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 89th 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.
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| "Now I don't hardly know her, but I think I could love her" |
