Birdy,

I am forming a command center of sorts here. My focus is clear—I can still run the family logistics from the hospital. Daddy is extremely competent, about 10,000 times more capable than your average father, but he is only one person, and he will need help.

You will figure out pretty quickly, so I may as well tell you now, that Daddy is a far, far better human than I am. This is not something I have ever once doubted, but since this ordeal began it is something that I must address.

I met Daddy when I was 16. As an adult, and especially as your mother, I am supposed to tell you that this is much too young to fall in love and emotionally commit to a relationship.

And in theory, I do believe this.

I believe this, unless the person you meet when you are of any age is a person with the integrity, character, and commitment as the one I met.

Then, Birdy, you’ve gotta hold on.

He has known me, over the last 18 years, at my absolute worst. He has seen me at my most physically repulsive. He has heard the ugliest words come out of my mouth. He has listened to the darkest thoughts that race through my mind.

He knows my every secret, flaw, and insecurity. He knows what I will say and do before I say or do it.

Somehow, he still loves me. Fiercely. I don’t know that I will ever understand it. The only rationale I can muster is that I must have been an extremely virtuous person in a former life. Like, top 10 saints of the world.

In this life, though, there is no contest. He is the best person I know.

Hopefully, it will be later, rather than sooner, that you get to meet him. But just know: we are the lucky ones.

Birdy,

Back on magnesium last night. No tattoo for you.

Let’s talk about drugs. I’ve never touched a recreational drug, not even marijuana (though many have suggested I could benefit from doing so). In all my pregnancies, I have erred on the side of caution with all substances: I have given up skincare with ingredients that actually do anything for my skin, forgone nail polish, limited my caffeine, and subjected those around me to switching to a non-aluminum deodorant. I have even had a cavity filled without anesthesia. On a spectrum of Gwyneth Paltrow to Lindsay Lohan, I’ve been pretty GOOP-approved.

Until 9 days ago.

Now, we are druggies. Now we are on so many drugs that I am losing track. Like, if Amy Winehouse and Chris Farley had a baby–that level of drugs.

Currently there are two that control my blood pressure. Then there is the evil-but-life-saving magnesium, of course. And because the mag is increasingly inhumane, I’m taking whatever they offer me to manage those symptoms: Zofran for nausea; Tylenol for the headaches; Unisom and Benadryl for sleep. Most of these I don’t even have to swallow; they can just shoot them up right into the vein. Real authentic.

When it comes time to deliver (I always hated that term, deliver, and preferred “birth,” but the designation of putting the job completely in someone else’s hands does make deliver feel appropriate now), it will not be a question of drugs or no drugs, as it was with your brothers.

Nooooo, noooo, nooo. When you are delivered it will only be a question of which drugs from the pharmaceutical wheelhouse here we get the privilege of getting pumped with. Will we get some ghastly amount of Pitocin cocktail to artificially evict you, weeks or months earlier than either of our bodies were designed to do? Will we get a lovely epidural or spinal shot (bonus: we could have both!) into my spine, as a strategic move to lessen our chances of opening door number three? Or do we get to go all the way behind door number three to a full-blown, knock-out round of general anesthesia?

It all depends on the severity of our situation at the time. Again, the name of this game is, Zero Control.

I sound bitter, and I am, but I am also grateful. Grateful that while I was galavanting in England and taking barre classes and drinking the GOOP koolade, the gifted, giving medical professionals at this world-class institution spent years in education and research and practice to, hopefully, save our lives.

Please be good on the monitors. I need a break to restore my grit for whatever these weeks bring.

And, grow, Birdy, grow.

Birdy,

The last 24 hours have been some of the toughest so far. Until then, it was just me that everyone was fussed about–you know, not having a seizure, stroke, or organ failure. You were tolerating everything fine.

Yesterday afternoon, during our routine monitoring of you, your heart decelerates. A lot. Within seconds, there are three nurses, paging OB. Then three doctors come in, one in scrubs and seemingly ready for surgery. In SECONDS they have me on oxygen, they’re pulling off my pants to do an exam, and they have wheeled in an ultrasound, checking on you, then pressing it hard against my chest to examine my heart.

You recover. Daddy has come, arriving quicker than I anticipated.

Not long after, it happens again. For longer. Six doctors now, including an anesthesiologist, talking to me about being put under in the next four minutes, because they only have that long now to get you out if you don’t recover.

They call the Action nurse to refit my IV, the fourth one, using the ultrasound, because my veins are giving out and the IV keeps infiltrating.

My whole body is shaking, violently, uncontrollably. Daddy and I are both crying. I start bargaining with you, verbally, out loud, like an insane person, that you can go to the party or ride the motorcycle or get the tattoo, if you will just cooperate with me now. Please, please, Birdy, cooperate with me now. There is still time.

And, by the grace of a God I only tenuously believe in at the moment, you take the deal. You recover. Two strikes down; one more strike and we are out.

The rest of the night is spent back on magnesium hell. Before I was first put on “mag,” on the first day, a nurse named Ros quickly became one of my favorites when she prepared me for what was coming. She just instantly got me: “It’s ok, Honey. I’m a bad patient, too. So you like to know what’s coming? We’re going to put you on a drip of magnesium. It’s going to suck. You’re going to hate us all. It’s going to make your skin crawl. But it’s also going to save you life.”

Somehow, the mag is twice as bad as it was that first day. I am groggy, nauseous, and alternating between extreme hot flashes and shivering from cold. I am on food and fluid restriction. I have a headache, and, oddly, am burping constantly. My oxygen levels are low, so I am breathing with a tube through my nose. We have to do constant monitoring of you all night.

And they expect me to sleep.

But you are an angel, and have so far kept to your end of our bargain. I have a feeling it may be because you are intimidated by our night nurse, the Reese Witherspoon one (don’t say it), who showed extraordinary patience and kindness to me all night long, but was quite stern with you before bed.

Grow, Birdy, grow.

P.S. If you make me go on the magnesium again, the tattoo is off the table.

Birdy,

Writing about the difficult parts of this is proving too much, so I’m going to keep this lighter.

I want to talk about the staff here.

Daddy and I used to watch a lot of Grey’s Anatomy, and we would always joke, “Doctors and nurses DON’T LOOK LIKE THAT. They just cannot all be this young and attractive.”

I don’t know if it’s my own self image right now, or if this hospital is actually a Shondra Rhimes set, but everyone around me is suddenly celebrity-level good looking.

On day 1, a young doctor who looks like Meghan Markle performs an impromptu ultrasound.

On day 2, and this one was verified by Daddy, my night nurse is a DEAD RINGER for Reese Witherspoon (except, I had to warn him, don’t say anything to her about it because she gets visibly irritated).

On day 3, I swear that the anesthesiologist at our consult looks like Prince Harry, but Daddy doesn’t see it.  (Side note, at the end of the consult, Harry asked me, “So, that was the most questions I’ve ever had…what do you do for a living?” I explained that I just stay at home. Harry said, “Oh…so you just, like, read a lot?” (Daddy coughed, “PhD in Anxiety”)

These wonderful people are all seeing me at my absolute worst, and it’s pretty mortifying. They smell good and they are giving themselves to helping me do the humblest of things, and I wish I could be meeting them under normal circumstances–when I am not swollen to NFL linebacker size, in a hospital gown and mesh panties, with dirty hair and stinky breath. I want to tell them, I want to scream at them, that I am not normally like this: That I am usually presentable and clean and wear regular clothes and have a good standard of hygiene (well, most days anyway). 

Friends and family sneak me in food when it’s convenient (I say sneak, but I am not on a restricted diet—this high blood pressure is a symptom of the preeclampsia, not my lifestyle), but I am pleasantly surprised at the decency of the hospital food. The nurses tell me they just brought in a new chef from Golden One.  My favorite so far has been the broccoli beef with brown rice, but for lunch today I’ve ordered the house made mac and cheese.

Still, Birdy, it’s not lost on me: we aren’t at the Westin in Maui anymore.

Slowly I am trying to form a routine and adjust to the hospital schedule. Meals can’t be reheated and there is no fridge, so when the macaroni and cheese arrives right at noon and I’m not really hungry yet, I still eat it, because frankly, I get enough cold mac and cheese at home.

Plus, you never know when someone will be popping in for vitals, blood draws, a consult, etc.

“Total Loss of Control” is the theme now. It’s not a great look on me, not at all, but I will figure it out for you. I have to.

Birdy,

Preeclampsia affects 5-8% of all pregnancies. In theory, we would be on the “Least Likely to Succeed” list for preeclampsia candidates. Risk factors include:

• Previous history of preeclampsia
• Multiple gestation (i.e., pregnant with more than one baby)
• History of chronic high blood pressure, diabetes, kidney disease or organ transplant
• First pregnancy
• Obesity, particularly with Body Mass Index (BMI) of 30 or greater.
• Over 35 or under 20 years of age
• Family history of preeclampsia
• Polycystic ovarian syndrome
• Lupus or other autoimmune disorders, including rheumatoid arthritis, sarcoidosis and multiple sclerosis
• In-vitro fertilization
• Sickle cell disease
• African American

…Literally not one of these factors is us.

Throughout our second trimester, we met with high-risk doctors at UC Davis over an elevated blood result that may be a predictor for preeclampsia. One of them said to me, “If someone had a gun to my head and asked me to pick five of my patients right now who are safe from preeclampsia, I would pick you.” This doctor is known for being one of the most conservative perinates on the team.

In other words, no one saw this coming.

Not only are we officially preeclamptic, Birdy, we are severely so. We have somehow gone from “Least Likely to Succeed” to an A++ in preeclampsia.

The doctors assure me there is nothing I did to cause this. My sister visits to commiserate with me over how this happened. I guess my $90/month organic prenatal vitamin, DHA, probiotic cocktail can’t compare to Rite Aid’s $9 special. I guess the walking 2-6 miles several days a week wasn’t enough physical activity. I guess the abstinence from coffee, alcohol, and skincare products containing parabens or phalaltes wasn’t enough to grow a healthy placenta. Should have done a little more crack cocaine. Should have picked up some 6-packs of beer.

We joke, but Birdy, I also think about the things I really may have done to cause this. I think about the Napa trip around the days that I ovulated. I think about the turkey sandwich I ate in a fit of morning sickness without reheating the turkey meat. I think about the white carbs and high fat that made up most of my diet for 17 weeks of nausea. People say it’s a waste of time and energy, but I can’t help it. Whatever it was, I am so sorry.

Dear Baby (“Birdy”),

Today you are a mere 27 weeks old, and we will be in the hospital until the day you are born. We have to take this day by day now, you and me, but after relentless pestering for some tangible information, we have set a first goal to get you to 28 weeks. Then 30 weeks. Then 32 weeks. I am told the unlikely (but possible, I am clinging to) scenario is that we can get you to 34 weeks.

I don’t know when we will meet you, but it will be much sooner than expected. Too soon. And while I planned that your first day on Earth would be perfect and peaceful and full of milk and skin to skin contact and candlelight and soft voices and maybe some John Lennon playing softly in the background, I am angry, heartbroken, and terrified, because I now know that I won’t be able to give that to you.

Birdy, on your first day on Earth, you are going to have to fight.

And I am so, so sorry. I am sorry to demand this of your teeny, tiny little body while I lie here feeling like a helpless whale. I will fight for you, until this day comes, to keep you safe inside me. Every day counts. Every nursing shift counts. But coming is a day when keeping you inside is no longer safe for one or both of us.

My eyes are swollen shut from crying. Crying won’t fix this, so instead, I will write.

You are loved. We will fight. Grow, Birdy, grow.

Next month will mark five straight years for me of being either pregnant or nursing.

I had a small (three month) break in between G weaning and getting pregnant with O, but basically, it’s been a long five years.

I’m tired. Scratch that. I’m exhausted. I know I share this feeling with many women across the span of, well, millenia, but somehow I still feel proud of this journey my body has endured.

I’ve spent a lot of years not liking my body very much. It has never been the fastest or the strongest, or even come close to making a goal, scoring one for the team, or crossing the finish line. It will never turn heads in a swimsuit (okay, let’s be real, out of a swimsuit either). Really, until I became a mother, I couldn’t name one thing it was particularly good at.

In addition to the obvious gift of my children, this is why pregnancy, birth, and breastfeeding have been so significant for me. I finally found something that my body was really, really good at doing. It can grow a baby! It can birth a baby! It can completely feed and nourish a baby! All on its own.

I’ve read some criticism online when women express pride in their bodies doing something as natural and God-given as baby making. “So, this is like, her greatest achievement or something?”

Uh, yeah. It is.

And I challenge anyone to think of something more meaningful.

So, thank you, Body. I am really proud and grateful for what you’ve been up to these past five years.

All photos in this post are courtesy of Dear Emma Photography. Thank you, Chelsie!

Continued from Parts I and II.

All photos in this post are courtesy of Becca Howell Photography. Becca apparently witnessed my “grand entrance” off the elevator, so I know I probably didn’t give her a very warm greeting! Nevertheless, I am so thankful that she made it because I will treasure these images forever. She was like a fly on the wall for the birth and such a lovely presence in the joyful moments that followed. If you haven’t considered a birth photographer for your birth, I hope you will! Thank you, Becca!

Tiffany had given Matthew instructions that if I got the urge to push, he was to pull over. If my water broke, he was to really step on it.

The ride to the hospital was only 2.8 miles but as luck would have it, we got stuck behind someone going 20 mph. I begged him to honk his horn or go around the guy, and screamed that he had to hurry or we wouldn’t make it.

Our arrival to the hospital must have looked like something out of a movie scene. Matthew screeched the car to a halt in front of the sliding doors. It had barely come to a full stop before I jumped out, towel between my legs, screaming as I ran for the elevators. Matthew grabbed our bags and left the car illegally parked by the entrance.  Tiffany appeared, and together we maneuvered our way around a cart full of soda being pushed by two very nervous looking men. As the elevator opened I shouted, “PEEEEE! I NEED TO PEEEE!” and nurses immediately rushed to get me into a room.

As soon as we were in the room, Matthew ran back to move the car. He later told me that he was genuinely worried he would miss the birth, but figured at the very worst he could arrive back in between pushes.

I don’t know for certain, but I think they did a vaginal exam right away. I was slightly discouraged to learn I was at 8 centimeters, but contractions were right on top of each other and I had no time to think.

It was 7am and a new shift had just started. Per hospital procedure, they had to get me on the fetal monitors, insert a saline lock, and draw blood. Through the fog of contractions I sat on the toilet as they changed me into a hospital gown, then moved me onto the edge of the bed where someone was trying to find a vein on my left arm. Despite being a large person, I must have small veins, because this took an inordinate amount of time.

All I could do was sit there and stare at Tiffany through the pain as the nurse poked the hell out of my arm.

Jesus, this is taking so long, it finally occurred to me.

Mom and Gray came into the room, Gray saying he was “going to help me push the baby out!” I didn’t have the strength to give him the acknowledgement I wanted to, but I needed to hug him one last time before our lives changed forever.

That damn needle put up a hell of a fight. I had pretty bad bruising from the nurse’s struggle. Finally, the blood draw. So much blood.

These people are vampires, I thought.

I couldn’t speak. At one point, someone casually asked me something along the lines of, “Is it a boy or a girl? Do you have a name?”

I was beyond irritated. Small talk? You want to make small talk? You obviously haven’t given birth.

Then I became conscious of some arguing among the nurses. From what I could discern, the change of shift and a new nurse seemed to raise the question about needing another blood draw to determine my blood type. I couldn’t gather the words to tell them that they should already have my blood type on file, or ask if it was sufficient that I just tell them myself.

I closed my eyes and just tried to breathe, but the staff conflict in the background was hard to drown out. “We shouldn’t have to do it…I did see it somewhere…But this is standard procedure…” 

I couldn’t bear the additional chaos any longer and managed to get out, “STOP ARGUING!”

A nurse responded, “Sorry, I’m just trying to save you from an additional blood draw!”

I was starting to really fade in between contractions. When I was in labor with Gray, I put so much effort into focusing my mental energy–I dedicated contractions to thinking about certain people and I focused on a whole list of mantras and affirmations. This time, I turned my brain off. My only mantra was “just do this.”

My body went limp; Matthew sat behind me to hold me up. I didn’t have the energy to scream. At one point I managed to shout, like a tantruming child, “No! I don’t want to! I don’t want to do this!”

Tiffany was so calm and comforting. I stared at her eyelashes and leaned into her, the sheer shock of transition leaving me without any more words.

Thirty minutes had passed. I had to lean back to be checked. I barely remember this, but I see in Matthew’s notes that I was at 9 centimeters.

I finished the rest of labor on my knees, leaning into the bed. Tiffany had been holding a cloth in between my legs the entire time to provide relief from “the pee feeling.”  With each contraction, I would dictate to her the pressure and position I needed the cloth (If you ever wonder if a doula is worth her fee, please think about how mine dutifully put pressure on my vagina for a full hour). Matthew held a lemon-flavored Recharge drink that I requested every few minutes, and no beverage had ever tasted as good as that cold tangy liquid during transition.

Until this point I had been doing my best to remember to do low moaning sounds when I cried out, but I was a wild animal by the end of these and screaming my head off. My throat was sore for two days after the birth from so much screaming.

A nurse told me in an upbeat voice to save my energy. I wanted to punch her.

At 7:56–less than an hour from when we arrived at the hospital–I started to push. There was talk of trying to get me on my back but I flat-out refused. It was Tiffany who suggested turning on my side and making the necessary adjustments with the bed to support my legs. I was at a weird angle, not perfectly aligned on the bed, but thankfully my doctor, Dr. Parker, was accommodating (really though, she didn’t have a choice. I. Was. Not. Moving.).

I was a comatose zombie in between contractions at this point. I remember thinking that surely I should be screaming or crying or doing something other than almost passing out, but all I could do was lie with my eyes half closed and wait for the next contraction. Things were eerily calm in between; I wondered if they wanted me to push without a contraction, because it seemed like everyone was just sitting around expectantly, waiting on me.

They can damn well wait, I’d think, until another one would hit and my body would take over and push.

Tiffany encouraged me to several times to lift my legs and curl my body around my baby, but the first couple times I just could not muster the strength.

Still, it was such a relief to push against the pain. I was in control. I was out of control. I was operating on pure instinct. No one was coaching me. No one was telling me when or how to push. I just did what felt right. It was everything my mom had been telling me it was since I was a little girl curious about childbirth.

Suddenly I became aware of some contention between Dr. Parker and the nurses as, little by little, my water broke, each gush finally bringing relief from “the pee feeling.” Between pushes I was able to make sense of what was going on.

One nurse had raised suspicion on the fluid’s clarity, though no one else had noticed anything. Per our birth plan as well as hospital policy, we wanted the baby to be placed immediately on my chest, but that could not happen if meconium was present.

“I’m not calling mec,” said Dr. Parker. Still, the nurse persisted that some of the fluid she initially saw was not clear.

As a precaution, they had called in the respiratory doctor, baby nurse, and neonatal surgeon. But Dr. Parker advocated for skin-to-skin and reached a compromise with the rest of the team: if the baby came out and immediately cried, he would go straight to my chest. If he did not, they would take him to be checked.

I suddenly felt a sensation that felt as though my doctor was examining me again. I started to shout out for her to stop when I realized it was my baby’s head.

“What color is his hair?!” I cried.

“Looks like it’s brown!” she said.

“I see some blond, too!” said Tiffany.

As it did the first time, this provided me with a burst of motivation. My baby was almost here. He had hair. They could see it.

I pushed through the next contraction and heard Dr. Parker tell me something along the lines of, “Okay, his head is right here. I know it’s uncomfortable, but if you can leave it for a little bit, it would really help to give you a nice, natural stretch. Otherwise, he’ll probably come out on the next push.”

…all I really registered though was, “he’ll probably come out on the next push.”

I decided to just keep pushing.

Deep breaths, push.

I’ll always remember how Tiffany smiled through her words when she said proudly, “Or you can just breathe him out.”

And that’s what I did.

And it felt amazing.

Head.

Shoulders.

Body.

And the most beautiful cry.

My baby! My baby! I love you. I love you. 

As it was for his big brother, the cord was wrapped around his neck, but Dr. Parker swiftly unwrapped it. I kept trying to pull him higher on me before I realized the cord wouldn’t let him go that far!

Near-perfect APGARs of 9 and 9. Matthew cut the cord once it went white.

I asked what time he was born. 8:26am. Less than an hour and a half since we arrived at the hospital, and not quite eight hours since that first cramp woke me.

The moments that followed were ones I will treasure until the day I die.

Mom and Gray were practically busting down the door to get in to see us. Gray had waited faithfully in that waiting room with just my mom and a banana to entertain him. She had offered to take him to Starbucks for a cake pop. He refused.

He was insistent on waiting for his baby.

When this three and a half year old challenges my patience, now and in the years ahead, I will think back to the moments when he first met his brother. Never in your life could you have witnessed more raw, pure sweetness and love.

Those first hours were such magic for our family. Our birth team made it all possible, and we will be forever grateful.

After a couple hours, he was taken to be measured and checked. Apparently when he came out, everyone else in the room had noticed his size right away. To me, he was a tiny baby, but he turned out to be quite a big fella at well over 9 lbs!

That morning, I fell in love for the third time.

I felt a strong connection with this boy during my pregnancy. I knew he would have brown hair. I knew he would be big. I knew, deep in my bones, that he would be beautiful.

And he is. Oh, he is. Photos do not do him justice.

Our precious Baby O has filled our hearts with more joy than we ever could have imagined.

During our stay at the hospital, Matthew turned to me and said, “There will be some hard days and nights ahead. But let’s always remember this day.”

Without a doubt. I will.

Yesterday I turned 31. The day did not go as planned.

That’s an understatement. But as much as I’m tempted, I won’t use this space to harp on about my first world, privileged birthday girl problems. Instead, I want to share a few links that have spoken to me these past few weeks and hope that maybe, they will resonate with someone else as well.

And a quick note-to-self as I embark upon the year ahead: things don’t have to be perfect to be good.

The Changing Seasons of Motherhood: “You wonder if you are doing anything right. You are. You’re doing just fine because you care enough to wonder.”

You Just Had a Baby: “I know you’re exhausted. And frustrated. And overwhelmed. And sleep-deprived. And thankful. And grateful. And happy. And tired. You just had a baby.”

15 Inspirational Quotes for New Parents: “Never let a problem to be solved become more important than a person to be loved.” -Thomas S. Monson

Teen Boys, and Their Mothers: I can’t even quote this because the whole thing just makes me sob.

She’s Just a Three-Year-Old: “She’s not an a**hole; she’s just a 3-year-old.”

All of the Mothers I Have Been: “I see myself in all mothers, the ones who are nailing it, the ones who are struggling…At one time or another, most of us have been all of these mothers, all of these beautiful mothers.”

This is Parenting: “To watch someone come into the world, to know them before you even know their name…It’s hard and hilarious and humbling. And it’s sacred.”

Continued from Part I.

I grew simultaneously pleased and apprehensive as the hours of January 31st passed; on one hand, it looked increasingly like we were going to have the February baby we had originally planned. On the other, I worried about the possibility of induction and other interventions as our due date came and went. I was also very conscious that my mom could only stay for a certain amount of time, and we really wanted her here for the birth to support both me and Gray.

I woke up in the night on Sunday unable to get comfortable with a cramp in my lower abdomen. So used to aches, pains, and general discomfort in this pregnancy, I went through my routine pillow shuffle in an attempt to sleep through it. I could not. I looked at the clock. 12:34am. Like clockwork, we had made it to February.

Hopeful but unsure if this was it, I woke Matthew and waited for another one to hit. It did. By the third one, I recognized the distinct rise and fall of a contraction, and there was no way I was going to be able to sleep through these. They were 7-8 minutes apart and already lasting 40-60 seconds. For the next hour we talked (mainly about how thrilled we were that we had managed two hours of sleep before labor this time!), ate (I had a banana and Matthew a bowl of cereal), timed a few contractions, contacted our doula and photographer, and watched an episode or two of Grandfathered. I decided to curl my hair (what, that’s not your first thought when you’re in labor?), which inspired Matthew to shave (“I can’t have you looking better than me,” he joked. “Don’t worry, I won’t,” was my serious reply).

For months I had worried about the logistics of how this would all play out: Would my mom be in town for the birth? Who would be available to take care of Gray during labor? Would I be left alone if Matthew needed to be with him? Could Gray be with us at the hospital like we all hoped? As I got myself ready, I felt overwhelming relief; my baby got to initiate labor on his own, Gray was fast asleep in bed, and my mom would be here for all of it. It looked as though everything could actually go according to plan.

By 1:30, Matthew suggested trying a bath to ease the increasing pain. This was very effective until the water cooled. We tried bouncing on the birthing ball next. Gray woke sometime around 3am (not unusual for him!) and Matthew walked him back to bed and lay with him for a few minutes while I worked through contractions on my own.

I started to worry that things weren’t progressing as quickly as I had hoped. Because of my effacement and dilation pre-labor, several people (doc, doula, acupuncturist) had predicted that once things got started, it would go pretty fast. Matthew and I couldn’t help but compare how things were moving to my labor with Gray (“You’re about at the point when we turned on the movie the first time,” etc). I couldn’t bear the thought of another 35+ hour labor but had little choice but to go with the flow.

We had been keeping my doula, Tiffany, and our photographer, Becca, updated, but I was reluctant to have Tiffany come over too early. I wanted to let my mom sleep for as long as possible, since we would need her to watch Gray once he woke up. At 4am, Tiffany texted that I should get back in the tub, with instructions to keep me only in positions leaning forward—absolutely no leaning back.

This is when things really started to pick up. Contractions were now 3-5 minutes apart and nearly a minute long. I remember saying to Matthew, “Ok, I can’t be alone for any of these now,” so we woke my mom around 4:45 for tag-team support. Mom and I talked and she helped me work through contractions while Matthew began to gather our things and pack the car. We started running out of hot water around 5am, right around the time I abruptly went from “No, don’t have Tiffany come yet, I can wait,” to “CALLTIFFANYNOWINEEDHERRIGHTNOW!”.

While we waited for her, Mom made me some toast and Matthew called the on-call doctor at 5:45am, who advised us to come in to the hospital. I could tell that my mom was getting nervous and eager to leave, but I was determined to go to the hospital at the last-possible minute, only to push, so there was no convincing me yet that it was time to go. Instead, we waited for Tiffany.

Things from this point on get a little hazy because everything moved so fast, and contractions were very intense. What I remember most is that I began to really rest in between contractions. This was one of several critical differences between this labor and my first: I was mentally and physically far more calm and comfortable, and my body really benefitted from good rest periods despite the strength of contractions.

Tiffany arrived just before 6am, and she wasn’t here for ten minutes before things seemed to shift noticeably. I began to cry and worry that I was already exhausted (what if I had to get through 24 more hours of this being so tired already?). I insisted that contractions seemed to have slowed down and apologized for calling her too early. In reality, things had continued to escalate. Contractions were powerful and there was increasing pressure in my groin. Most memorable was that I started getting what I can only describe as “the pee feeling,” to a painfully uncomfortable degree. Yet no matter how many times I tried to pee, the feeling could not be alleviated.

Photo by Tiffany Wilson

I continued to labor, switching positions with nearly every contraction. My mom warmed a heating pillow and filled a hot water bottle, and I felt a lot of relief leaning over the bed with the heat pack on my abdomen and my mom pushing the hot water bottle against my lower back. I also found surprising comfort from walking around the house (I did not want to walk during my first labor), sitting on the toilet (I kept returning to it, trying to pee!), and on all fours on the bed, with my head buried down in pillows.

Photo by Tiffany Wilson

If someone would have asked me if I needed three people with me while laboring at home, I probably would have thought it would be too many. Yet somehow, everyone worked together perfectly and I felt their support in all the ways I needed: Tiffany knew exactly what to say to provide the reassurance I craved; Mom knew just where to massage or apply heat, and Matthew read my mind for the entire ride.

The urge to pee was infuriating. Never in talking or reading about birth had I encountered someone describing this, which really pissed me off because I wasn’t prepared for it and had no idea how to handle it. Instinctually, I felt like I needed to tighten and hold everything in, afraid that if I let go, I would either pee everywhere or “something would fall out.” While I was screaming this, Tiffany would say, “like your baby?” I needed constant reassurance that it was OK to relax those muscles. The thing was, I found it increasingly difficult to differentiate between relaxing them and pushing.

Tiffany knew that I didn’t want to labor in the hospital a moment longer than I needed to, and I could tell that she took my request seriously. I trusted her completely to make the call on when to leave, and there seemed to be an unspoken agreement between us that we were going to cut it close. At 6:30am, Matthew noticed my mucus plug in the toilet (romantic, huh?). Suddenly the question of when to leave became more urgent.

I cried with joy and disbelief when Tiffany said she believed I was far enough along to leave. The fact that I labored all night at home with Gray asleep in his own bed, my mom here for both of us, and now to have all of us leaving for the hospital together was more than I could have hoped for. I felt strong and confident that I could birth my baby the way I wanted.

Matthew woke Gray from a deep sleep at 6:40am, a moment which I am pretty sure he will remember for a long time. We had promised him we would make every effort for us all to go to the hospital together. Matthew and my mom got him ready while Tiffany helped me make my way downstairs.

As Tiffany and I waited for them, I walked rapidly around my kitchen island in circles, a bathroom towel between my legs for relief, screaming, “I have to pee! I have to pee but I can’t pee! WHAT IS THIS FEELING?!” Tiffany insisted that we would laugh about this moment later (we did). Matthew had pulled our car up to the front of the house but he was helping my mom and Gray in another car to follow us, so I waited (frantically) with Tiffany. She was trying to get me in the front seat, but after walking in circles in the kitchen for so long, I was reluctant to sit down. She reassured me, “Actually, I think you will like sitting down. Try it.” I did as I was told just as I heard Matthew running up to the driver’s seat. Finally, everyone was ready to go!