Baby #4 Birth Story

How to Cope When You’re Expecting Free Bird and You Get Fuel


I am a quote fiend. I love to spout the wisdom of others who have said what I think more eloquently or humorously than I ever could. A few favorites are:

“It’s supposed to be hard. If it wasn’t hard, everyone would do it. The hard is what makes it great.” –Jimmy Dugan, ‘A League of Their Own’

“We must dare to be great; and we must realize that greatness is the fruit of toil and sacrifice and high courage.” – Teddy Roosevelt

“Nothing in the world is worth having or worth doing unless it means effort, pain, difficulty… I have never in my life envied a human being who led an easy life.” –Teddy Roosevelt

(Any Teddy Roosevelt quote, really.)

Do you notice a pattern? I’ve spent my life valuing personal challenge, believing it is important to do hard things because strenuous effort is one of the essential ways to build character.

That might explain why I have appreciated the process of childbirth. I don’t love the painful aspect, but I do value the unexpected lessons I’ve learned during those very hard experiences. With that in mind, I’m going to share the story of my fourth and final baby’s birth and my quest for the lesson embedded in that process.

First, I’m going to summarize my older kids' births because I believe my history is significant... My first child was a cesarean delivery due to “failure to descend” after 34 hours of labor (two and a half of those hours were active pushing). After he was born, we realized he was positioned Occiput Posterior (or OP, with the back of his head facing my back) and was asynclitic (his head was tilted so one ear was touching one shoulder), which we believe accounted for his failure to descend. My second baby appeared to turn into the OP position during labor and was actually born “sunny side up” after a five hour labor (again, two and a half of those hours were pushing). We figured it simply may have been a coincidence. By the time my third baby turned OP, again during labor (following two and a half hours of pushing, naturally) and also came out facing the ceiling, my midwife and I had a Come to Jesus talk. We needed to face facts: My pelvis, the midwife explained, is likely shaped in a way that my babies need to turn OP to best facilitate their exits.

When I learned we were expecting our fourth baby, I decided to do some research into OP babies and birth. My research left me feeling glad I’d gone into previous labors without that knowledge.

As it turns out, OP labors are notoriously longer, harder, and less predictable than “typical” labor patterns with rear-facing, or Occiput Anterior (OA) babies. The back labor that can be associated with OP labors is described as extremely painful. One source I found indicated only four percent of babies are born facing up as my kids were; most turn earlier in the labor process, or many women opt for cesareans because of the notoriously long, difficult labors. (Again, these things may have defeated me had I known them going into previous labors.)

With this history in mind, I set out to be physically, mentally, and emotionally prepared to the greatest extent possible.  I walked at least four miles a day most days and focused on hydration and excellent nutrition. Even though I had the best of intentions, I didn’t get serious about Spinning Babies and Birthing From Within until about 37 weeks gestation. Spinning Babies was helpful because my baby was positioned ideally in LOA (left occiput anterior) position by 38 weeks. I was feeling more confident about pain management because of the Birthing From Within exercises.

I have given birth medicated and unmedicated, and the unmedicated birth was a far better experience for me for a number of reasons (one of which was my blood pressure completely tanking during my third labor). For my last baby, I hoped to have another unmedicated experience.

When people would constantly comment on how I must be “so ready” for the baby to be born (this seems to start around 32 weeks), I would honestly answer that I feel great when I’m pregnant. Since this was my last pregnancy, I was trying to really enjoy the experience while it lasted, too.

I started telling people, around the 38 week mark, that I needed the baby to “stay in” until at least June 6, even though my 40 week date was June 4. My mom wouldn’t be arriving in town to watch my older kids until June 2, so I didn’t want to deal with finding childcare on the fly if I went into labor prior to that. I had a hair appointment on June 4, and I was planning to make much-anticipated jambalaya for dinner June 5 (priorities, people!).  So June 6 or any time after was my goal.

The baby must have heard me. On the night of June 6, Nate and I were watching Law and Order when I started having contractions around 10:30 p.m. Even though I’d been having Braxton Hicks contractions of increasing intensity for weeks, I had a feeling these were going to evolve into actual labor. I headed to bed to get some rest.

I woke up around 2:00 a.m. to use the restroom and noticed mild contractions. They continued and I couldn’t get back to sleep; I just had a feeling this was going to turn into something more. So I took a shower, packed for the hospital, wrote some last-minute notes for my mom, texted the birth photographer, and Nate and I left the house around 5:15. Even though my contractions weren't what I considered "serious" yet, we didn’t want to be stuck in rush hour traffic if they intensified (we live 45 minutes away from the hospital).

At that point, I had to stop to focus and breathe through every contraction, but they were still manageable. I suggested to Nate that he stop for coffee on the way, since I thought we probably had a few hours ahead of us. My contractions were only 30 seconds long, at the most, and I felt they would need to get longer and stronger before we could make any progress and get admitted to the hospital.

The drive was unexpectedly a bit poignant for me. We were greeted by the sight of a beautiful sunrise when we started our trip. We also saw a group of wild horses grazing by the side of the road, which I captured on film completely by accident as I took a picture of the sunrise.  It seemed like an auspicious morning to start a new chapter of our lives.

We got to the hospital around 6:00. I remember telling Nate I wanted to avoid bothering the nurses around shift change at 7:00.  We decided to walk around outside the hospital and in the little meditation garden. My contractions seemed pretty close together, definitely less than every five minutes, but they were still short. I was trying hard not to stress but I kept thinking, “they need to get longer and stronger if I’m going to have this baby in two or three hours” (a two or three hour labor was the goal the kids and I had been praying for during recent bedtime prayers).

I would keep stopping with every contraction, breathe, and try different pain management techniques from Birthing From Within. They definitely were effective at that point.

I believe we only did one lap around the garden when we stopped at an outdoor table. I leaned on the table to have a contraction and felt something pop. What had just occurred didn’t immediately register, but I told Nate “something just happened.” It became abundantly clear very soon that my water had just broken. We decided to head inside to L & D because I was making a mess.

Without exaggeration, I can say labor went from zero to sixty immediately. My contractions got incredibly intense and incredibly close together. I had at least two in the less than five minutes it took us to walk to L & D. When we got to the nurses’ station (I’ll be damned if it wasn’t 6:45, right before shift change), I couldn’t even speak to give my social security number to the nurse at the desk. I had to completely stop all movement and just retreat inward every time a contraction came.

A nurse took us to a room right away. I should mention here that the next hour is blurry at points, so I'm recounting the story to the best of my ability. The back of my hospital bed was at a 90 degree angle. After I changed into a gown, I got in right away and knelt facing the back, hugging the bed. For some reason, that position was most comfortable in my second and third labors, too. I was having the urge to push at times, so I went ahead and did that when it felt right.

At the same time, I was trying to give my nurse my pertinent information: “fourth baby… VBAC… GBS positive… babies all turn OP during labor. I've always pushed for two and a half hours before they come out.” A few minutes later, I heard one nurse sharing this information with another nurse (presumably during shift change). The nurse who was checking my dilation at that time responded, “This baby isn’t OP and it will be here way before two hours.”

I was a little shocked to hear this, but I couldn’t give it much thought because my contractions seemed to be coming with only seconds in between. I can also now say with confidence that I have experienced back labor (it's hard to say if I did with the other kids because I don't remember the pain clearly enough, to tell the truth). The uterine contractions didn’t hurt a bit compared to the unrelenting, excruciating pain in my tailbone. From the moment I got into the bed, that sensation was present. I felt the need to bear down but that didn’t alleviate the pain at all.

The midwife came in pretty soon after I arrived, although I was facing the back of my bed and had very little awareness of what was happening behind me. I did hear her and the nurses agree to forgo the IV antibiotics for the Group B Strep, since they felt the baby was coming imminently. The on-call OBGYN also came into the room fairly early, which I thought was unusual. The policy has always been for the physicians to come in to VBAC midwife-attended labors around two hours of pushing, but when I asked later, I was told this doctor just happened to come in to say hello and ended up sticking around.

Someone (I don’t know if it was the doctor, midwife, or nurse) was suggesting position changes when they didn’t feel pushing was progressing quickly enough. I didn’t really love the way things were going, to tell the truth. I have had long pushing stages before, but the group of people in the room kept directing me to try different things when they didn’t think things were going fast enough. No one seemed to understand that this pattern is normal for me. I was in too much pain to speak most of the time, but when I did speak, I didn’t feel heard.

I read (after this birth happened) that some women experience back labor as nonstop. This was definitely my experience during the birth of this baby. To my frustration, the doctor would say things like, “You’re not having a contraction right now, you can’t push right now. Relax your face and hands. Just relax and take a break until your next contraction.” What I didn’t have the energy, focus, or breath to tell her was that the uterine contractions had nothing to do with my tension. The constant pain in my coccyx was so severe I couldn’t speak, and I was trying to push when my body wanted to push because it felt like the pain was nonstop.  Because I didn’t have the energy to argue, though, I did whatever the team directed me to do.

In hindsight, I know the doctor meant well. Maybe she wanted the pushing to go quickly because she wanted to alleviate my pain. I’m grateful for that. But this birth felt different from my other kids’ births, and it was unique in the sense that I felt disempowered. Everything felt directed by the health care team and I felt like my body wasn't moving fast enough for anyone.

After about half an hour of pushing, the team decided maybe the baby wasn’t coming immediately and to get my antibiotics going. I remember my nurse, Angela, apologizing when she inserted an IV during a contraction and it got messy. Something similar happened during my second baby’s birth, and it cracks me up. During labor, I got 99 problems and my IV ain’t one.

The midwife and doctor had me push on my side for a while, then on my back (which I have hated in all my kids’ births). Again, I couldn’t spare the energy to argue. After a few pushes, I felt the same but everyone else in the room started to get excited. Someone said, “Jill, the baby’s head is RIGHT THERE!” Honestly, my overall attitude about that was, BFD. Ask the midwife who attended my first child’s birth how long she stared at the top of my baby’s head before I eventually was sent for my cesarean (spoiler: it was about 24 hours).

The doctor said, “Jill, you need to push like you just did on that last contraction. If you can do that, we’ll have a baby on the next push!”

There are some pretty obvious benefits to expedient childbirth. But I have to give a shout out to long pushing stages because, with my older kids, I pushed for over two hours and was too numb to feel the babies' actual exits when they eventually happened. This time, I felt it. It wasn’t such a big deal since it happened in less than a second, and truthfully, I was more focused on the blessed relief of getting the pain off my tailbone during that last push. But feeling my second degree tear as it happened was not the highlight of my day.

The highlight of my day, as it turns out, happened right after someone placed the baby on my abdomen. Nate couldn’t stand the suspense and looked right away to find out the baby’s sex. He seemed so shocked and happy when he said to me, “It’s a GIRL!!!!!”

As with our first daughter, I didn’t believe him at all. I had wanted another girl but I had been afraid to even hope for that. Two girls and two boys in our family just seemed too perfect and I hadn’t wanted to be disappointed.

So, it was Catherine Belle who came barreling into our world at 7:58 a.m. on June 7, about an hour after we’d arrived in L & D. And yes, that child had turned OP after the nurse examined me and declared "this baby is not OP." She was born facing the sky like her awesome siblings.

I spent some time snuggling her while the midwife stitched me up. We were all pretty adrenalized, and the pictures of us laughing and joking around reflect that. I was bleeding more than my team was comfortable with, so my nurse started a Pitocin drip and kept me in my delivery room for a bit longer instead of transferring me.  (That was fine with me! My nurse, Angela, was amazing. She completely pampered us; even though she was really busy, she took the time to make Kate a hat with a bow and a totally girly name sign.)

After a bit, everyone cleared out of the room and Nate, Kate, and I were alone. This is my favorite part of her birth story and I regret being unable to fully articulate those moments. I've never been skydiving, but I think that part of the day is best compared to my understanding of skydiving. We had this intense, fast-paced birth that felt like we were careening from a plane toward the earth. The part when everyone finally left the room felt like the moment the skydiver activates his or her parachute. We just kind of floated for a bit. Everything felt so out of focus and surreal.

Nate and I both just sat back quietly, a little in shock, and absorbed the miracle that had just unfolded in our lives. I think we both had a sense that we needed to ease back onto a normal plane of existence. So naturally, there was nothing to do but put on Dark Side of the Moon and relax.

I couldn't say for sure what Nate was thinking about, but I sat in bed and imagined telling our four year-old daughter that she had the sister she wanted so badly (and that made me weepy). I also felt a really bittersweet mix of relief and melancholy that our final family member was here. On one hand, I felt like we'd been waiting to eat some fantastic holiday meal until every guest had arrived, and that guest was finally here. On the other hand, my belly felt really empty (which also made me weepy).

When I've reflected on my older kids' births, I've always felt important lessons were embedded in the experiences. I've spent days trying to figure out what I have learned from Kate's birth, and it was challenging. Given my deeply ingrained belief that HARD experiences are THE BEST experiences, one hour of HARD (even if it was one hour of a nonstop, horrifying contraction) doesn't necessarily feel like it was hard enough. (I believe my Catholic may be showing here.)

When I've talked about my first three kids' births, people sometimes seem sympathetic that I had to push so long and vigorously before the babies were born. I've started comparing it to the Lynyrd Skynyrd song "Free Bird." If I flip on the radio and find myself at the beginning of Free Bird, I'm going to sit through about six minutes of music I would typically turn off  (I'm being honest here) because I know the song gets amazing toward the end. It's worth the wait.

I was expecting Free Bird for my fourth baby's birth. I would classify Kate's birth as less Free Bird and more Metallica's "Fuel." It was crazy from the very beginning; no wait needed.

So, what could I have learned in one short hour of HARD? I've thought and all I can come up with, really, is this: Life has some pretty dark moments. We face devastating news at times and we have to go through hard seasons of life that shape us irrevocably. We get dealt bad hands when we were hoping for much more. But maybe, just maybe, sometimes God just hands us a beautiful gift, no strings attached. Sometimes we do a rain dance and we get rain.

Maybe my last childbirth experience is really one that conveys more than a parenting lesson to me. I have four safe and healthy children. I get to parent them with my best friend and the love of my life. I have my own health, amazing friends, and a wonderful extended family. We live in a country with so many freedoms.

My blessings are too many to count and that weighs on me every day when I read the news. I often feel guilty that so many others are suffering while I'm living my life. So, I can continue to advocate for others who don't share my privileges. I can continue to pray for them, donate money and time to their causes, teach my children to stand with them or for them. But after I do those things, I can put aside my guilt and try to feel worthy of the staggering, truly breathtaking gifts that have been showered on me. Because, goddamn it, I'm in the middle of my rainstorm, whether I deserve it or not. And I think the best way I can offer my prayer of gratitude, the best way I can be worthy of it, is to dance around in it.

Baby #3 Birth Story

I Get By with a Little Help from My Friends: A Birth Story

I should be reluctant to admit I’ve been in the ladies’ rooms of many bars, clubs, and other venues where alcohol flows freely. If you’ve been in similar settings, you know those ladies’ rooms are filled with women of varying degrees of sobriety. If you’ve been in similar settings, you also have had the experiences that led me to conclude that drunk women in bar bathrooms are in a class entirely unto themselves.

Female camaraderie is at its finest in public bathrooms late at night. There’s a fierce, elemental embrace of sisterhood behind those doors, a sense of intrinsic communion that seems to transcend economic or racial or language differences. Bar bathrooms are routinely filled with complete strangers offering the most extravagant compliments to other women, asking where to find that top or that lipstick. I’ve witnessed multitudes of women willing to spare their last hair tie or a tampon (or a square, contrary to Elaine Benes’ experience). On a less superficial level, I’ve been parts of groups that circle around a crying woman, sharing hugs, confidently assuring them it’s HIS LOSS, boldly offering to go inflict bodily harm on the guy... all for a complete stranger.

I was never a “girls’ girl,” despite the fact I attended an all-girls high school and an (coincidentally) all-female undergraduate nursing program. Truthfully, I always felt my complete immersion in the world of women was the reason I preferred the company of guys. I had seen the competition, the cattiness, the cliques for which women are stereotypically known and it intimidated me. So I gravitated to having more friendships with guys in my late teens and early twenties.

It wasn’t until I got married and most of my alleged guy friends disappeared that I realized perhaps their motives hadn’t been the same as mine. By my early thirties, I had the benefit of amazing, drama-free, supportive female friends. Knowing them enabled me to embrace sisterhood and proudly become a “girls’ girl” who understands that women can empower and love each other without being drunk in a bar bathroom.

Which leads me to my story that best exemplifies women empowering other women in drunk-girl-in-a-bar-bathroom fashion... the birth story of my third child. (Heads up: There was no bathroom or alcohol involved in this birth, so you should stop reading this now if that is a dealbreaker.)

My third child was due on November 30, but I wasn’t actually expecting the baby to come until after 40 weeks. Neither my mom, my sister, nor I had ever given birth spontaneously prior to 41 weeks (at the earliest). I had contractions around the 40 week mark (some pretty regular!) but I didn’t go into labor until 40 weeks and four days.

My husband, Nate, and I recently had moved about 45 minutes away from the hospital where we’d be delivering. My midwives stressed how important it was for me to leave for the hospital right away when I went into legit labor because my second baby’s birth had been relatively quick. (Her labor was five hours long, from first contraction to baby in my arms. Two and a half hours of that was pushing because she turned occiput posterior, or OP, during labor and was born facing “sunny side up.”) My midwives speculated that, if my daughter hadn’t flipped OP during labor, the whole thing would have only been around two and a half hours long. They suggested my third baby’s birth could go even more quickly, and they didn’t want us to deal with our child being born in a car.

In the early evening of December 4, a Friday, I was having contractions again and had a feeling real labor would start soon. So, around 10 p.m., we called the wonderful friend who had agreed to be on-call to watch the older kids when we went to the hospital. After she and her husband arrived, Nate and I left, per midwife instructions, even though my contractions were still pretty manageable.

We made it to the hospital a little before 11:00 and went upstairs to L & D. A nurse checked my dilation (I truly don’t remember where I was, but it was pretty unremarkable, like 1 cm). She advised we walk around for a bit to get contractions to pick up, which turned out to be a really fantastic suggestion.

Nate and I walked outside to the Mediation Garden, which was decorated with lights for Christmas. The air was so clear. It felt so special to spend that time with Nate, walking through the Christmas lights and talking.

After the suggested hour of walking, we returned to L & D. My contractions were unchanged and my dilation was still unimpressive, so the nurse informed me that I couldn’t be admitted. Nate and I decided to make the drive back home and see if labor picked up later.

We got home around 2 a.m. I decided to take a bath to relax for a bit, since my contractions had gotten a little more intense on the drive back home. Almost immediately after I filled the bath and got in, my contractions were noticeably stronger and closer together. I don’t know how to explain it other than to say the intensity ramped up quite a bit, so Nate and I headed back to the hospital again around 3:00.

On the drive there, I felt best on my hands and knees, so I hovered that way in the backseat of my minivan. I asked Nate to play some of my motivating labor music from my phone. I remember him playing “All my Life” by Foo Fighters, and he joked it was a perfect song for contractions when the line “Done, done, on to the next one” came on.

We went back through the ED of the hospital. The same nurse at the admission desk was there from earlier, and he remarked, “Now, this looks more like labor” compared to my earlier visit. We went up to L & D again. My water broke in the elevator and I was really struggling to get through each contraction.

I was admitted this time. When I remember that night, I consider “hard labor” started around 4 a.m., meaning the contractions were intense beyond what I would consider “manageable.”

My plan was to have another unmedicated birth, since my previous one had been a really positive experience for me.  I had the same doula as with my second baby, but I hadn’t done much in the way of preparing by doing Hypnobabies, Spinning Babies, or Birthing from Within during this pregnancy. In retrospect, I believe the relatively smooth birth of my second child made me complacent for the birth of my third.

As I recall, by about 8:00 a.m. I was overwhelmed and decided to request an epidural. I suspect my lack of mental preparation for the birth process may have been a misstep on my part. I hadn’t done any of the prep I did for my second baby’s birth, and the difference was significant in my ability to tolerate the pain. Anesthesiology came and inserted my epidural. It wasn’t effective until he “topped me off.” After that, I was gloriously numb.

The problem, though, is that I have low blood pressure at baseline. The medications in my epidural caused my blood pressure to drop even more. Therefore, in the following hours, my nurse bolused me with IV fluids and put me in Trendelenburg position (me flat on my back with my feet elevated higher than my head) several times and, at one point, expressed her surprise that I was still conscious and coherent. I never asked what my actual blood pressure was because I didn’t want to know. Nate was dozing on the couch and I remember feeling glad he didn’t know what was happening because I didn’t want to scare him.

My midwife commented that, in her experience, baby girls “behave well” during labor and delivery and baby boys are more troublesome. Since my baby was tolerating labor very well, she predicted my baby was a girl.

Around noon, I was fully dilated and started pushing. I changed positions several times and pushed with all my might, to no avail. By around 2 p.m., the baby’s heart rate had started to show decelerations on the fetal monitor. That, coupled with my own low blood pressure, resulted in the nurses and my doula constantly flipping me from side to side, applying an oxygen mask, and appearing subtly anxious as time wore on. (The midwife wryly observed around this time, “I changed my mind. This baby must be a boy.”)

The midwife sat on the edge of my bed and I could tell a serious conversation was about to happen. She expressed her concerns with the decelerations and the lack of progress we’d made. I quickly agreed to sign the consent forms for a cesarean delivery, since all the activity of the past few hours had me concerned for the well-being of the baby. The obstetrician came in at that time.

Even though I’d never met that doctor, I was expecting a quick trip to the OR for surgery. My experiences with the physicians at my OBGYN practice had never been positive. I perceived the ones I met as dismissive, rushed, and focused on their own goals. I couldn’t imagine this doctor would do anything but take me in for a c-section and be done with me.

The doctor did an exam and informed me that my baby had turned OP. This was a surprise; we had been paying attention to positioning during pregnancy and the baby was OA at all my late-pregnancy appointments. She felt that this, in addition to the fact that the baby’s head was de-flexed, was prohibiting the baby from advancing.

I was exhausted from pushing, disheartened, and had accepted the idea of a cesarean birth by then. The obstetrician, however, asked if I would be willing to let her attempt to manually reposition the baby first. I agreed, and I remember being grateful then for the epidural, because I could feel, to some degree, what she was doing (even with the benefit of my epidural). I’m fairly confident that procedure would have been pretty unpleasant without it.

Her attempt wasn’t successful. She next proposed trying the vacuum. My recollection of this time is somewhat hazy, but from what I remember, the purpose was to try to get the baby to tuck its chin so I could push it out. On the first try, I was told the suction device popped off the baby’s head. On the second try, the doctor informed me the baby tucked its chin. (I’m truly sorry that I’m not sure if I remember these details accurately. All I know is that I was told the baby tucked its chin at this time and we stopped using the vacuum. I don’t know enough about labor and delivery to know the purpose of the vacuum or if the procedure worked as intended.)

I remember pushing mightily. The kind of pushing that left all kinds of broken blood vessels in my face. The muscles in my legs were shaking from exertion and I was exhausted. Over and over, I would push, the fetal monitor would alarm, I’d quickly get flipped on my side and have an oxygen mask applied, then I’d start pushing again. I was anxious about my baby’s health and my own. I remember telling the team in my room, “I don’t think I can do this. If the baby is in danger, I’m ok with a c-section.”

I had not been surprised by the supportive cheering from my husband, my doula, my midwife, and my nurse. I had expected the litany of affirmations they offered and their reassurances that I was still amazing, even if I wasn’t able to deliver this baby vaginally. What did surprise me, though, was the tiny, gentle doctor who spoke up at my weakest moment. I remember it so clearly. She looked me in the eye and said, “You've done this before. I think you can push this baby out.” This, from the last person I’d expected to support me in anything except a cesarean.

Her simple words completely elevated me. That easily, my insecurity and anxiety dissipated and I started pushing with renewed energy. Everyone else in the room seemed to sense the shift that had occurred. As I remember it, their cheering took on the rowdy air of celebration. After one push, my midwife actually uttered the words, “Jill, you’re a beast.” (An accompanying fist bump would have been appropriate, but I think I was being repositioned on my side at the time, so I’ll forgive her.)

With this team of sisters (and my mister) rallying around me, I pushed my third child into the world at 2:25 p.m. on Saturday, December 5, 2015. He was facing the ceiling like his sister before him.

I didn’t cry when my first two kids were born. I expected to, considering one was my first child and one was a much-desired, successful VBAC delivery. But tears didn’t come when they were born.

So you can probably imagine my surprise when this third baby, later named James MacLean, arrived and I started sobbing. I was completely, incoherently overcome with humility and gratitude that the team around me had carried me through my self-doubt. I couldn’t believe their faith in me had culminated in the miracle of this person on my chest. I think they were touched, too; Nate told me later the nurses were crying with me.

Mac had some trouble breathing at first. His Apgar scores weren’t great and he was taken away from me so the pediatric nurses could care for him. I was told he would be going to the nursery for a bit for monitoring, but he perked up and ended up staying with me, fortunately.

I would be remiss if I didn’t mention the crucial role my husband played in this story. He is a constant source of love and support in my life and this event was no exception. Among this team of empowering women, he was an honorary sister (and I hope he wouldn’t be offended by that description in this context!).

So, that's the story. In the spirit of the bar bathroom references, I’d like to offer a toast to the people who were with me during Mac’s birth. Here’s to the sisters (and misters) who readily sing to us the anthem of our greatness in the moments we don’t remember it for ourselves. Here’s to the ones whose unwavering faith in us becomes an instrument of energy, of confidence, during our weakest times. Here’s to the people who make it abundantly clear we’ll never walk alone.

I didn’t walk alone on the day Mac came into this world, and I have so much to show for that team effort... A triple-dimple charmer with blond curls, Vito Corleone cheeks, and big blue eyes. (He's so darn cute I'll go ahead and forgive him for breaking my tailbone on his way out.) Here’s to him becoming a person who encourages and loves others so well, in the legacy of the people who supported his arrival. Here’s to James Maclean!

The Longest Birth Story Ever Written

Seriously, this birth story will take longer to read than the actual birth took. But it was therapeutic for me to write and I'd like to have it for my kids to read someday, so I didn't want to leave out anything. Kudos if you make it all the way through. My husband can't even be coerced into reading it. :) 

The Holy and the Broken: A Birth Story

“And even though it all went wrong

I’ll stand before the Lord of Song

With nothing on my tongue but Hallelujah”

–Leonard Cohen, “Hallelujah”

Almost two months after the birth of my second child, I’m still struggling to write the birth story. For one thing, the event was so overwhelming and powerful I find myself at a loss to recount it adequately. Second, I’ve only done academic writing for years. I’ve spent hours planning how to structure the birth story, how to conform the story to an outline I would use for an academic paper. I’ve tried in vain to examine the birth from every perspective and derive a thesis, a theme, an angle for my story. Simply telling the story feels uncomfortable, but I finally decided to do just that before more time passes and the memory fades.

So here is my thesis statement, if I’m going to have one: This is a story about bovine noises, and the Force, and how I found peace with two births that did not go at all as planned. How I found unspeakable gratitude for two births that did not go at all as planned.

I’ll get my disclaimers out of the way first. This is excessively long, in the grand tradition of birth stories (especially VBAC birth stories, which are often a two-for-one package). Please ignore any grammar or mechanical errors; I rarely get more than four hours of sleep per night these days.

This is the story of MY journey, which includes a cesarean birth and a vaginal birth after cesarean (VBAC). I am not interested in judging or speaking for other mothers who chose cesarean or VBAC deliveries. Each circumstance is unique and each set of parents needs to make the best decisions for their family. My feelings about my experiences are mine and I am not interested in defending them.

I am a hospice nurse by profession. I’ve worked long-term with pediatric hospice patients, their parents, and their siblings. I’ve fretted alongside parents when no combination of medication seems to be making the seizures stop. I’ve tried my best to explain to elementary school-aged kids what it will look like when their sibling is at the end of life. I’ve passively stood as the punching bag when parents are rightfully so angry and need somewhere to release it. I’ve felt tremendous guilt when I bear witness to the struggles these parents face every moment of every day and know I’ll be going home to my own healthy child.

I’m not sharing this to say I fully understand the depth of tragedy these parents have faced. I’m trying to say that, more than many people, I’m always mindful that life isn’t fair. No mother gets any guarantees her kids will be healthy or live long lives. Some parents don’t even get moments with their kids because of miscarriage or stillbirth. Some parents never get to be parents because of infertility. I get it. I’m lucky to have my babies, no matter how their births happened.

Still, many women who have had unwanted c-sections (myself included) have a visceral reaction when well-meaning people comment “At least you have a healthy baby. That’s all that matters.” Nope. The healthy baby is, by far, the most important thing, but it isn’t the only thing that matters. For some women, giving birth is a rite of passage. The experience can be a very significant initiation into motherhood. It’s not unlike planning a wedding day, even though the bride knows the marriage is the important part.

During my first pregnancy, I prepared so I could have an intervention-free birth by practicing childbirth hypnosis for hours every night, reading everything I could about birth, practicing “correct” postures and movements to keep the baby in optimal position, and eventually following a very limited diabetic diet. When I didn’t experience the birth I had worked so hard to achieve, I felt traumatized. I felt I had given away my power and not trusted my own parenting instincts when I should have. From the moment my son left my body, my first thoughts as a mother were of doubt in my own parenting skills because my judgment had been so faulty.  

“I know the things you wanted

They’re not what you have”

–Guns N’ Roses, “Don’t Cry” alternate lyrics

Like every VBAC birth story, mine starts with a c-section. I’ll share the key points leading to the cesarean: I was diagnosed with gestational diabetes when I was about seven months pregnant. My midwife informed me that labor would likely be induced if the baby wasn’t born by 39 weeks’ gestation because of increased risk to babies of gestational diabetes moms. It was standard practice at that office. I was uncomfortable with this because first time moms who are induced are more likely to end up with a cesarean delivery than first time moms who aren’t induced. Additionally, the information I found indicated the risk of harm to the baby was not significant if I avoided the induction.

After refusing induction at 39 weeks, I went along with it at 40 weeks despite my research. I remember thinking, “What if my baby is that one baby in 1000 that dies because I didn’t go through with this induction? Can I live with myself?” So I showed up at the hospital at 7:00 a.m. on a Monday morning, full of resentment and disappointment. In case you missed the point, I did my homework and still chose to go ahead with the induction. I am fully accountable for my decision and I can’t plead ignorance. I live with that every day; it was one of the most difficult aspects of my son’s birth.

Twenty four hours into the induction, I was exhausted and dilated to only one centimeter after hours of hard contractions and back labor. Hypnosis had been helpful until that point but took energy and focus to maintain. I was so tired I was no longer able to focus on the hypnosis. Despite my desire to have an unmedicated birth, I began asking for an epidural. It wasn’t because the pain was unmanageable, it was because I was so tired and just wanted to sleep. Nate (my husband), my nurse, doula, and midwife all tried to remind me of my wishes, but I continued to request the epidural. (A proud moment was when I said, “All the other girls get epidurals, why can’t I have one?” in the whiniest voice imaginable.) An anesthesiologist eventually came and administered my epidural. I believe this was the point in my labor when I “checked out” emotionally. I dilated to 10 centimeters after a few more hours and pushed for two and a half hours without any luck. I was already so disappointed in myself for caving and requesting the epidural that I agreed to a c-section for “failure to descend” without much thought. I was beyond exhausted and just wanted the baby out so everyone would leave me alone. I later learned my baby was asynclitic, which means his head was tilted in a way that his ear was touching his shoulder. This is probably why he didn’t come out despite my prolonged pushing.

I didn’t feel involved in the surgery at all. To my everlasting irritation, a Justin Timberlake song was playing in the OR when the surgeon removed my son from my abdomen. I had hoped my child would be born to a kick-ass song, maybe AC/DC or something. In my book, Justin Timberlake music is not something I want to remember in conjunction with an awesome moment. I’m still annoyed I didn’t think to ask the staff if I could provide my IPod dock or at least choose the radio station. When someone (I don’t remember who) announced “it’s a boy!” my husband was so excited. I didn’t feel any joy at learning the gender or even knowing my child was born; I only felt a pervasive numbness.

My first meeting with my son was the classic upside-down-blue-disposable-cap-wearing-mom moment, captured in several photographs for all posterity. In other pictures, my husband is holding our son and looking utterly captivated while I’m in the background (still upside-down), looking somewhat resentful that my husband is holding the baby before I can. Is that petty? Probably.

My physical recovery from the surgery was incredibly easy. Emotionally, I was completely defeated and grieving. The way I saw it, I didn’t give birth to my son; a

doctor cut him out of me. And how bitterly I resented having to give credit to the very establishment that pushed me to go against my already-present maternal instincts and induce my labor. The establishment that aided in my overwhelming feelings of failure as a mother on the day my child entered this world. I wrote in my journal, “My legacy now, since Van’s birth, seems to be fear, self-doubt, shame, disappointment, failure, resentment, and apprehension. I have something to prove to myself and nobody else now. I failed at one of my very first tasks as a mother by ignoring my instinct to refuse the induction.”

I can understand how some women think my reaction was melodramatic. Those same people may have difficulty seeing how a healthy baby isn’t the only measure of a “good” birth for some women. They may not see how the birth of a child is not necessarily the same thing as the birth of a mother.

For those people, here is my poorly constructed metaphor: Imagine you are the pitcher in a World Series game. You’re walking one batter after another. The game is close, but you are tired, and it’s showing. The coach pulls you and has another pitcher take the mound. Your relief pitcher is a success and your team wins the World Series after several strikeouts. Are you the kind of person who can feel excited about winning the World Series and forget how you personally didn’t live up to your hopes and expectations for yourself, forget that you only won because someone else bailed you out? I’m not. For me, the end usually doesn’t justify the means. Memories of that World Series wouldn’t be victorious, they would be memories tainted with shame and self-doubt and embarrassment. To compound those terrible feelings, I would feel horribly guilty for looking at my World Series ring, my reminder, and feeling anything other than unmitigated joy.

“Emancipate yourselves from mental slavery

None but ourselves can free our minds”

–Bob Marley, “Redemption Song”

When I learned I was pregnant with our second child, I immediately went to an International Cesarean Awareness Network (ICAN) meeting to find support in planning my VBAC. A woman named Kimberly, who was a doula and a midwife in training, was speaking at the meeting. I decided right away I wanted Kimberly to be my doula, based on her extensive knowledge and her assertive, yet gentle, demeanor.

I interviewed some different midwives and doctors, but everyone paled in comparison to my original midwife, so I returned to the same practice for prenatal care. With my team in place, I decided to work on myself. I sensed I would need to get out of my own way to have my successful VBAC.

I felt amazing throughout my pregnancy. My diet had improved drastically since my first pregnancy, and I was far more physically active. In my journal, I described my emotional pregnancy experience as “a sense of realization of my purpose in life. A feeling of completeness and wholeness. Connected with so many women, past, present, and future, that I’ll never even know. Primal. In connection with my own spirit. Satisfaction and fulfillment. I think the best word is full. This is the way I’m supposed to be. This is God’s gift to me and what he meant for me to be and to do.”

I followed the exercises in the Birthing From Within book and listed all my fears. Although I acknowledged them, I refused to give them power by fixating on them, which was very different from my attitude during my first pregnancy. One of my greatest fears was another gestational diabetes diagnosis, so I meticulously followed the diabetic diet from my first pregnancy. My attention to nutrition paid off and I passed the gestational diabetes screening.

I listened to my hypnosis tracks occasionally. Although hypnosis had been a useful tool for the first 24 hours of labor with Van, I wanted other tools at my disposal in the event I lost focus again. I didn’t construct a birth plan this time. With my first pregnancy, I labored over a birth plan that ultimately ended up being the exact opposite of everything that occurred. For this pregnancy, I decided to go with the flow and let things happen as they happened.

Because I was feeling so well physically, mentally, and emotionally, I wasn’t in a rush to deliver the baby, which was different from my first pregnancy. I tried not to let the constant “you’re still pregnant? When are you going to have that baby?” comments get to me. Braxton Hicks contractions had started around 32 weeks but really intensified as time went on. They got quite uncomfortable at times, but I felt so excited that my body was “warming up” for birth and doing its job.

The last few weeks of the pregnancy were incredibly exciting for me. I’d never gone into labor on my own, so each day was filled with anticipation and the realization that I could spontaneously go into labor at any time. (I refused internal checks at my midwife appointments, so I never had any idea if I was dilated. Not that dilation is an indicator of anything at all.) I really don’t think I can articulate how exciting each day was for me; I was so filled with gratitude that my body was being given the chance to do its work naturally.

On Sunday, July 21, I was scheduled to work from 8 a.m. to 8 p.m., as usual. I woke a little before 5:00 and decided to watch Mass on television because I would be working and unable to attend. I was at 40 weeks and six days at that point, so I also figured I’d be having a baby that week and wanted to start the week on the right foot from a spiritual standpoint. One reading was about Abraham and how he had a visitor who foretold he would have a child in the next year. I remember thinking, “If Abraham and Sarah could wait as long as they did for a baby, I can be patient a little longer for mine.” I took it as an omen of impending labor when I heard the gospel reading was from the gospel according to Luke. Luke was the name Nate and I had chosen if our baby was a boy (which I was very certain our baby was).

I felt fortified by my experience with the Mass and went on to have a good day at work. After work, I went home and helped Nate put Van in bed around 8:00. Van was behaving horribly, worse than ever. Nate and I joked that “maybe the baby is coming soon and this is like all the animals going crazy before a storm.”

Here’s where the story starts going not at all as planned.

Around 8:45, I started to feel some contractions that didn’t feel like Braxton Hicks. They had a pattern of building up, reaching a peak, and decreasing in intensity. I didn’t get too excited, because I’d had these same contractions about three different nights in the past week, and they always tapered off around midnight. After just a few contractions, though, I reluctantly said to Nate, “These are kind of different, they’re pretty regular and close together.” I didn’t want to time them because I didn’t want to get my hopes up, but I couldn’t help noticing they were about seven or eight minutes apart (there was a clock right across from me).

I decided to go online and read some stupid Yahoo questions and answers because I read (I think in an Ina May book) about how laughing helps labor to progress. I was sitting on the couch, reading questions and answers aloud to Nate, but I’d only get through maybe one question before I’d feel a contraction and get up to pace around the house. I strongly felt the need to move when a contraction came, almost as if I was trying to escape it. I may have looked crazy… cracking up at the Yahoo answers, breathing deeply, pacing around the house… Repeat cycle.

I estimate we made it through four Yahoo questions and responses before I told Nate, “I don’t think I can do this right now, they’re getting pretty intense.” I called Kimberly and let her know contractions had just started and were seven to eight minutes apart. I told her they probably wouldn’t amount to anything but I wanted to give her a heads up anyway. She said that was fine and requested I let her know if things picked up because she was with another laboring client (who was using her birthing pool) and needed time to get a backup pool from another doula. My plan was to labor at home for as long as possible so I could labor in water, which I wouldn’t be able to do at the hospital. I hoped to show up at the hospital pushing because I really didn’t want to labor at the hospital.

I decided it wouldn’t hurt to pack for the hospital, which I’d been saving for a distracting labor task (as I assumed my labor would be very lengthy again). I went into our bedroom and started packing but had to stop a few times for powerful contractions. They were becoming so intense it was a little frightening, so I put on a hypnosis track as I was packing. I remember getting on the floor on my hands and knees at one point. Then I, hoping the water would give me some relief, decided to get into our tiny bathtub.

I called out to Nate that he should call Kimberly again and ask her if she could bring the birthing pool now. I felt really guilty for even asking, because it was still super early in my labor, but my contractions were pretty intense. I filled up the bathtub and hopped in. Looking back, I can see how absurdly small the tub was for a pregnant woman. I had to roll onto my side to submerge my belly halfway, and it didn’t really provide much relief.

Nate came in to tell me Kimberly was picking up a backup pool from a doula friend and would be right over. I asked him to reference my hospital packing list and resume packing where I’d left off. He came into the room a few times, trying to help, and I think I snapped at him that it wasn’t a good time. I’m a little surprised, in hindsight, that I didn’t rely on Nate the way I thought I would during this labor. In every aspect of my life, Nate is my sanctuary, my battle partner, my compass. During my labor with Van, I fell in love with him all over again because of his amazing support. Therefore, I fully anticipated I would be dependent on him and probably very clingy as I labored this time. Conversely, I wanted to be alone in that bathroom to focus on getting through the contractions.

I was still not interested in timing my contractions. For each one, I’d roll to submerge as much of my belly as possible. I focused completely on vocalizing through low moans. I’m fairly certain I sounded like a demented cow, but it HELPED SO MUCH. I am sure my vocalizations (okay, cow sounds) were the most helpful tool in my entire labor. As each contraction would increase in intensity, I’d start to feel anxious. Being able to focus on and control the sounds I was making made me feel as if I had some control over the experience. (Aside: We are so lucky to have a champion sleeper for a child. I was laboring and mooing the entire time in a room about five feet away from where Van was sleeping, and he never even stirred.)

Around this time, I started to understand what the Birthing From Within book meant when it urged the reader to surrender to the sensations of labor. I’d really struggled with understanding that during my preparations, but it made perfect sense when I was in the moment. I didn’t try to escape the pain or the fear. I’m not sure if I should credit my hypnosis preparation from both pregnancies, but the pain of this labor was completely manageable. I would sometimes envision strong female Olympians to help empower me to be strong and get through each contraction. Other times, I’d pray to St. Mary. After each contraction, I’d say out loud “that is one contraction I’ll never have again” and focus on how good every part of my body felt at that moment.

Kimberly arrived before too much time had passed. Right away, she asked Nate to call Van’s nanny, Jenny, who had agreed to be “on call” for when we needed her to watch him. (Kimberly told me later my contractions were coming about two minutes apart when she arrived.) While we waited for Jenny to arrive, I positioned myself on my hands and knees in the tub, and Kimberly poured warm water over my lower back. I asked her to fill the birthing pool but she wanted to hold off, saying we may need to leave for the hospital before she had time to fill it up.

Jenny arrived and I asked Kimberly to check my dilation (she’s a monitrice and RN, so she’s qualified to do that). She tried and informed me she couldn’t even guess

centimeters “because the baby’s head is right there.” She said it was definitely time to go to the hospital. Kimberly helped me into my sports bra and one of Nate’s wife beaters. In a moment of absurdity, I told her and Nate I would just wear a towel instead of pants because I didn’t feel like putting them on. Somehow they convinced me to wear shorts and we set off for the hospital.

I climbed into the backseat of my car and hovered on all fours because that position felt the best to me. It was around this time, I believe, that I started mentally repeating the mantra “Use the Force.” (Yes, I’m a Star Wars fan, no shame here. Use the Force… Moooooooo… Use the Force… Moooooo.) Nate was calling Laura, the midwife on call, to let her know she needed to get to the hospital. She must have been having difficulty hearing him over my moaning, because he kept repeating “Mercy Gilbert. Mercy Gilbert.” I could only imagine how freaked out Nate was because I started grunting and pushing a little in the car. I remember saying “Just drive safe. I’ll hold it in until we get there.”

We got to the hospital around 11:30 and went through the emergency room. I must have been quite a sight to people in the waiting room. My hair was completely soaked from rolling around in the bathtub, I was kneeling on the seat of a wheelchair and hugging the back of the chair because I couldn’t stand the idea of sitting, and I was swaying my hips from side to side (while mooing) with my rear end in the air. Kimberly and Nate answered four thousand questions, then we were off to labor and delivery. I remember Kimberly getting annoyed and saying to someone, “Can we do this in a room? She’s pushing.”

For about an hour, I’d had my eyes closed constantly. I remember doing that during my labor with Van, too, maybe to help me focus? Because I had my eyes closed, I’m not sure if it was a nurse or a physician or who that informed me on the way to the elevator  I’d need to change into a hospital gown and provide a urine sample when I arrived at my room. I’m not sure if I laughed out loud, but I remember feeling more amused at that moment than at any other moment in my labor experience. I told him “I’m not sure I can give you a sample right now.” (Hello, understatement. I was kneeling on a wheelchair and trying to push out a baby.)

