My Beloved and I were coming up on our fifteenth anniversary in the year 2001. We had been on the East Coast for our tenth, so our celebration at the time had consisted of eating Chinese takeout and reminiscing. We were ready to do just a tad more for fifteen. 

The beach lover in me had long wanted to see Hawaii, but we had always thought of it as a “someday, in the distant future” sort of a prospect. But just for fun we looked up airfare and lodging and found it not to be as prohibitive as we had thought. Looking at one another, we both said “why not now?” Charity was over a year old and weaned, we had plenty of (bless their souls, infinity and forever) agreeable babysitters, and so we took the plunge and made plans to be there in late summer.

About six weeks before our trip, the two pink lines winked up at me again, and we were quietly gleeful. This meant, naturally, that I spent our vacation feeling like doodoo more often than not, but it was still a wonderful trip. I’d like to go back someday when hurling into the ocean is less of a distinct possibility, but hey, one can’t have everything.

Back home, the months passed and we continued seeing Ruth as our midwife and making plans for April of 2002. I had a friend in town who was due within days of me who was also planning a homebirth with Ruth, so we had fun comparing notes and wondering who would go first.

My due date arrived, and labor pains began…for my friend. Her birth was glorious and produced a sweet baby boy, which only made me long all the more for my own wee one. Ruth stopped by our house on her way home and did a quick check and strip of ye olde membranes. Sadly, this time there was no immediate and magical effect.

Exactly six days later, the labor pains began to come in regular succession and we knew we were in business. We got the kids to bed and called Ruth, wanting a little more time with her than we had in Charity’s case. We needn’t have worried.

My mother and sister arrived first, movie and snacks in hand and glee written all over their faces (yes, I know the movie thing is quite the common theme here…it was Serendipity, in case you were wondering). I wasn’t sure if they were going to eat the snacks while watching the movie, or while watching me. I confess to feeling a bit grumpy at the fact that their excitement had to do with my going through pain, but in the end I forgave them and let them in.

Ruth arrived at about midnight and declared that I was at about 4cm. I stayed on my feet, thinking we’d have a quick time of it after the experience with Charity, but instead I progressed, tortoise-like, at a whopping 1cm per hour.

At about 2am my sister had the inspired idea to take some *funny* pictures to pass the time. It was the last thing I wanted to do. I was not feeling *funny*, I was feeling like I was headed for serious and unremitting pain. However, somewhere in a tiny corner of my mind a little voice piped up and said:

You might be glad for them later!

And darn it all, I knew it was right. We took a picture of Ruth, a-snooze on the couch, as “the diligent midwife.” We woke her up to take another one of her with her ear to my stomach, making “a funny face.” We took pictures of my mother and sister watching the clock impatiently. These all found their way into a place of honor in the baby scrapbook and I am, indeed, glad to have them after all.

By 5am I was deep into transition and terribly tired. A check revealed that I was completely dilated except for a “lip” of the cervix that was in the way of the pushing urge taking over. Given that I was close to comatose, Ruth offered to hold it out of the way for a contraction or two so I could push anyway and hopefully have a baby. I agreed.

Now, as you know (if you have been reading previous stories), pushing is, for me, the Good Part. The part where I get to Take Charge. The part where the pain is somewhat eclipsed by the thrill of victory. Pushing without a pushing urge, however?

Not so much.

It was the worst thing I had done in my life up to that point. Trying to rush Mr. Pushy turned him evil. Apparently he alone is allowed to be…pushy. And he takes grave offense at being hustled into the house.

Nevertheless, after a few forced pushes, my body realized that it really did want to rid itself of its squirmy burden, and got down to business. This time dawn broke and found me looking upon the sweet face of my seventh daughter.

She was born the day before my third daughter’s birthday, and although my labor with her was rather textbook and unremarkable, the same cannot be said for the little girl produced by the effort! Dainty and petite, she reigns supreme as resident princess to this day.

Stats

Baby: Emma
Weight: 7lbs 4oz

labor: 10 hrs

Your response: