Welcome Home, Button: A Baby Story...

Okay. Full disclosure: this is a birth story; the tale of how a little person made their way into the big, bright world. Now, as miraculous as birth is, it ain’t always pretty. So, consider yourself warned. I won’t be posting any crotch shots or nip pics, but I won’t be censoring myself much either. This is how it happened. This is Buttons birth story: presented in its original format, with all the blood, sweat, and tears that come with it. I still find it very miraculous, but if that kind of stuff makes you squeamish, perhaps you would enjoy another post, like this one or this one, perhaps. 

In any case, don’t say I didn’t warn you...

 I’m sure I looked incredibly silly and desperate. It was 8 days past my estimated due date. I was moody, uncomfortable, roughly Shamu-sized, and having a very serious staring contest with a bottle of Castor Oil on a Wal-Mart pharmacy shelf. The little brown bottle whispered to me, tempting me. All the while, I chewed on my lip and tried to decide just what level of desperation I had reached.

Okay, okay. I know what you’re thinking. “Gee whiz! Dramatic much? So, it was a few days past your due date. You'd been pregnant for nine months! How bad could a few extra days have been?”

See? I knew what you were thinking, and I hear your point, but let me stop you right there (before I smack you through your computer monitor) to establish a few due date truths…

a. Due dates are stupid. They are arbitrary dates that really have no significant bearing on when you are destined to pop a tiny human out. As someone who has seen three due dates come and go (one for each of my pregnancies), trust me on this: due dates are a bunch of hooey. 

b. As dumb and inaccurate as they are, I challenge any pregnant woman to not fixate (at least a little) on that magic square on the calendar. If you are a woman who has successfully done this, please let me know. I want your secrets and will pay handsomely for them in the form of various baked goods. And I make a mean cupcake…

c. If you have set any hopes of being liberated from your pregnant state by said stupid, “magic” date, every day, every cramp, every waddle past that 40 week mark is torture. And not any of that namby-pamby bamboo-shoots-under-the-fingernails bologna. Oh, no. We’re talking total mental, physical, and emotional breakdown stuff. If you’ve ever played the role of incubator, you know what I’m talking about here.

So, yes. Even though I was “only” 8 days past my estimated pop date, it felt like I was 8 months overdue and I reserved the right to be a *little* dramatic.

Anyway, it wasn’t just that I was a week plus one past d-day. This was a milestone I had reached before without batting an eyelash. Heck! I was even proud that I have never succumbed to the temptation of an early (or even “on time”) eviction of my babies. In gestations past, I had rocked that bump proudly as the number of days “past due” stacked up in my ever-more-pregnant wake.

This time felt so different, though... with good reason.

Most of my pregnancy had been fairly uneventful. This wasn’t my first rodeo, after all, and honestly, I rather enjoy the business of creating a tiny human from scratch. Pregnancy and I had gotten along swimmingly in the past and I had no indication that this go ‘round would be any different.

As the much anticipated end drew near, however, things took a turn for the weird and frustrating.

The last few weeks, my body began teasing me with signs of labor. I would wake up most nights to painful contractions that would ebb and flow every few minutes. I would get my hopes up; lying awake, analyzing every pinch and cramp. Eventually, I’d be too excited to sleep, so I’d watch some reruns on Netflix, counting and timing and evaluating… and then be furious when the pains had completely faded away by morning.

Other “signs of labor” were no help either. I had lost my mucus plug at 37 weeks… and then again at 39 weeks… and then again at 40 weeks. If you don’t know what a mucus plug is, well, consider yourself lucky. Let’s just say it’s one of the more lovely aspects of pregnancy whose appearance can mean things are getting started, but is more often than not just your body's way of saying, “Gotcha!” and then laughing snidely at your expense.

I decided to help things along by walking as much as possible, taking evening primrose oil, sleeping with an air diffuser of Clary Sage oil on my nightstand… Still nothing.

In the days leading up to my due date, I had bloody show (again: don’t ask, don’t tell) with every bathroom visit for 3 straight days. If losing your mucus plug is a sign things might be happening, bloody show is almost always the opening act for the main attraction: full-on labor, baby! Every moment I was on pins and needles, expecting the first real contraction at any second. But alas, my waiting and excitement proved premature once again.

My efforts to de-preggify intensified. In addition, to the walking and the oils, I added acupressure, lunges, bouncing on a birth ball, and marathons of climbing up and down the stairs (I swear I set a world record for those)… Nada. Zilch. Zip.

And then, as if to break my spirits completely, the evening of my due date, I had contractions that were painful and strong, running a minute long, and hitting hard every two minutes. I danced around my kitchen as I prepared what was surely the last supper of my pregnancy. The dancing intensified my contractions. I rejoiced! 

I called my mom, my midwife, and my photographer, excited to get my labor on. Hubs set up the birth tub. My mom came over to rub acupressure points on my feet, infuse the air with smelly oils, and generally do all things doula.

I took out my trusty iPad contraction timer app and began keeping meticulous track of my contractions. The pains went on for nearly 9 hours before they slowly petered out.  At two in the morning, I finally sent my mom packing and sulked my way up to bed, thoroughly beaten down.

Foiled again. Touché, uterus. Touché…

At that point, it was official: I had gone past my due date. Had I not been convinced by my sneaky reproductive parts that I would be done with this labor business long before then, I would have been fine with passing that milestone. As I said before, I wasn’t bothered previously by truckin’ right on past that distinctive day. However, all the ups and downs over the past few weeks had proven very taxing on my poor pregnant soul and I was rapidly nearing the end of my tether.

With desperation, I escalated my eviction attempts, trying everything I could think of to help move things along: pineapple, spicy foods, more walking, more bouncing on a birth ball, even more climbing of the stairs, and… well, a few other things (if you're over 18, Google “natural induction methods” if you’re still curious - wink,wink). Needless to say, nothing seemed to make a difference.

To add to my state of hormone induced, emotional chaos, exactly one week after my anticipated “baby day” had passed, I got a call from my mom that sent me into a tailspin. In the months leading up to my due date, I had been teaching a round of childbirth classes to two couples, and both gals were due just three weeks after me. That morning, right on the 41 week mark, I got a call from my mom: Melody*, a family friend and one of the ladies  from my class, was in labor… two weeks early. My mom said she needed to come get her doula supplies to meet them at the hospital.

I was crushed. As happy as I was for Melody and her husband (yay for babies!), it can be pretty devastating to hear that someone is going into labor before their due date when yours is nothing more than a distant speck in your rearview mirror. 

I acted all cool on the phone, like I didn’t care that someone else was going to get to hold their baby that day while mine seemed determined to graduate high school in utero. I mean, I am far too granola to let something as silly as someone else having their baby before me shake my resolve, right? I let my babies arrive on their own schedule with no fuss or angst or massive tantrums, right? Right?!

Well, my cucumber-cool façade didn’t last long. As soon as I opened the door and saw my mom looking all apologetic, I lost it. I bawled like… well, a baby, as ironic as that is. She gave me a warm hug, gathered her magic doula tools, and rushed off to help bring new life into the world, promising to call later. The rest of the day, I was a blubbery, blubbering mess

So, back to our scene at Walmart, hopefully with a new understanding of why, at 41 weeks and 1 day, I was overtired, overwhelmed, and D.O.N.E

As I stared at the sinister Castor Oil, my emotions threatened to overtake me. I really have always believed in letting my babies pick their own birthdays, I swear. I have absolute faith in my body will coordinate with my babies to pick just the right moment for them to make their grand entrance into the great, wide world. I still clung to those feelings, but only just by my fingernails now. I honestly wasn’t sure how much longer I could hold out. It took every ounce of restraint in my swollen body to not grab the vile stuff off the shelf and start chugging right there in the store. No lie.

Before I could snatch a bottle of the nasty gunk, I turned on my heel and briskly waddled away. I consoled myself, thinking at least I knew where I could get my “last resort” should my emotional instability get any worse. I compromised with a long, brisk walk around the store, secretly praying my water would break and cause a big commotion to kick things off, but, of course, had no such luck.

That night I went to bed, still pregnant. Oh, so very pregnant.

At 4 am, I was woken by rhythmic contractions. Instead of being excited, I was annoyed. I was sure it was just another uterine hissy fit and all I wanted was to get some sleep, or at least the closest thing to sleep a 10-month-pregnant woman can hope for. I didn’t time them out of spite. Instead, I distracted myself by watching a few sitcom episodes on Hulu. After a couple episodes of Parks and Rec, with the contractions still coming strong, I started to get my hopes up, kicking myself even as I did. But, mental prods or not, it was too late: my optimism was officially on the rise. I resolved to stay awake and will myself to go into labor. Mark my words: I’d stay awake all night (or at least what was left of it) if I had to!

Unfortunately, the next thing I knew, I was waking up at 7 am. I chided myself for somehow falling asleep, as if my dozing had caused the contractions to stop. I let out a very frustrated, very audible sigh, waking Hubs. He rolled over and began to rub my back sympathetically. Imagine my surprise when I felt a sharp “pop” and a rush of fluid.

Wha…? No way! Really?! My water had broken!

I leapt (literally leapt) out of bed, instantly cheered because I knew that my water breaking meant one thing was sure: the clock was ticking! The eviction notice was signed!  My baby was on her way!

I scrutinized the fluid in the bathroom, trying to convince the few last doubting parts of my brain that this was for real this time; I’d ridden out so many false alarms that even my water breaking couldn’t convince me completely that labor was imminent. After confirming for myself that the fluid was not the result of a massive bladder failure and noting that it kept on comin', I knew for sure this was the beginning.

I playfully joked with Hubs through the bathroom door, “All this time, and all this frustration, and all I had to do to get things started was have you rub my back!”

Grateful that my water had broken in the daylight hours versus the middle of the night (thus sparing me waking everyone up in the midst of their beauty sleep), I made a call to my mom, letting her know that my water had broken and assuring her that I would keep her posted when the contractions started. After that, I sent a text message to my birth photographer and midwife, putting them on labor alert.

At about 7:30, I started feeling contractions, but they were short and spaced pretty far apart. I didn’t bother timing them. Instead, I busied myself with preparations for the upcoming event: texting family members, changing into a comfy skirt and tank top, straightening a few things here and there, making sure our birth supplies were all in one place, calling my dad and step-mom to come watch our oldest girls for the day…

My midwife called at 8:30. She apologized for somehow missing my “oh-my-gosh-my-water-just-broke” text and wanted to know how far apart my contractions were. 

Oops! I sheepishly admitted that I had no idea. Uh… close-ish? I waited for a few minutes, timing with precision, and was surprised to find that the contractions were not only a minute long, they were already 3 minutes apart! Double oops!

My midwife said she was cancelling her 10 o’clock appointment and would be right there. My birth photographer shot me a text to say she was on her way. Once my midwife and her assistants got there, they asked about my pain, checked my vitals, and noted the baby’s heartbeat. My little girl was handling the contractions like a champ! Her heartbeat was perfect and strong and she was in the textbook ready-to-be-born position.

Not long after my midwives arrived, my photographer and mom followed suit. I was grateful to have my mom there and, in that moment, I was actually kind of glad for my earlier torture sessions, too. With so many “false alarms” leading up to the big day, we had gotten in some good practice with pain relief techniques. At that point, I was still able to talk and move through the contractions and wasn’t in too much pain, but having counter-pressure on my lower back felt lovely all the same.

For the next couple of hours, things went very smoothly. My dad and step-mom came to take the older two kiddos out for a day of snacks and cartoons and Play-Doh while mommy was “working hard to get the baby out her tummy.” We began to fill the pool, still inflated from over a week before at my insistence, with water.  I snacked on peanut butter toast and chatted easily with everyone; laughing and joking about labor, kids, and the hilarious “No Diving” warning on the side of the birth pool (I mean, really? No diving? Into tiny, inflatable, kiddie pool? You don’t say!). The contractions were steady, productive, and really very manageable.

I felt great. I was going to make this labor my biotch.

Around 11:30, I could tell the contractions were changing. I was kneeling on the floor. When I would feel the swell of a contraction begin, I had to shut my trap and really focus, rocking gently from side to side. As the intensity began to ramp up significantly, I looked longingly at the birth pool. I recalled the amazing relief that came with immersing myself in the warm water during my last labor; the feeling of relaxation, peace, and weightlessness.

I talked myself out of jumping head-first into the warm water (okay, so perhaps the “No Diving” warning wasn’t completely unwarranted) as I was worried that once I got in that water, I was setting myself up for disappointment.

My second labor and delivery (my first homebirth) was cake; three hours from start to finish. I had had very little pain and was holding my baby in my arms very shortly after getting in the tub. 

However, this labor was already longer and more intense than the last time, so I was concerned that once I got in that tub, my mind would jump to conclusions and start anticipating the end. But what if I got in the tub and had hours of labor to go? I didn’t want to jinx myself.

So, I waited. I waited and focused and rocked.

I finally reached the point where I couldn’t wait anymore. I ducked into the bathroom and changed into my tankini top. I opened the door a crack, warning those in the room to avert their eyes lest they see my bare hinder, and then nearly cannon-balled into the warm, waiting water in the birth pool.

 Yeeeeesssssss… The water enveloped my swollen form in all its heavenly comfort. The warmth and feeling of buoyancy melted the tension from my muscles. I instantly felt better… at least for a little while. It seemed like just a few minutes until the contractions were so strong that the water barely took the edge off. 

Huh? No. This wasn’t how the birth pool worked. Warm water = no severe pain. Warm water  = relaxation! No, this thing was obviously broken. I wanted a new one. I needed someone to get me a working birth pool!!! Like, NOW!!!

My mom continued to press her knuckles into the small of my back, but that, too, was quickly losing its effect. Hubs was sitting by the bed, watching quietly. I had a feeling he didn't want to be in the way, but I felt the overwhelming need to have him near me. I looked up at him and so “subtly” hinted, “You know, you don’t have to be so far away.”

Thankfully, he understood. Who says men can't take a hint? He came over and knelt by my side, holding my hands tightly in his. I rested my sweaty forehead on his strong arm. Eww, right? Poor Hubs.

 I’m glad he was willing to tolerate my clammy self, though, because his presence comforted and steadied me, giving me courage to plunge headlong into the painful unknown (even though, in reality, I guess I had no choice).

The contractions were two minutes apart, and a minute to a minute and a half long. Now, if you haven’t timed contractions before, you time from the beginning of one contraction to the beginning of the next, not the time in between pains. So, essentially, I was getting perhaps 30-60 seconds between each wave of agony.

 

Every once and a while, the contractions would piggy-back fiercely, giving me no rest in-between surges. The counter pressure that had been so blissfully numbing in the hours before, was now barely making a difference at all. I began to shake during each contraction, the pain causing guttural, moose-esque noises to escape my mouth.

Yes. I said “moose-esque.”

I began to feel lightheaded as the pain consumed me; it was a struggle to keep my breathing steady. My midwife put her arm around me and started to breathe deeply in and out. I mimicked her breathing pattern; breathe in for 8, hold for 4, breathe out for 4. Over and over. Focus, breathe, rinse, repeat.

The contractions kept coming, but I still didn’t feel the urge to push yet. I thought to myself, “Surely, it can’t get worse than this. This is as bad as it gets.”

Wrong. 

Just when I thought I had reached the maximum pain threshold, when I knew there was no possible way I could be in any more pain than I already was, the contractions got even more painful and even closer together. I gripped Hubs’ hands with all my strength, my knuckles turning white. With each contraction, I could feel all my muscles tensing. A sense of desperation began to wash over me. I felt the primal need to escape, to leap out of the tub or climb the walls with my fingernails or something, anything. I felt like a cat thrown into a bath tub: every inch of my body felt charged and on edge, every cell in my body was actively pulling me up, trying to get me out of that torture tub and far, far away from that incredible pain.

To this day, I’m still a little surprised I didn’t end up running up and down the street, screaming mad and stark naked. Seriously. It was no small miracle that I stayed in that birth pool. Though, I’m sure my neighbors are quite glad that I did. You're welcome, by the way.

With fight or flight signals saturating my brain, I began to doubt myself. I started to question my strength, endurance, and emotional resolve. I felt like screaming, “I can’t do this anymore! I can’t! I can’t do this!” but I was scared to say it. If I said it, maybe it was true, maybe I couldn’t do it. Instead of admitting I was about to lose it completely, I softly whispered, “These are so intense.”

Yeah. No kidding. That was the understatement of the decade…

Seeking some kind of relief, I began to bear down a little during the contractions, even though I really felt no urge to push. Pushing didn’t take the pain away, but it made it more manageable, like I was somehow taking control. It was then I noticed that my midwife and her assistant were getting out their equipment and putting on gloves.

My heart skipped a beat. Hallelujah! Gloves! Gloves are for catching babies, right?! Huzzah for gloves!!!

I knew we had to be close! Almost done! Another strong surge hit me, and this time, I felt an intense pressure and the need to push, like, really push. I listened to my body and bore down through that contraction, and the next, and the next.

My midwife asked if I wanted to be checked to see if there was a lip of cervix in the way. I thought for a moment, weighing my deep hatred for cervical checks (I hadn’t had a single check my entire pregnancy… or the pregnancy before) against my desire to get that baby the heck outta there.

After a moment, I nodded. Her assistant checked. I yelped. She said there was no cervix in the way and that the baby was very low.

I pushed with the next contraction and felt a sharp and powerful “pop!”

?!?!?!?!?!

“What was that?!” I asked. 

In my slightly panicked in my labor haze, I thought maybe the baby had shot out like a bullet or perhaps I had blown my girly parts all inside out or possibly a small I.E.D. had gone off my uterus... or something equally horrific. My midwife answered there was a little bit of meconium (i.e. fetus “twosies”), and that it was my water breaking… again. A pocket of fluid must have gotten trapped as my baby calmly made her way to the nearest exit, which caused another rupture and second gush of fluid under the pressure (labor is full of surprises, eh?).

With the next few contractions, I could feel the baby moving down, and I began to panic a bit. I knew what was coming next… crowning. Crowning has always been the only thing I really and truly dread about childbirth. As much faith as I have in birth and as beautiful as I think it is, I'm human and crowning scares the ever-lovin' crap out of me (no pun intended).

What’s crowning? Well, I’m so glad you asked. Let me enlighten you… 

Crowning [krou-ning]

1. adjective; representing a level of surpassing achievement, attainment, etc.; supreme: crowning accomplishment.

2. adjective; forming or providing a crown, top, or summit: a crowning star on a Christmas tree.

3. verb (used without object); Medicine/Medical . (of a baby in childbirth) to reach a stage in delivery where the largest diameter of the fetal head is emerging from the pelvic outlet.

Sounds pleasant, right?

In the weeks and months leading up my due date, the thought of labor didn’t faze me, but the thought of crowning? A rather largish object making its way through what is really quite a small opening? A small opening made of soft tissue just chock-full of sensitive nerve endings?!

Forget the Mayan “apocalypse” prediction. Forget giant, poisonous spiders who want to lay eggs in your ears and under your tongue. Forget Big Foot and zombies and ghosts (oh my!). Forget someone forcing you to watch all the movies in the “Twilight” saga. Crowning: now that is petrifying!

To overcome my sheer terror, my mom had worked with me in the last weeks of my pregnancy to develop some visualization techniques to allow me to conquer my fear. As silly as it sounds, I worked on imagining a balloon; a balloon gently expanding. I imagined everything “down there” relaxing and stretching for the baby to ease gently into the world. It had really worked to downgrade my extreme anxiety to a mere uneasiness (which was no small feat).

In that moment, however, with a baby barreling down through my anatomy like freight train, all that practice went out the window. My panic grew and I could feel all my muscles tensing up, resisting.

"No, no, no. Nope. Nope. Not gonna do it. I’ll stay pregnant, thank you very much. Pack it up. Nothin’ to see. We’re done here."

Thankfully, my mom noticed my alarmed state and quietly reminded me, “Imagine the balloon.” Amazingly, those words refocused me and I could feel my whole body relax and my panic genuinely, and miraculously, subside. Focus replaced fear. The distress and tension melted from my muscles like hot butter on toast. I envisioned the balloon, gently and easily expanding. I stopped fighting it and began imagining my muscles and tissue expanding just as easily, making way for my baby.

As I pushed through the next few contractions, I could feel her beginning to emerge. Amazingly, I was still feeling calm and motivated, but something felt... off. I kept waiting for the uncomfortable feeling of stretching to reach its peak as the baby crowned (*shudder*), and then subside as she moved lower. Instead, it felt like whatever part of my baby was emerging just kept getting bigger and bigger.

I had done this whole birth thing twice before, had felt every minute of it two times over, and this just felt… different. I couldn’t gage how much of my baby’s head had emerged, or even if it was, in fact, her head that was descending through my nethers. 

