date and I grow giddy.
Convincing myself to lie back down, as it is merely a quarter to
six in the morning, I snuggle against my slumbering three-year-old son,
remembering the beautiful way he slipped into this world after seven
hours of labor. Maybe I will
hold my newest bundle in my arms by lunchtime, I think to myself
excitedly. Time slides by as
more waves move through my body, giving me confirmation that this is the
day I will meet my baby.
The day begins, kids get up, and breakfast is made. I realize the pleasure in choosing a homebirth is normalcy. My family is free to go about their normal routine. There is excitement in the air, but no stress to pack a bag or scramble to the hospital. I have no worries about who is going to care for my three children or how they will manage with momma away from them for several days. The waves continue to come. I need to stop and pay attention to the growing surges, now about nine to ten minutes apart. A steamy shower eases the growing ache in my back, washing the edges of hurt away. Music floods in from my bedroom; Sarah McLachlan croons about ordinary miracles and I think how this is exactly what she is talking about. It is now close to nine in the morning and my husband brings me a small breakfast, joking how it is unlikely I will keep it down. He too thinks it won’t be long and suggests I give our midwife a call. I tell him that I wish to wait until the waves are closer together before I rouse her.
Hours pass by unnoticed. I rock on the birth ball, circling my pelvis around in a dance. My stepdaughter presses on my sacrum as I lie in a knee to chest position on the bed, softly moaning about the growing ache in my back. My husband takes me for walks in the humid July sun, stopping to talk to neighbors, astonishing people that we are here walking the streets of our own neighborhood rather than a hospital hall. The kids eat lunch and the quiche I froze for this occasion is taken out of the freezer for dinner. Two p.m. dawns and I think how much longer and harder this is than I had thought it would be. I call Ann, our midwife, and let her know that while today is the day, there is no need for her to come yet. I hear the nervousness in her voice talking to a fourth time Mom in active labor, however, I know my body and know that the birth is not imminent. The waves continue to grow in intensity, blurring the edges of time as I work through them, allowing them to run through my body, to open it up so I can at last welcome my baby.
Ann calls again, still sounding unsure that she should not have already been at my home. I tell her to come in about an hour, now finally feeling the drain from a day of waking too early and doing this hard work called labor. The shower becomes my best friend. It is a place where I am free to rock and moan and sway with hot water pounding my back and belly, melting away what could easily become pain if I allow it. It is now six p.m. and Ann arrives. Feeling frustrated, I ask her to go ahead and check my cervix. She announces that I am open six centimeters and I feel like breaking down inside. Frustrated at having done so much work already, and still having a long way to go, I think of my last births. My first baby, a daughter, had been born after fourteen hours of labor that included three hours of pushing. I had always felt that had I not had an epidural with her and could have felt my contractions that she would have been born much sooner. My next baby, a son, was born un-medicated with a midwife after a little more than eleven hours, and then my last, another son, after a mere seven hours.
Going for another walk, the hot summer sun begins to set. The air is cooler and a breeze floats by. Time, the universe and everything in between ceases to exist. I am suddenly in my room, rocking on my hands and knees, hot washcloths pressing into the low of my back, sweating and moaning. I want to yell at my stepdaughter and dear friend who are amazing enough to burn their hands while pressing scalding hot cloths on my back to make it hotter and press harder, but the words will not come. Sounds, not of this world, rise out of my mouth as the waves move harder and faster through my body. I worry about my children for a moment, remembering we had talked about the sounds momma would make and the countless birth videos they had watched, concerned that my loud noises were scaring them. I look up to see their beautiful faces and smile. “Remember Mommy said she needs to make lots of noises to help the baby come out? They aren’t scary noises, they just help the baby come…ok?”
They all nod before another surge rushes through me and I feel an uncontrollable movement down as my body starts to push without me and for a brief moment I think, but I’m not ready! My bottom starts to tense, fighting the sensations and I start blowing my lips like a camel to relax my pelvic floor. I don’t want to fight this. I want my baby to be born!
I am helped onto the birth stool next to my bed. My children form a semi-circle around me, and I am hit again with the wave of how amazing my choice to homebirth is. My children are there, waiting to welcome their newest sibling to the world, with no one to usher them away. Surges move through me again and I start to push down to work with my body. I am scared but know I have to keep working for the reward of holding my baby. My back aches more as I feel my baby move down through my cervix, arriving to slowly crown. I feel a warm slippery head full of hair on my fingertips. Ann says to me, “here comes your baby” and motions to my husband as Ava Christine slips into his hands at 11:47 p.m. on July 11.
Swooping her up into my arms after 18 hours of labor all I can say to her is, “Thank you for coming out!” She is beautiful, fat and pink, weighing 9 lbs 13 oz, with a head full of dark hair. We are tucked into bed as my 6-year-old son cuts her umbilical cord proudly. I am served a queen’s feast of homemade quiche and red grapes as I am surrounded by the love of my beaming family. Exhausted, Ava and I snuggle down together for the rest we both deserve. Sleepy and with my ordinary miracle in my arms, I think how every second of the last 18 hours was worth just to be able to arrive at this moment.