Nurses started an IV (I think two or three attempts in all because of my movement), blood was drawn, and they started running my antibiotic because I was positive for Group B Strep. More questions were asked and I was surprised I could answer clearly. I’ve read in birth stories that women become very focused inward toward the end of labor and aren’t always able to communicate with others. I remember feeling very aware the whole time. At one point, the baby’s heart rate dropped and I could hear it on the monitor. When the nurse asked to put oxygen on me (presumably in response to the drop in heart rate), I immediately agreed, saying “I know, I heard it.”

In total, I pushed for two and a half hours. Quiet in the room during my pushing stage was a very high priority to me, and I believe everyone respected that. If not, I must have blocked out any noise because I don’t remember any. I do remember asking Nate once to stop making conversation with someone, and I asked a nurse to stop directing my pushing when she tried counting at me, but otherwise, I think everything was pretty darn quiet, just as I’d hoped.

However, so many things didn’t go as I’d envisioned…

When I’d visualized my ideal birth, I’d hoped to start having contractions in the morning, after a good night’s sleep, so I’d have lots of energy for labor. But here I was, in the middle of the night, laboring after working a 12-hour shift. Things were going much more quickly than I ever imagined. I hadn’t had any time to bring or even think of using any of the music or inspiring imagery I’d planned. I didn’t have time to work on a labor project. I didn’t whine, complain, verbally abuse anyone, or really even use (excessive) profanity. I never experienced “transition” as so many women describe. I kept expecting it and it never happened.

I didn’t ask for pain meds, which I’d feared I might do. A nurse asked me if I wanted an epidural at one point. I said, “Isn’t it too late for that?” She responded, “No, it’s not too late.” I paused and probably looked like I was considering it, but this is what I was actually thinking: “I thought I was at ten centimeters. You can’t have an epidural that late in the game. I must be at two centimeters or something and they’ve been lying to me all along. Why am I pushing????” I managed to ignore those thoughts and refused the epidural.

My water didn’t break early in labor, which I’d worried would happen. Instead, the midwife, Laura, asked if she could rupture my bag after I’d been pushing for about an hour and a half. I agreed to this, hoping to expedite the process. I didn’t use thoughts of solidarity with other laboring women to inspire me, which I thought I’d do. And I didn’t get to use my This is Spinal Tap quote when the nurses asked me to rate my pain on the zero to 10 scale. You know the line… “These go to 11.” Nobody ever asked me to rate my pain (and I was totally ready with that line, too!). 

I pushed while lying on my back, which I never thought I’d do. I’d envisioned myself squatting or kneeling. To tell the truth, I didn’t want to get on my back; I felt best on all fours. But I’d been pushing for a long time and the MD on call (required to be in the hospital for VBAC deliveries) came in and started hovering after two hours (so I’m told… fortunately my eyes were closed and I had no idea she was in the room). The midwife, doula, and nurses informed me that some people push more effectively on their backs, and I went along with it. Apparently I was one of the people who pushed more effectively on my back.

I had back labor (again) because of a “sunny side up” baby, which was unexpected after nine months of religiously following Spinning Babies principles. I’m now two for two with occiput posterior babies, if anyone is keeping track. I didn’t experience the notorious “ring of fire” I always read about in birth stories. I was told the baby’s head was out and to wait before pushing more, but I don’t think I had any control. The whole baby just slid out really quickly without any effort on my part.

Here’s the part that really didn’t go as anticipated… Wait for it, wait for it… The baby was out. Someone put the baby on my abdomen right away. I assume there were congratulations and excitement, but I honestly have limited memory of those moments. Someone said, “is it a boy or a girl?” I hadn’t even thought to look. I lifted the baby up… Nate said, “It’s a girl!” I absolutely did not believe him. I double checked and triple checked. The shock of a daughter completely eclipsed any feelings I had about my VBAC victory. Every person I’d spoken to during my pregnancy, friend or stranger, was convinced I was having a girl. I was the only one who was sure I was having a boy. I believed it with every fiber of my being. Realizing we had a girl completely floored me. I’m still shocked, when I think about it.

Evangeline Rose, or Evie, was born on July 22 at 2:03 a.m., about five hours after my first contraction started. I imagine the labor would have been even faster if she hadn’t been posterior. She weighed seven pounds, seven ounces, and was 19.5 inches long. Unexpectedly, I wanted Nate to hold her right away after she was born because I was feeling so tired, but everyone wanted her to latch on and start nursing, so we went that route instead.

I found out at her first pediatrician appointment a couple days later that Evie’s head measured in the 89^th percentile. That, plus the posterior presentation, makes me feel so surprised the pain seemed so manageable.  I suspect the combination may have contributed to the second degree tear I sustained. It doesn’t matter; she fits right in with all of our big-headed family.

Even though many aspects of the birth didn’t go the way I’d visualized, it’s okay. Because the birth went better than I’d ever dared to hope. The amniotic fluid was clear, no meconium (one of my fears). My placenta came out easily, intact, without any complications (another fear averted). With respect to timing, it worked out perfectly because Nate was able to go home and be there when Van woke up the next morning. I’d been so worried he would freak out if neither of us was home when he woke. The whole event was so mercifully fast and manageable. I didn’t have to wear a hospital gown; I birthed my baby in a wife beater (insert Deliverance theme song here).

I was on a birth high for approximately one week, which was a good thing because my face was a wreck (another surprise). I had broken blood vessels in my cheeks and somehow my eyes both swelled up, from the strenuous pushing, I was told. I had broken blood vessels on both of my eyelids, giving me the appearance of two black eyes. To compound the insult to my wrecked face, Kate Middleton (whatever her title is) had the audacity to birth her baby several hours after Evie was born and look amazing immediately postpartum. To quote a text I sent my sister:  “That whore princess totally jacked my baby’s birthday.”

“There’s a blaze of light in every word

It doesn’t matter which you heard

The holy or the broken Hallelujah”

 – Leonard Cohen, “Hallelujah”

That’s the story of my journey: one cesarean birth, one VBAC. Neither birth went as planned. One was the opposite of what I wanted, and one was infinitely better than my wildest dreams. Both experiences were vital to my development as a mother and a person.

I could tell you I came to value the circumstances of my c-section because it made me work harder for Evie’s birth. It made me appreciate every aspect of my labor. It’s the climb that makes you stronger, et cetera. But the truth is, I needed to value both experiences and be at peace with the unplanned nature of being a parent just because it was time. A blogger I follow named Adriel Booker said “When you are at peace, you’re free to be grateful.” Am I ever grateful. Because I have two awesome kids; the Force is strong with them. Because I look at both of those kids every day and see goodness and promise and hope, and think “God is there.”

That’s my story.

Hallelujah.

"Now I don't hardly know her, but I think I could love her"