This time of year, the closing down of summer (to borrow a phrase from the great Alistair Macleod, whose prose is so evocative, spare and gracious it makes me want to pack up and move to a barren Cape Breton fishing village), will probably always remind me of my babies being born.
Two years and two weeks apart, my boy and my girl have changed my life forever for good. Tomorrow our baby girl turns one, and I am full of remembrance of her birth.
5 days over the estimated due date after one month of pre-labour, contractions slowly building, my body preparing itself to bring forth life. I had thought she might come a few days early, simply because her brother did and because it seemed most convenient for us. Yet birthing something new rarely goes hand in hand with what is most convenient for us.
I was happy when big brother's great day came and went, relieved that they wouldn't have the same birthday. At least a week between birthday parties, that seemed like a good idea. But as Papa's summer holidays dwindled and the start of a new school year approached, she still wasn't coming. The weekend before my husband-the-teacher returned to work, I made peace with the fact that she would come in her own time, when the season was ripe.
My first birth had not gone as I had expected. My water broke a week before due date, slowly trickling down my bare leg as I stood in shock in the line at the university library. I was taking care of an errand, trying to return some books. Could this really be it? I actually waited my turn in line, gave the librarian the books but did not wait for my receipt like a good German, saying breathlessly "Can I just leave these here?" As quickly as I could waddle, I went up the stairs, abandoning the second task I had come for. My husband, who was parked illegally close to the door waiting for me in the car looked up from his book, saw me coming and waved cheerfully. I made some kind of frantic hand motions and when I tottered up to the open window gasped, "My water broke!" He immediately burst into tears, the softy.
We drove home, packed a few things, showered. Called the midwife, a woman I had not yet met as mine was on holiday. She confirmed we could go to the hospital, although I was not having contractions. I'll spare you the details, but our son was not born until 42 hours later. Contractions never came on their own, and because of risk of infection labour had to be induced.
Thus, the second time around, I was more than willing to wait patiently for my daughter to come when she was ready. I was hoping and praying contractions would start normally on their own, that my water would not break early again. I didn't do any crazy schemes to try to make labour start early. Waiting for the right timing, the right season is always the better way.
Birthing something new will always push you to your limits, it will call forth all of your strength and stretch your capacity beyond what is comfortable or what you even think is possible. And birthing that new thing in due season is always the less painful route, requiring fewer interventions or painful procedures, fewer last-minute rescues.
This second birth, I was much more informed about labour and also what I wanted. I had changed to a midwifery practice who were on call for me around the clock beginning 3 weeks before my due date, able to come and support me at home and thus prolonging a trip to the hospital too early. The German system does not allow for a woman to bring her own midwife to all hospitals (only some), but I was hoping to avoid the hospital altogether this time around. We had researched and prepared for a home birth. The weekend before he returned to work, my husband set up the birthing pool we borrowed from our midwives in our living room.
On Tuesday, the second day of school, I had a check-up at my midwives' office. All quiet on the labour front. I played with my son at the playground, and after his nap in our back alley we kicked the soccer ball around in the shade. I was feeling strange, I told my son, "Mommy needs a drink of water." We went inside, I laid down, drank water, sent my husband an SMS: "Labour might be starting, but I am not sure. I feel strange. Come home as soon as you can." He came home around 5 pm while I was preparing supper, at times gripping the counter through the contractions. I shooed them out of the room to play and tidy up while I finished dinner; I needed quiet. Then I told them to eat while I laid down to see if the contractions would ease up while I rested. I took a shower; they got closer together. I called my midwife, the main thing on my mind was whether or not to call a friend to pick up our son. I thought labour was probably beginning, but surely it would take all night. We couldn't imagine it going quickly. I didn't want to send my son away too early, and I thought him being sent away at bedtime would really confuse and scare him. My midwife came 20 minutes later. Simply by observing my breathing and behaviour she could estimate how far along labour was. She planned to leave again for a few hours, and left the room to make a phone call. My husband and my son were filling the birthing tub with warm water. Suddenly contractions increased in intensity so that I needed to tönen (make deep vowel sounds with a slack jaw, to release tension) through them. My son heard me from downstairs and moaned along with me, matching my pitch. When my midwife saw this, she said she was definitely staying.
Labour proceeded quickly. My husband put the boy to bed while I worked through the contractions in whichever position was most comfortable for me in the living room, my midwife at my side. When my husband finally joined us (doing all the bedtime routines as usual, even slowly), having not understood how fast things were progressing, it was almost time to get in the pool. He quickly lit the candles, turned on my "quiet birth songs" playlist and put towels in the oven to warm. With my husband and trusted midwife at my side, I stepped into the water. The warmth lapped away at pressure in my lower back and abdomen. There were a few moments of self-doubt, where I felt like please, can't someone else do this?, but my team reminded me that I could, I would, bring forth this life. The uterus, one of the strongest muscles in the body, which had been contracting in preparation for weeks, building up my fierce, mama-strength, pushed through and delivered her.
Twenty minutes later, less than two hours after I had called the midwife, I was able to look down in the water and see baby Annabelle Hope floating peacefully there.
I lifted her to my chest and we breathed out our hallelujahs together.
She was worth the wait. Worth the 41 weeks of being knit together deep within me. More than worth every second of the stretch, the discomfort of bringing forth life.
On Tuesday, the second day of school, I had a check-up at my midwives' office. All quiet on the labour front. I played with my son at the playground, and after his nap in our back alley we kicked the soccer ball around in the shade. I was feeling strange, I told my son, "Mommy needs a drink of water." We went inside, I laid down, drank water, sent my husband an SMS: "Labour might be starting, but I am not sure. I feel strange. Come home as soon as you can." He came home around 5 pm while I was preparing supper, at times gripping the counter through the contractions. I shooed them out of the room to play and tidy up while I finished dinner; I needed quiet. Then I told them to eat while I laid down to see if the contractions would ease up while I rested. I took a shower; they got closer together. I called my midwife, the main thing on my mind was whether or not to call a friend to pick up our son. I thought labour was probably beginning, but surely it would take all night. We couldn't imagine it going quickly. I didn't want to send my son away too early, and I thought him being sent away at bedtime would really confuse and scare him. My midwife came 20 minutes later. Simply by observing my breathing and behaviour she could estimate how far along labour was. She planned to leave again for a few hours, and left the room to make a phone call. My husband and my son were filling the birthing tub with warm water. Suddenly contractions increased in intensity so that I needed to tönen (make deep vowel sounds with a slack jaw, to release tension) through them. My son heard me from downstairs and moaned along with me, matching my pitch. When my midwife saw this, she said she was definitely staying.
Labour proceeded quickly. My husband put the boy to bed while I worked through the contractions in whichever position was most comfortable for me in the living room, my midwife at my side. When my husband finally joined us (doing all the bedtime routines as usual, even slowly), having not understood how fast things were progressing, it was almost time to get in the pool. He quickly lit the candles, turned on my "quiet birth songs" playlist and put towels in the oven to warm. With my husband and trusted midwife at my side, I stepped into the water. The warmth lapped away at pressure in my lower back and abdomen. There were a few moments of self-doubt, where I felt like please, can't someone else do this?, but my team reminded me that I could, I would, bring forth this life. The uterus, one of the strongest muscles in the body, which had been contracting in preparation for weeks, building up my fierce, mama-strength, pushed through and delivered her.
Twenty minutes later, less than two hours after I had called the midwife, I was able to look down in the water and see baby Annabelle Hope floating peacefully there.
I lifted her to my chest and we breathed out our hallelujahs together.
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| Happy birthday baby girl. Pic via Curtis Hildegrand Photography |
She was worth the wait. Worth the 41 weeks of being knit together deep within me. More than worth every second of the stretch, the discomfort of bringing forth life.
