Imperfect Catholic Mama

I lay there, waiting for contractions to begin. Begging them to come over me, wanting them more than I wanted anything else at that point. The early morning minutes continued to tick by, and nothing happened but me getting more and more upset. 

Yet, when, if, they started, I knew they wouldn’t last. Like every other time, I’d get in the shower or lie down to rest after 2-3 hrs of steady contractions, just to have them stop. 

I couldn’t do it anymore. 41 weeks and 4 days pregnant. The longest I’d ever been pregnant, surpassing my first even by 3 days. I’d been anticipating and ready for this baby for the last three-plus agonizing weeks. I was done. 

Over the last week and a half, I had at least one daily cry that I was still pregnant, that baby wasn’t coming, and that there was nothing I could do about it. 

Walking, washing floors, exercising, eating dates, sex, I tried it all. Knowing as I did these things, that it wouldn’t do anything if my baby wasn’t ready.  But I needed to try anyway. 

I told myself the exercises would be good for getting my body ready, and that I might as well get the house clean, for these things wouldn’t make this baby come. But I didn’t fully believe that. Before hitting this point, I was a firm believer that one cannot make a baby come before he/she is ready. But I didn’t let go of the idea that I could control it, that I could make labour start.  I told myself that I wasn’t trying to control labour, but I still tried, fully expecting my attempts to have some effect. I tried and tried and tried.

I was done trying. I left my bed, knowing that what I needed at that point, if I wanted to sleep anymore that night, was to release these hard feelings. I went to the other room, situated myself facing a holy image, and I sobbed. 

Not a pleasant, soft, gentle cry with little sobs. But heart-wrenching, gut-pulling, loud, angry, intense sobs. 

“Lord, I can’t do this. How much longer are you asking me to remain pregnant? Have mercy on me, I can’t do this. I can’t do another false start. I can’t keep doing this endless waiting. What do you need from me? What do I need to do? I know I need to surrender, but if that is what you are waiting for, then I can’t do it. I’ve tried and tried and tried to surrender and to let go, but I can’t. If my surrender is what you are asking for, then get me there. I can’t get there. I can’t surrender, so please have mercy on me and take me there. Take me to where you need me to be to have this baby. Have mercy on me.” 

I sobbed and sobbed. Afraid I’d wake my kids and spouse from across the house with my noise.

Then I prayed the Jesus prayer: Lord Jesus Christ, Son of the living God, have mercy on me, a sinner. 

Breathing in and out slowly, I let the prayer wash over me as my tears washed down my face. 

I had a contraction. Immediately, I felt my expectations rise. Is this it? No, I wanted to tell myself, needed to tell myself, so that I wouldn’t be disappointed, no crushed, yet again. But I didn’t. Instead, I told myself that I needed to let go. Maybe this was it, maybe it wasn’t. I couldn’t know right then and there, and more importantly, I didn’t need to know. Time would tell. All I could do was let go and continue to be mindfully present to where I was now.

So I continued praying and mindfully breathing. 

I had another contraction. More intense than the first, so intense that I could see things possibly going quickly. I was imagining having that baby then and there in the room, and my husband waking up to his wife pushing a baby out in the other room. With all the pre-labour I had, I thought a fast labour was a possibility. And with my denial coping mechanism, I knew my tendency was not to seek support until I’d be too far along, and then give birth solo. 

I didn’t want this. So I decided I should wake up my husband. I gently nudged him awake, telling him I was having contractions. He groggily replied, at which point I told him, “Okay, if you wake up to me pushing a baby out in the other room, at least you were previously told.” This fully woke him up, and he asked if I was that close. I didn’t know, but those two contractions were more intense than anything I’d had up to this point. 

So he came to sit with me on the bed. Helping me through a few contractions, I decided that regardless of whether or not this was the real deal, I might as well have him prep the bed, which I’d been meaning to do for a couple of weeks. I removed myself to the couch while my husband put the shower curtain and sheet on the bed, then he joined me on the couch. 

I went back to the bed after a couple more contractions, craving the peace and comfort I’d found in that room, and my son awoke, so my husband went to settle him back down. 

I was lying on the bed in a downward dog position (as best I could with my massive belly), when an intense contraction washed over me. I was flooded with a sense of fear, a despair that I couldn’t, didn’t want to do this, accompanied by an urge to push. In my previous two labours, I didn’t have a lot of fear. So the intensity of it sufficiently scared me, and I knew it was time to call the grandparents, cause I needed my husband’s sole attention.

I didn’t think I was in transition, but that contraction reminded me enough of it that I decided I didn’t know and I would rather be safe than sorry, so I did something that surprised both of us: I told my husband to call the midwife. 

I transitioned to the bathroom to go pee, and enjoyed sitting on the toilet so much that I decided to stay there, sending my husband to grab a pillow and my phone so I could listen to the rosary. 

He went about making phone calls and setting up the birth pool, and I went about labouring in the bathroom. 

I still wasn’t convinced this was the real deal. I feared the contractions stopping between each one. I was anxious that people were coming, and in another hour or less, everything would peter out again. I was nervous about all the work to prep the pool, when it would just need to be taken down. 

I needed to let go. I still didn’t know whether this was active labour or not, but I couldn’t know that and didn’t need to. I knew no one would mind being sent back home, and I knew we could put the pool away. I knew, no matter how much I wanted this to be the real thing, that I just needed to wait and see; my will alone was insufficient to keep contractions going. I could take them one at a time and choose to let go of the fear and anxiety; to close those doors and not engage with it. I needed to hear that, though, so when my husband checked in, I told him to tell me that it would all be okay if it stopped; That no one would mind being sent back home. 

As I laboured in the bathroom, I heard my toddler son’s happy noises as he played in the living room. Hearing him made me happy, and I wanted my little ones to stay, but I knew they wouldn’t remain happy and that I would eventually need my husband’s sole attention. From the bathroom, I heard the kids get picked up and my friend show up as the contractions continued to build. 

My spouse joined me in the bathroom as he handed off the birth pool prep. Contractions felt very spaced out, but they couldn’t have been, since I wasn’t getting through much of the rosary between them. They were intense.  In hindsight, it was back labour again, but at the time, it didn’t feel as bad as my previous labour. However, I did need my husband’s counter-pressure with each contraction.

After some time passed (I have no idea how much, but enough for my midwife to show up and the birth pool to be filled), I started to feel antsy and like it was time to walk around. Two seconds later, my midwife came into the bathroom to make that very suggestion. 

Walking up and down the hallway, the restlessness began. I just wanted things to move along, and it felt like it was going so slow. I knew I needed to take my mind off labour. My grandmother gave us a baby blanket, which she said we couldn’t open until the baby came. I decided that this was close enough to the baby coming, and it would be something fun to do right now. I started opening it, tossed it to Jeremiah as I worked through a contraction, then finished unwrapping and admired the gift. 

I wandered into the living room, preparing myself mentally for the mess I had left the previous night, and trying to let go. Every night prior, for the past 3 weeks, I had made an effort to tidy so that if I went into labour, the house would be clean. The previous night, I had a thought that if I didn’t tidy, it would be the night I went into labour (Murphy’s law),   but I needed to let go of that ideal more than I needed a clean house. If the house was messy when I went into labour, then we’d quickly gather it all and toss it in a room and close the door. 

I was taken aback by how much fear was present. I didn’t want to do this; I was afraid. I knew how hard this was going to get and how much work it was going to involve. This not only surprised me in light of my past labours being largely fear-free, but also because I did more work during this pregnancy to recognize and address my fears. But regardless, there it was. 

I was pleasantly surprised to find the living room looking immaculate. Not only tidied, but like a very pleasant birthing space with my beautiful curtains drawn, the pool sitting there, a chair in the corner for me to lean on, and a peaceful atmosphere as a whole. My homey living/dining room, where my children played, my spouse and I spent relaxing evenings, and where we shared family meals, was set up to welcome this new baby.

I still needed to take my mind off labour, however. I began to wonder if I should bake muffins, my first choice of action with my first labour. Or if we should all start a board game, my choice when labouring with my second. But I just wasn’t feeling either of those things, so I decided I’d start with breakfast. 

When the eggs were done, I sat on my birth ball to eat them and confessed that I was still just waiting for everything to stop and to send everyone home. My midwife believed this was the real deal, and that brought me a load of peace and joy. I finally let myself feel excitement that this baby was coming and relaxed into those contractions a bit more! 

As I ate my eggs, we chatted, and my midwife shared an eerily similar story to mine that morning. She also woke up early in the morning, unable to sleep, just waiting for a phone call that someone was in labour somewhere. She decided to get up, shower, and pray, and shortly after, received my husband’s phone call. 

I learned my friend had a date that night, and was very skeptical that this baby would be born by six that evening, considering my past labours where both over 15 hours long. My midwife, however, was optimistic that she’d be making her date, and with a great story to share, too.

One of my favourite things about my midwife was that every time she listened to my baby’s heart, I knew she wasn’t only checking his well-being, but also his position, and using that information to speed up labour if need be, through different positions. As my midwife listened that morning, she believed he was in a posterior position, and recommended we do some knee-chest position accompanied by some booty shaking. Not the most comfortable position, but I could feel it working as baby moved and the contractions felt more rounded and even. After some time, we both believed we’d helped him move and that it was time to try walking around some more. 

My midwife ran out to get coffee, and I felt this was exactly what I needed to relax (to not feel watched). I sat on the birth ball, desperately needing my husband right in front of me for every contraction. Each time he got up to grab a drink or a quick snack, I’d immediately call him back to me as another contraction started. I was surprised how quickly they were coming, but felt from last labour that it didn’t necessarily mean I was close to the end. 

Shortly after my midwife returned, I saw her uncover the pool and was surprised. Surely I wasn’t that close to transition? She listened to me ride out a contraction, and then said I sounded pushy and suggested getting into the pool.  

I remember saying to my spouse that I didn’t want to do this anymore; I was tired and wanted to be done. I knew this was what women typically feel and say in transition, and I remember thinking, “If I say and feel this way, then it means I am in transition and am almost done; Which is what I want, so I’m gonna say it and feel it, even though I don’t believe I am actaully there.” 

I was there. 

After about 30 minutes in the pool with no marked progress however, my midwife began to wonder what was holding me up from pushing. She suggested I try some hands and knees in the pool, to shorten my torso in case the baby’s cord was on the shorter end. I wasn’t feeling super pushy, but I could also feel that I was resisting. I didn’t want to go through the hardship of pushing and was resisting getting there.

When hands and knees didn’t have any effect, she listened to baby and he seemed to have gone posterior again and then she asked if she could do a vaginal exam. I knew she was not exclusively interested in my cervical dilation, and that she wouldn’t ask if she didn’t believe it might shed light on the situation and help move things along. 

I was almost fully dilated, but the baby was not presenting evenly, so she recommended I move to the bed to try another position and some breathing exercises. We relocated to the bed, which we had not prepared, since this was just going to be a quick hiatus from the pool. Thankfully, moving to the bed, taking a side-lying position, and having my midwife coach me through a deep breath, followed by five short breaths out, was very relaxing, though hard. (It always surprises me how hard it is to breathe slowly and controlled through contractions). 

After a couple of contractions, when this position didn’t have me pushing, she recommended the infamous flying cowgirl position. She apologized that this was going to be uncomfortable, but as I got into position, I was surprised how comfortable it was. One contraction here and then I felt the need to push. 

Up onto my hands and knees, with a deflated birth-ball to lean on, I went! But I had so much fear inside.

I didn’t want to push.

I didn’t want to do this. 

I didn’t want to keep going. 

I was also very fearful of my baby’s well-being. This was something that I dealt with a lot during pregnancy, and thought I’d addressed, but here it was, very present. Every time my midwife listened to the baby with the Doppler, I could hear that he was doing well; those were healthy heart tones I was hearing. But I needed to hear from the expert, so I asked if my baby was okay, and she said he was doing great. 

I knew I needed to surrender and to embrace the contractions. As I told myself to surrender, something shifted in my body, and suddenly things were happening again. 

It was full-on pushing time! With my second, I remember feeling so relaxed during this point, and able to focus on breathing slowly and relaxing my jaw as I breathed him down. That was not going to work with this baby! I couldn’t just breathe down, I needed to bear down and push hard! 

My midwife thought getting upright would help, as things seemed to have slowed down again. I scooted off the bed to get up and back into the pool, but as I slid off the bed into a deep squat, I was not moving again as that baby moved down! 

At some point (multiple points probably, but labour-land memory is foggy), my husband told me that I was close to holding Benedict. This clicked in my mind, and if I wanted to hold this baby, I needed to welcome these contractions and start pushing. 

As he moved down and started crowning, I just wanted to push that baby out. My midwife coached me through some quick, short breaths out to refrain from pushing and let my perineum stretch slowly. Hardest thing ever, but a first for having this all-important support during this time. As I got through his crowning, his head was right there, and my midwife told me to reach down and feel him. It was the mushiest feeling head ever, but it was my baby’s head. 

I remember thinking: “My baby’s head is right there! My baby is RIGHT there! I’m gonna hold him and I want to hold him NOW!” So with the next contraction, I decided that I was gonna hold him and I roared that head out. As I held his head, stroking his face, I was overcome with a desire to hold all of him and decided that’s what I was going to do. I thought, “I’m gonna finish pushing this baby out now, even though I’m not currently contracting.” (I was amused to later contrast that feeling with the video, where I started to contract as I started that final push.) 

Out came my baby at last! I swept him up into my arms and held my Benedict. He was covered in blood and huge, but quiet in my arms. I rubbed my face upon his blood-covered head, and he began to voice to the world that it was a hard birth. 

I was tired of squatting, so I moved to lying on the bed, the bed not prepped for birth, (thank goodness for Chux pads).

As I finally held my baby, I took in the fact that I was done; That I just did this. I commented that he had a huge head, looked like Gollum, and just smiled that he was finally in my arms. 

I don’t know when my water broke, (it was at some point on my hands and knees on the bed), nor do I know the timeline, (outside of looking at time stamps on the 300 plus photos that were taken, and hearing he was born at 11:11). I don’t even remember my spouse being right in front of my face, holding his arm as I pushed that baby out. (At some point, remembering back, I wondered where he was, only to see from the pictures that he was right where I needed him, even if I didn’t know it.) 

But those details aren’t what labour is about. The timeline, the contractions getting closer, the water-breaking, are just the insignificant details of the miraculous event that is taking place. 

I do remember touching my baby’s head and being filled with joy in that moment of having a tiny human halfway between the outside and my inside. I do remember smiling and saying, “That’s his head, and I’m gonna hold him soon.” I remember sweeping him up into my arms, holding him against my chest. No one else touched my baby but me. I remember the hardship of birthing him, but I also remember the immense joy of doing it. 

Labour is hard, and there was a moment when I didn’t want to do it anymore, and part of my brain felt the desire to go to the hospital and have him cut out of me (while the other part said there was no way I was doing that). I remember feeling the desire to be done, feeling like I couldn’t do this anymore, immediately followed by a still, small voice that I could do this and I would. I remember feeling fear for my baby’s life, while choosing to surrender that God would take care of him. I remember needing to choose surrender over and over and over again; To let go of the fear, to embrace those contractions, to choose the pain of pushing out that 8 ½ lb baby. 

I remember a subtle shift of going from fearing those contractions and needing to push, to wanting those contractions and embracing the pain of a baby stretching me to my max. 

I remember the joy and comfort of being at home, in my husband’s arms, with women I chose to be there to support me and witness this birth.

I had the support I needed to move during labour and the wisdom of a care provider who knew what positions could help when things slowed down. This labor could have been another 24-hour labour full of back pain, but instead was a short, seven-hour labour, thanks to the knowledgeable support I was blessed to find. Those positions helped my baby navigate around and down, though he still came with the back of his hand held across his body and up to his face (which is not the most helpful position a baby can take).

We had the peace of a homebirth despite meconium-filled water, despite a partially abrupted placenta, despite a baby who gurgled a little with those first breaths (due to the meconium). Despite these things, we didn’t need to be in a panic to get him out faster, to suction his mouth or nose, to intubate him and clean out the meconium, or to rush my placenta out. He was safe, I was safe, and the placenta came safely on its own, 59 minutes post-birth.

We soaked in the warm birth pool for the next hour or so, just drinking in the sight of each other, undisturbed and unrushed. We moved to my comfy bed (complete with my favourite pillow), ate delicious meals, and then snuggled next to one another to sleep. My baby lay down beside me, safe and happy.  Myself smiling, overfilled with joy, not just that my baby and I were safe and healthy, but at the beautiful birth God wrote for our beloved blessing, Benedict David.