When Miriam was almost a year old, I had an incredibly vivid dream, the sort of which you can hear the faint chuckle of God fading away in the air as you awake. In this simple vision I was holding an infant up in the air, and it was quite obviously a boy.

Or at least what I had a vague recollection of boys looking like.

Although I had no symptoms or any evidence whatsoever, I knew immediately that I was pregnant with a son. The dream was a little gift from God for me to hold onto during a very rough and stormy season that lay dead ahead. It was His way of saying “Don’t be afraid; this battle belongs to Me.”

For some reason, four children was the breaking point for many who previously had thought it good manners to keep their opinions to themselves. Four was unacceptable. At four, anyone was allowed to say anything, and believe me, they did. We might as well have taken a sharpie and written “abuse me!” across our foreheads. People assumed we literally did not know anything about birth control, and sought to educate us. Others just looked at us with pure, unadulterated disgust.

Satan always manages to overplay his hand eventually, though, and the day we received an “anonymous” (we knew who the sender was) mailing stuffed with ZPG-er propaganda, we looked at each other with mouths agape…and then we laughed. Sometimes you just gotta.

The pregnancy was also frought with many fears, on my part. For some reason I was plagued with doubts that the baby was healthy. I fretted that he was too still. I even decided that he must be missing some limbs because he was so tranquil. Every week I heard of a new syndrome that he must have. The reassurance of the dream helped curb many worries, but because I had never actually seen the baby’s face, I worried that he had some deformity above the neck.

One can become quite proficient at worrying when one works hard enough at it.

Given that we were taking the less-intervention/midwifery/homebirth route again, there was no option for a sonogram to put my mind at ease (not that it would have, as anyone who is a professional worrywart can tell you) because there was no real reason for one. I was growing fine, the dates seemed correct, no suspicious symptoms arose, and so any mental distress would just have to be battled out in the spiritual arena.

Our church family was a major blessing through this time. For every rude comment and negative blast there was the supportive embrace of those who believed every child was a blessing straight from God’s hand, plain and simple. They rejoiced with us and we revelled in it unabashedly.

Donna was once again our midwife, and she listened to my fears and sought to allay them, sympathising and praying and even laughing at me when the situation warranted (which I’m sure was more frequent than she let on).

The baby was due Christmas Eve. Christmas Day found me sitting in an extremely rotund state, opening presents at my in-laws with equal amounts anticipation and resignation. My Beloved’s family discussed the possibility of labor occuring during the hubbub, and my MIL offered me the use of her bed should the need arise.

No one needed to worry.

A few days passed, then a week. New Year’s came and went and I decided that I actually was suffering from some sort of tumorous condition and there was no baby in reality. Every night I went to bed thinking maybe this will be the night! only to have the empty baby bed mocking me each new morning. Finally, on the morning of the 3rd of January, my body decided to relent.

It was a Sunday, and at church I whispered to a few friends that I just might be having a baby soon. Maybe not that day, maybe not even the next, but I had learned enough to know that the proverbial light was visible at the end of the tunnel. Contractions were regular, though not terribly fierce, and continued all day long. By evening My Beloved and I decided to relax with a movie, so we rented The Honeymooners and thought perhaps I could laugh the baby out.

Unfortunately, I didn’t manage to laugh even once. Steve Martin is usually a dependable source of glee for me, but this time around he was just annoying. Chances are good, however, that my ability to see the humor in any given situation was shrinking by the minute. The contractions were getting stronger, although not a whole lot closer together.

The movie ended at 11pm and I stood up, at which point contractions decided to go into full gangsta mode. Perhaps it was time to call Donna after all. Suddenly birth went from seeming still-far-away to reasonably imminent. My Beloved made The Call and I retreated to the bedroom to pace the floor. There is always a moment (for me, anyway) during the labor process when the excitement of realizing that the baby really is coming and the subsequent desire to be chatty and social about it shifts dramatically to a desire to be FAR, FAR AWAY FROM ANYONE, DO NOT DISTURB IF YOU VALUE YOUR LIMBS. Maybe it’s a pride thing; I don’t want people to see me in my vulnerable state. Or maybe it’s the desire not to erupt bodily fluids upon unsuspecting passers-by. Both seem reasonable.

I had a goodly amount of energy this time around, having learned my lesson from the previous birth and done only as much walking as was necessary for survival over the past ten days or so. I squatted. I visualized. I talked to my body and to the baby. I cajoled. I encouraged. I talked trash to the contractions: Is that all ya got? C’mon! That was nothing! You call that strong? Think you’re tough? I’ll show you tough! Bring it on!

There is something to be said for being 10 days overdue and more than ready.

Donna arrived around midnight and so did my MIL, my SIL and her ever-intrepid husband, and a new comrade: my teen-aged SIL whose curiosity had trumped her nervousness. BIL hung out in the living room, but the others formed a quietly encouraging cheer section closer to the action.

My body took me up on my trash-talking challenge, and I began to regret my swaggering provocations from just a half-hour earlier. This was really not fun. But I was doggedly hopeful that This Time Would Be Textbook. Come on! It was my fourth baby! Surely I was due for a quick-and-easy labor, right? Donna’s declaration that I was at an 8 cm spurred me on with renewed resolve to Get This Kid Out, and Quick.

I stayed on my feet although the pain began to force me lower and lower on the floor with each passing wave. Finally I had enough. Collapsing on the bed, I cried Uncle. There was a brief pause as everyone waited to see what the next contraction would bring and sure enough, it was my old friend, Mr. Pushy. Like a celebrity at a premiere, he arrived all smiles and hands raised, nodding benignly amidst the cheers of the crowd as he was ushered into the room. Even in my labor-fogged condition, I found him irresistable.

I pushed with gusto, while maintaining my characteristic poise and charm (IOW I yodelled like Tarzan). Interestingly, I felt, for the first and only time, the baby descending down the chute (technical term) as he emerged. With each push he slipped lower and in short order there was the familiar fire, the tangle of body parts, and the Blessed Relief Of Nothing Else.

“Nothing else” besides the placenta, which honestly, after a baby? Doesn’t count.

The baby was perfect and healthy and (gasp!) undeniably male. I was relieved to see that he had the full compliment of limbs and facial features. My BIL peeked around the corner to offer congratulations, and soon all was quieting down into that sweet bliss of post-delivery euphoria in which the sheets on one’s bed feel like heaven and a peanut butter sandwich is ambrosia itself. When you give birth at home, every place you live takes on a new significance, and I like to imagine that the humble little rented rooms we occupied each time retained the echoes of laughter and excitement from those hours throughout all the years to come, long after we had moved away.

Stats
Baby: Caleb-all boy
Weight: 8lbs 6oz
Labor: 5 hrs

  

Your response: