A Birth Story

Women in my circles love a good birth story. I think we all live vicariously through each other, remembering the times that we first met eyes with our own precious children. So I promised to write it out, and here it is. If your a guy, or aren't interested in this sort of thing, I encourage you to close this link right now and go play Words with Friends or something much less emotional and personal then the words I am about to put to paper (or screen) ;-)

My entire pregnancy was an exercise in releasing control. It always is to a great degree, as I am never weaker than when I am pregnant. And I hate to be weak. I hate to need, to have to ask, to not be able to keep up, but apparently God knows that because He has allowed me to learn the hard way four times now, that in our weakness we can be made strong. But this pregnancy was different. The ten months I carried this baby were different. Person after person, thing after thing, circumstance after circumstance was a continuos releasing. By the time the baby was full term I was holding very loosely to this final birth experience being what I wanted it to be. I wanted to do it naturally again. Not for any truly great, selfless reason other than I wanted to be in control. I felt so out of control of so many areas of my life, that this was one I could hold. And so many people had succeeded at making me feel weak (and I had let them) that this was my chance to prove to myself that I was strong. I know it doesn't make any logical sense...but psychologically and emotionally, it made sense to me. But as delivery neared, a few problems began to arise and it appeared that I was going to have to be medically induced. I hadn't had pitocin with Noah or Ev, but I did with Landon. And I remember it well. Pitocin puts labor on steroids and I knew I wouldn't be able to do it naturally if it did to me what it did with Landon. But again, I had learned to hold things loosely and mostly, I just wanted a healthy baby. So the induction was set for Friday Aug 2. Initially it was supposed to be a morning induction, then it got moved to an evening induction. I changed child care options around a bit and rearranged my expectations (when you are knowingly facing labor, a 12 hour change is no small thing). I spent the morning chasing my kids around and purposely tried to savor nap time. I read Everett his story and rocked him for an extra few moments knowing it was the last day he would be my baby. Then I went to Noah's room and tried to read with him, but the nausea crept up and he kept asking me if I was going to throw up on his bed, so eventually I just kissed him and let him go to sleep. I tried to sleep for an hour, but knowing what lay ahead I was too anxious and excited, so I just laid there. Another crazy control aspect that I know came from my psychological/emotional deficit, was for things to be in order at home. I could control that. I had steam cleaned the carpets and furniture, deep cleaned the bathrooms and our bedrooms. I had swept ceilings and wiped baseboards and cupboards. I knew a baby didn't care about any of that. But I did. It made me feel like I was doing something to prepare, something tangible. So fast forward to Friday Aug 2, when I was trying to take that nap, I remembered the van wasn't clean. So I pulled the steam cleaner out and steam cleaned our vehicle. I was on my hands and knees doing that for a couple hours. Then I ran Noah to a birthday party and my mom and Jon met the rest of us at a restaurant for dinner. The hospital called and told me my induction may be bumped, and that they would let me know by 7:30-8. Enter anxiety. I was so ready to give birth at this point. But the call never came. So I jumped in the shower by 8 and was ready to kiss my kiddos goodbye at quarter to 9.

Then we began that monumental trek to the hospital. I was quickly checked in and in a gown. When they did the initial check I had progressed to a 3, with some other progress, AND I was contracting on my own. I knew that, but the contractions didn't feel much different than I had been feeling all week. Anyway, since my body was doing something on its own, we decided to wait until Sat morning before doing anything medical to bring on labor. At 6am Saturday morning they checked me and I had progressed to a 5-6, all on my own. No need for pitocin, I was in active labor. Thank you, Lord. My doctor broke my water at 6am and by 7, the contractions were very intense and very regular. Jonathan and my sister Brenn were there with me the whole time. I remember at one point they were conversing and I was alternating between sitting on a ball and leaning on the bed, thinking my body may rip in two, when I couldn't take listening to them talk anymore and asked them to please (I am not sure I said please) stop talking. At any rate, the room went silent ;-). By 9, I was convinced I was dying. I was still in good control but was wearing down. I asked the nurse to check me and she said I was an 8, and entering transition. Sure enough, it started. That whole awful transition thing. And the baby was sunny side up, so she had me lay on my side (excruciating) during the contractions in an effort to get the baby to turn. It took 6 or 7 contractions but he flipped and it was most certainly time to push. This is the part I lost control at with Everett, because no one had ever prepared me for the feeling that happens when the baby crowns. Let me tell you now, in case you don't know: it is as though a pressure bomb goes off. It absolutely panicked me with Everett, and I lost a lot of my "control." This time,  I knew what to expect but the agony was still ever present. When you are in that much pain all you can think is that if you push hard enough, it will all be over. You can make it end. So push I did. With all of me. And Everything. And it didn't take long. Three hours after breaking my water, I was holding my beautiful boy.

At our 20 week ultrasound I saw big, huge hands and feet, which tipped me off to this baby being a boy. And I had imagined him with hair the entire pregnancy. Most people I told that he would have hair laughed at me bc Everett is still practically bald at 2.5 years. But I knew this boy would have hair. And while I don't remember much that was said while I was pushing him out, I do remember the doctor saying she could see his hair. And I knew I was right. He was exactly as I imagined him. I gave one last push for all I was worth and she lifted my baby boy to my chest. He didn't cry at first, but I knew he was going to be ok. They eventually got him to cry a little on my chest and then took him to the warmer to look him over. The doctor got him riled up and crying and that helped to pink him up. He weighed in at 8 pounds, 7 ounces which was one ounce shy of his older brother (Ev was 8.8, but seemed MUCH bigger than Silas).

So in the end, I had my unmedicated, natural birth experience that I had very much wanted. Perhaps it was the steam cleaning on my hands and knees or maybe the raspberry leaf tea or evening primrose, or the extra 12 hours that I saw as a bad thing, but may have been the best thing. Or perhaps God just decided to give me this one. I am just grateful. Grateful it is over. Grateful to have a healthy baby. Grateful to eat food and have it taste good and not have to wonder what it will taste like after I eat it. Grateful to have my strength back. Grateful to shed the nausea that had become a way of life. Grateful to, at the very least, not feel physically weak any longer. In the days since having Silas, I can't help but stare at his every perfect feature and marvel at the miracle he is. That each baby who becomes a child who becomes an adult, is. The worth and value and intricate details that make each one of us precious miracles. The process of creating a life and sustaining it, and then birthing it into this world and watching as that life becomes independent of the mother testifies to God in undeniable ways. Knowing how my body changed to sustain life for my son, and then watching as my body shed those very things necessary for his life and he and I became independent of one another, and his own little body took over, is like witnessing a miracle.

I am just so grateful. Blessed. Four healthy sons. Silas is exactly who he was meant to be. Now we have the privelege of watching that unfold, that story be told. Welcome to the family, Silas Avery...you are so loved.