My homebirth story

The middle of May was growing grumpy. It was a sunny, beautiful week and my leave from work had officially begun. I was busy batch writing for my contracted client to prepare for time away but my couch, desk, and even favorite coffee shop looking over the water all became new places to feel agitated.

Everywhere I went, I was overstimulated, and looking back, I should have known why. My capacity was shortening. My body was preparing. My baby was aligning. The only place that relieved my jittery body that could not for the life of me sit still was the pool.

So I spent an entire afternoon absorbing the sun, soaking in the quiet, and floating in the water. At one point, another mother and her two children joined me. One of the young boys had many questions about my big belly.

Once I came in for the day, I had a long shower and slathered myself in coconut oil. Exhausted before 9:00 pm, I crawled into bed and did some stretching and breathwork. Everything was getting harder to do. I had the need to go slow. Finishing some cat cows I flipped on my side, rubbing my belly in prayer. I let the Lord hear my requests, and I practiced even more surrender. In my tiredness, I prayed for the angelic in our home, with our baby, and in myself. I asked Jesus to be with us and continue to be present in the journey ahead.

The next morning, I woke ready to devour the last pumpkin muffin I’d made from scratch earlier that week…only to find a spot of mold growing on it. “Geesh,” I thought, annoyed. Before tossing it into the garbage, I sent my husband a photo mourning the deliciousness.

I had a full day of plans ahead. First, I was driving to meet with a wiser mom friend I hadn’t known very well but had offered to get together and share encouraging birth stories. Later, my close friend from out of town was going to be in Austin and we planned to grab a late lunch. Between, I planned to go home, eat lunch, and tidy.

That morning was golden. It was gushy. It was so divine, so right. We sat outside and I listened as she shared openly and vulnerably about her births. In particular, the incredibly joyful hospital birth she experienced with one of her younger children. There was so much peace between us. We reveled in the power of knowing God in the midst of childbirth. At the end of our visit, a couple walked by that I knew. They had just had their first son not even two months earlier. As we said hello and chatted, they asked if they could cover me and my birth in prayer. She had experienced an incredible, unmedicated hospital birth and it deeply encouraged my spirit.

By the time I left this coffee date, I felt like I was on cloud nine. It was a little after noon, and my drive home started feeling uncomfortable. I figured I needed to use the restroom, but about halfway back to my apartment, I noticed I was slowly turning my podcast playing in the car down…until it was off. The sound of the host’s voice was too much.

“Damn,” I thought to myself, “I forgot what period cramps felt like,” shifting my large belly uncomfortably in the driver’s seat. I assumed I was experiencing Braxton hicks, as so many women share about.

Up to this point, I had not experienced any signs of labor—no cramping, or anything that would lead me to believe I was in labor. But I had done plenty of reading and listening about first-time mom birth stories. The weeks of prodromal labor, the off and on Braxton hicks contractions, the “false starts” and I assumed this is what I was experiencing. Like so many recent days, I called my husband as I pulled into our parking lot to complain that my body was achy and I was irritable.

I remember feeling the intense urge to use the restroom and waddle-running as quickly as I could up the stairs, tossing my laptop bag on the couch, and rounding the hall into the restroom. My bowels emptied and I hopped in the shower to feel better. By this point, the cramping in my back had remained and I continued assuming my body was gearing up for the days ahead. I shut all the lights off in my bathroom, drew a warm bath, and sat in the dark with the shower curtain also pulled.

The warmth of the water —much like the warmth of the sun the day prior—brought my relaxed body so much comfort. I had laid in this same place throughout my pregnancy, listening to edifying scripture and sinking into the peace of God that comes from trust and surrender. It was a familiar place to be in. These ebbs and flows were manageable, I was doing fine, all on my own.

During this time, I impulsively downloaded a contraction timer app to see how quickly the waves of tightening across my abdomen were coming. They were consistently 4 minutes apart, the same as when they started in the car, and not lessening.

I decided to text my midwife, asking what the difference between Braxton hicks and “real” contractions would be and feel like. Side note: I’ve decided the entire concept of “practice” contractions versus “real ones” is entirely ridiculous. The uterus, like the rest of the body, knows what it’s doing. In fact, it spends the duration of your pregnancy contracting. If it chooses to strengthen and tighten in the final days and weeks of pregnancy, that’s completely normal. Every aspect of pregnancy and birth has become so medicalized we are obsessed with measuring and tracking. We’ve been programmed as women to focus so intently on when labor “starts” we fail to view our bodies as a holistic temple, busy at all times supporting us. All the contractions are real. They’re all doing something. To think one kind serves us and others don’t is putting ourselves at war with our bodies. My midwife was so wonderful to celebrate the work of the uterus throughout the entire pregnancy.

Deciding to get out of the tub to make a smoothie, I dried off and stood in front of my dresser, attempting to put some clothes on. After probably twenty minutes, I realized I had been trying to make it out of my bedroom to the kitchen, but was getting stopped in my tracks to breathe. Michele, my midwife called me to check-in. I had texted her that I had some bloody show and was going to take it easy. But in less than an hour I followed up to say the tightening wrapping around my back was happening every two minutes. When I answered the phone, she seemed calm…composed… unwavering. “Are you having one now?” a contraction, she meant. “Uh, yeah,” I confirmed. It took a second to catch my breath. “Okay, I’m going to head over,” she let me know.

“Head over?” I thought, “What for?” surely this is going to go on for days…if it’s even actual labor. I’m a first-time mom. Obviously, Drew and I will need to go run errands, get a yummy meal, distract ourselves from the difficulty ahead…

Earlier I had texted my husband, suggesting he take the early train home that afternoon. But now I needed him to come home and make me a smoothie because I was starved, naked, and pacing around the house like a wild animal. It was mid-day and our second-floor apartment was filled with brilliant sunlight. When Drew got in the door, I was already in transition. I never ended up dressed. I moved from one room to the next, planting myself in the tub, fighting the intensity of the contractions. Drew brought me a nutrient dense smoothie—with ripe bananas, collagen, blackstrap molasses, and other great minerals. I downed it while squatting in the bath tub. It tasted like gold. At one point, the feeling of the shower curtain tapping on my brow as I leaned forward illogically pissed me off. I demanded he remove it, and he did. Shortly after he arrived, so did Michele, and he assisted her in bringing her supplies up.

By this point, my mind began to go to another place. I hardly remember what they were doing in the kitchen as they prepped warm pads for me, waterproofed our bed, and got towels out. I do remember demanding Drew be by my side, but pushing him away if he touched me wrong. I was like a feral cat—I needed comfort and covering, but I was afraid. When I felt Michele enter our home, a sense of reassurance came over me. A woman. My midwife. Another mother. She gets me. She’s here.

I cried out several times for her at the surge of a contraction to come to be with me. She always came. She showed Drew how to press against my back at the peak of the contraction. He brought me water, whispered encouragement to me, and stayed by me every step of the way. He was an incredible support. I was learning how to let him hold me, emotionally and physically.

I planned to have no cervical checks during my labor. The thought of allowing a gloved hand past my birth canal to feel my cervix disturbed me, and still does. I didn’t want to be medically managed. I didn’t want to be discouraged if things were taking longer than I wished. And I knew that dilation was an arbitrary number. Plenty of women take days to fully dilate, while others do so in quick spurts. There’s no formula for it. But the presence of Michele softened me in a way I needed. I was desperate for some sort of confirmation of what the hell was happening. Once she arrived, my rational mind sort of began to understand that this was, in fact, labor and it was moving much quicker than anyone anticipated. She asked to check me and I agreed. “7 centimeters! You’re having a baby today!” she exclaimed. I couldn’t believe it.

I go back to a conversation Drew and I shared a month or so prior. We had done all the research. I knew the averages for how long physiological birth would last. We were bluntly honest about just how intense the experience might be. Sitting on our patio one night, I asked him what he would do if I reached a point in labor that I asked to transfer to the hospital. He insinuated he would go along with my request. “Honey, I don’t know how I will respond, or what the labor will be like, but unless me or the baby have a medical emergency, I’m not going to the hospital. You’re going to have to remind me of this when it gets hard. Remind me of what I want.” He agreed to. Getting this clear together solidified my trust in myself and my husband. We were fully aligned with our wishes, he understood as much as me what our non-negotiables were.

I made my way back into the restroom to sit on the toilet. I felt so much pressure and knew my pelvis would relax sitting on it. Feeling the next surge begin to build, I desperately looked into Drew’s eyes: “I cannot do this!” I cried out. “Baby, look at me,” he glared into my eyes intensely, “Yes you can. You are doing it.” I breathed in deep when suddenly a pop burst underneath me. We looked at one another, startled and laughing, “Michele,” I called out to her in the kitchen, “I think my water just broke!”. This felt like the momentum I needed to truly accept labor was unraveling.

Getting up from the toilet, I walked to the doorway of Ezra’s room, stopping for the next contraction. The intensity had really picked up and I was bracing against them. Falling to my knees, I held Michele or Drew’s hands—whoever I could grip—and yelped into the ground. The only relief I could find was in a deep squat, pressing my toes into the ground, my heels slightly elevated. I let out some kind of whimper or complaint, wishing the surges would just go away. Michele asked me what I was feeling and encouraged me, mama to mama. I don’t remember what she said, only how it momentarily steadied my mind. I was more vulnerable than ever. She was so calm, so trusting.

“You can’t go over it, you can’t go under it…you gotta go through it” Drew quietly but coyly quoted We’re Going On A Bear Hunt as we stood in the entryway of Ezra’s room. I didn’t want to hear that. But it was true. And deep within me, I needed the reminder. This was a passage, a portal, only I could carry myself through. No one was going to save me, and I didn’t need to be saved. My body wasn’t the enemy, it was me. The intensity couldn’t overtake me, it was a part of me. My baby was working with me. Intuitively, we knew what to do.

The next hour we spent squatting on our bedroom floor, in front of the bed as contractions peaked. I felt so much pressure and had the desire to push, but didn’t know if it was time, or when.

“I don’t know when to push” I quietly confessed after one wave settled.

“You push when you feel like pushing” Michele confidently assured me.

Between contractions, I was intently focused, staring into some realm far beyond myself. Drew, Michele, and I were talking, but I was barely saying anything. One moment I was whispering, “I can’t believe it”. Another Michele was celebrating, “a baby in the middle of the day! Who would have thought that?” Secretly, I loved the sunlight that was filling our apartment. I was sweaty, but I loved that it wasn’t night.

Michele’s assistant, Erica, who had been a part of our entire pregnancy journey and birth education, was supposed to attend the birth. But she was caught up in another labor, unable to leave. Michele texted her updates throughout the afternoon. At one point, I heard the clacking of text tones on her phone and asked her to turn her sound OFF. It really pissed me off. But I’m pretty sure that when labor land hits, it would be easy for anything to annoy me.

Between the pushing, which was more like bearing into the contractions, I would stand, march my legs in place, putting movement into my pelvis. I was growing tired. The only relief was the pushing. I was confused. I was in disbelief, still. Drew was squatted behind me, as support, and Michele in front of me, supporting my perineum with a warm compress and oil. I was fighting the surges, not relaxing. I couldn’t believe it was all happening so fast. During this hour, I struggled with holding the intensity of it all. Michele would gently nudge me: “Relax your shoulders, relax your jaw, breathe normally…this is an everyday miracle.” I think those words will echo with me forever. I didn’t have to fight it. I could surrender. I could be washed by this. Between contractions, it was quiet and calm. I wasn’t hysterical, crying, or afraid. I was just intense. I wanted this boy out of me. At one point, stretching my legs as I stood up, I flicked the fan on. “Smells like shit in here” I noted, annoyed. I knew Michele had been wiping some up prior. She made some comment insinuating it was nothing. Bearing into the next contraction, I was resisting it still. Leaning forward on my tiptoes, I was bearing the entire weight of my body.

“Can you lean back into Drew?” she asked, passing me some electrolyte water to sip. I sat back, slightly letting my back rest against him. “Can you let him hold you?” she rephrased. Sinking into his arms, I felt suddenly so safe. He was my familiar comfort. I needed him in this way. Leaning back into his chest, I closed my eyes for a moment, relaxing. Minutes later, I began to vomit up the salty mixture. Vomiting was nothing new—I threw up well into my second trimester and even at the beginning of my third. Nausea and I were well acquainted.

In the contractions that followed, Michele encouraged me to really push. “His head is right there,” she claimed. It felt like the most intense pressure I’ve ever felt against my ass. The only relief I got from it was from pushing. With guttural surges, I vocalized him down. It felt amazing. I felt so strong. There was so much stretching, but it felt incredible to know I was birthing my son. It felt other-worldly. Shortly after I leaned against Drew, an intense contraction came and I pushed with more than my body—my mind felt re-centered. Progress was happening. Michele continued supporting my perineum and cheered me on.

“Good job mama! Wow! Daddy is the PERFECT birth stool!”

Periodically, Michele checked Ezra’s heart tones-which remained “happy” as she referred to them. I loved the idea of my son being warm and content inside of me. Michele suggested I lay on my side in bed, with pillows between my knees for several contractions, to rest. I did, and once I was up again, I wouldn’t return to our bed without Ezra in my arms.

“You’re not too tired to have this baby,” Michele uttered.

Marching my knees up, I began to thank God out loud. At this point, I began to truly taste the peace around us. Michele wasn’t worried, I wasn’t worried. I was tired. But God was with us. I remembered the word spoken to me while pregnant- Ezra and I both had angels assigned to this moment. We were covered.

“Thank you God for this baby,” I panted quietly aloud. “Thank you for my body. Thank you that you are here with us".”

My breath began to slow. This was an everyday miracle, nothing to fear.

“God IS in the room!” Michele echoed as she squatted in front of me.

Giving me some sugar pills and two honey sticks, Drew continued to support me with such tenderness. I’ll never forget just how safe I felt knowing he was fully present with me, my heart, and my body.

We shifted to Drew sitting on the edge of the bed, sort of holding me over in a squat. I wrapped my elbows around his knees as support. The pressure was immense. I roared, squirmed, swayed, and focused. I screamed out of pain and perseverance. This was finally the position our boy would come into our arms. As I pushed his head out, I felt immense pressure. I wanted to take a break but Drew looked down, giggly and giddy “He’s got a lot of hair!”

“What?!” I shouted in disbelief nearly surprised to know his head was already out. I looked down to see his dark head.

Michele encouraged me to keep pushing and helped me pull him to my chest. This was a moment that stood still. Goopey, red, wet, and wailing, Ezra lay across my stomach. I took in his hair, his eyes, his cries. Drew wept behind me. I stroked his head and ensured his cord wasn’t touched yet. We wanted it to stop pulsing before it was severed.

“We did it. He’s here.” I leaned into Drew’s chin and he nuzzled me. Weeping, I thanked God for our son. Ezra screamed loudly.

“It’s okay Ezra,” we assured him. “We did it, you’re here.”

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