Homesickness kicked in after the birth of Josiah, and we began to wonder what it would take to head back to the good old midwest. I had also recently discovered a largish lump in my thyroid and, although we had it biopsied and declared benign, it was enough to make us anxious to be closer to family for support in the event that surgery was in my future.

My Beloved took a look into getting a job with the oil company upon which my hometown was built; he applied, interviewed, and got the offer. Woohoo! We were headed back West, the day after Josiah’s first birthday. Our total time spent on the East Coast was two years, and although we had richly enjoyed aspects of it, we had never felt too much at home there. I came to the conclusion that I was just a hick at heart, after all.

We lived with my parents while we househunted, and it was during this time that I discovered I was expecting our eighth baby. Almost before the news could sink in, I miscarried. What had always been a given suddenly became much less of a guarantee. The loss caused us to reevaluate our perceptions; we had taken for granted that the eventual blessing of a new little life would be ours, and as we grieved the passing we repented of our cavalier attitudes.

After six months of living with my parents, we found a house that would suit and got busy settling in (let’s all pause for a moment of silence in reverence for my longsuffering folks. Amen). Joyfully, in July of 1999, I saw two pink lines again and we cautiously allowed ourselves to hope for a baby the following May. This time, all seemed well.

The OB situation in my hometown was still intolerable, so we finally began to research the midwife we had heard of who lived an hour and a half away. She had wonderful reviews from those we talked to, so we arranged to meet her and made our first prenatal.

Ruth was everything that I had hoped she would be. A bit more on the “professional” side than Donna or Diana had been, but just as warm and welcoming and excited about our birth as one could want. We made the trek to see her monthly, leaving the other children in my mother’s care and enjoying our “dates” together in The Big City.

The year 2000 dawned with much fanfare and with curiously little worldwide catastrophe. Like everyone else, we ran outside at midnight to witness mass blackouts and hysteria and found none. So much for dire prediction! We got on with life.

Springtime arrived and we began to prepare in earnest for our fifth homebirth. Ruth did things much the same way as the other midwives we had known: we bought a birthkit and baked some towels, she would bring the rest. She came for a home visit about three weeks before my due date (standard procedure to make certain she knew which house was ours) and we discussed just when she thought we should call her and other details.

My due date came and went, and I tried to stay busy to avoid sinking into a bloated funk. The company My Beloved worked for was celebrating an anniversary, and as a treat for all their employees they had planned an elaborate catered picnic, complete with every conceivable giant inflatable bouncy toy known to mankind. We had tentatively reserved our places in this affair, figuring that such a diversion would be well-needed if we actually made it to the date.

The night before the event, contractions began to ebb and flow with some consistency, and I perked up enough to decide that this might be It. However, after a disappointingly sound night’s sleep, I rose to find them slipping into obscurity once again. We called my mother, who had planned to come to the picnic with us, to tell her that our date with BBQ beef was still on.

As we gathered up the troops, contractions began to pick up their pace and I had a fleeting thought that perhaps we should cancel and stay safely at home. Given my past, however, I decided that I couldn’t possibly disappoint the kids for such an unlikely scenario as actually giving birth, so I didn’t say anything, and we headed out.

The crowds at the event made it necessary to park outside the location and be shuttled to and fro in one of the company’s “people movers”, and no sooner had I stepped off the shuttle into the warm May sunshine that I knew…with unshakeable certainty…we should not have come. I turned to My Beloved to inform him, but no words were necessary. He had seen the look on my face and guessed at its meaning.

However, the children had caught sight of the multicolored extravaganza of inflatable delight rising before their eyes and were already off and running. I reassured him that there was no way things could progress too quickly and that I was sure we had time to at least let them enjoy one or two toys and eat lunch before we left. He was skeptical, but allowed himself to be reassured.

As the children bounced and slid and whacked each other with enormous padded sticks, I sat on the grass and timed contractions. My mother kept tabs on me as she visited with friends and aquaintances from my father’s tenure with the company, and My Beloved asked “now?” every ten minutes or so. After about an hour I felt fairly guilt-free about agreeing to leave, and we began the process of finding shoes for seven pairs of feet and making our way back to the shuttle pick-up spot.

It was about one o’clock when we arrived back home, and I called Ruth immediately. Contractions were intensifying rapidly and were three to five minutes apart. She picked up the phone and I informed her with glee that it was time for her to come. After a moment of silence she told me that she was in the next town over, an hour away, delivering another baby.

Um. Crap?

No fear! She was quick to reassure. The woman in question was very close to delivery, and would certainly be done in plenty of time for her to get to ours. I was given implicit instructions to lie down and not move until she arrived. She would call as soon as she headed out from the current house. If my contractions became closer than three minutes apart I was to call her again and she would send out her assistant.

I complied and lay down on the couch, grabbing my copy of Emma to help pass the time. My Beloved made the bed and cast furtive and anxious glances my way. My mother went to the store to get supplies for dinner. My sister, who was also living in the same town, came over as well.

ed note: my sister and My Beloved had over the years found some common ground upon which they could stand with much more stability than in the past. Let’s all give the Lord a handclap of praise, shall we? Amen and hallelujah.

At about 6pm Ruth called and said she was on her way. My contractions had continued steadily in the 3 to 5 minute range for the entire afternoon, and so I decided it was safe to get up again. With Ruth headed to our house, I was gripped with a sudden dread that she would check me and I would be at a dismal 4 cm or somesuch. I said as much to My Beloved’s raised eyebrows, and he did not insist upon my return.

After about 45 minutes of being on my feet, however, I began to regret my decision. I was shut away in my bedroom and finding the smell of dinner absolutely nauseating, a sure sign that I was deep into transition. My Beloved was wondering if this was truly going to be the moment that he donned the sterile gloves to play catcher, and I was wondering the same. At 7pm, with more relief than I thought I would feel, I heard the crunch of Ruth’s tires on our driveway, and she swept in breathlessly.

I crawled onto the bed for a check and heard that I was at an 8.5 cm and could very well be getting the pushing urge at any time. Turning to a hands and knees position, I butted my head into Ruth’s stomach while she rubbed vigorously at my lower back, which I found amazingly comforting. In this unconventional way we welcomed Mr. Pushy into the house.

I flipped over to my traditional left side position and gave one huge push, at which point and without further ado, the baby appeared. She was born exactly 20 minutes after Ruth had entered the room, barely enough time for her to have gotten her bag unpacked and her gloves on. We marvelled at what might have transpired had I not stayed on the couch as commanded, or if we had stayed later at the picnic.

Nevertheless, all’s well that end’s well, and the baby was perfect. Given the ease of her arrival and the love she brought into our home, we found her chosen name quite appropriate: Charity.

Stats
Baby: Charity
Weight: 7lbs 2oz
Labor: 8 hours

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