Maybe she was coming into this world elbows first. Is that a thing? 

Hoping to get some clarity on exactly what was happening down below, I quietly and desperately asked, “Is she close yet? It feels weird…” 

After checking with a hand mirror, my midwife assured me she was nearly there. With the next push, and a guttural roar, her head was out. One more and I could feel the rest of her body slide quickly and easily, if not somewhat awkwardly, into the waiting hands of my midwife. The relief was instantaneous. I could feel the room let out a collective breath and I heard someone say, “Well, that ain’t no six pound baby!”

I didn’t care if she was a twenty pound baby; we had done it. She was here!

Aching to hold her, I quickly moved from my knees to a sitting position, swinging my leg shakily over her still attached and working umbilical cord. And then the blissful moment: I reached out to take my baby in my arms, so ready to finally meet this tiny little person that I already loved so much. Her eyes were bright, so open and alert. Looking into her sweet, perfect, chubby face, I lost it. Lost. It.

I don’t know if it was the overwhelming feeling of absolute and unconditional love, the overpowering, blissful happiness, or the intense relief that it was all over (or more than likely, a heady mix of the three), but I cried. I held my baby close to my chest, flooded by happiness, and I cried, even though I was too dehydrated for tears.

After a moment, I realized she hadn't actually taken her first breath. She was awake, her skin pink, her eyes studying my face, but she was not breathing on her own. My midwife was standing by in case she needed to quickly intervene, but with a little bit of coaxing, Button sputtered and gasped, tiny gurgling noises bubbling in her throat.

She was calm. No crying or screaming, just observing quietly. We studied each other, meeting for the first time after knowing each other for so long.

It was then I learned why it felt so odd as she was making her grand entrance: she was born with one arm fully extended above her head. I laughed, saying that she had heard us joking about the “No Diving” warning and decided to do a little dive to show us what’s what.

I delivered the placenta easily as I held her in my arms. My midwife wrapped it in a blue CHUX pad, placed it in a ziplock bag, and set it plastic bowl that then floated next to me in the pool while I continued to snuggle my new treasure. After several minutes of cuddling, I decided to get out of the slightly ooky pool and take a quick shower to clean any small traces blood or baby poo off of myself. I handed my tiny gal, placenta and all, over to Hubs so I could shower and get dressed before we both got checked out by my midwife.

After the quickest shower of my life, I was feeling incredible. I happily climbed into my own cozy bed, joining Hubs and our little lady. While my new little one nursed for the first time, I got a quick once over to assess the damage. My midwife gave me the somewhat astonishing news that, despite having literally “rubbed elbows” with a rather chubby baby as she made her unconventional arrival, my lady garden had faired quite well. Two small tears, no stitches required! Way to go, girly bits!

Once I was cleared as being no worse for the wear, it was time to get the stats on the book. Button had already passed her Apgars, proving she was very much alive and well. I got to cut her cord, separating her from her “womb-mate” and officially declaring her her own, autonomous person.  She was awake, but still calm as my midwife’s assistant weighed and measured her, crying only when she had her first diaper change. Those wipes are cold, man!

Button was 21 inches long; 8 pounds, 13 ounces of chubby cuteness. She had long, delicate fingers with long, long fingernails. Her cheeks were round and utterly kissable. From fuzzy head to tiny toes, she was perfect.

Everyone talked and laughed as we recapped the day and marveled at the brand-new little person in our presence.

Not long after that, Lilo and Boo arrived to meet their new baby sister. I will never forget the looks on their faces: Boo was glowing with excitement and Lilo was, honestly, a bit confused. Who was this tiny person? My heart melted all over again, though, when Lilo touched Button lightly on the head and instantly fell in love with “her baby.”

 After many hours observing and taking countless pictures, our fabulous photog left. My midwife stayed with us for a while longer, making sure we were settled and out of any danger of immediate post-labor complications. She made arrangements for our first postpartum visit the following day, and then she took her leave as well. My wonderful mother made me lunch and then took the girls to her house so Hubs and I could rest with our newest little princess.

And just like that, all the hub-bub and excitement faded away, and we were left to calm and peace and quiet of our own home. Things seemed exactly the same as they had been just a few short hours before, yet everything was completely different.

From my comfy spot, propped up on pillows, in my bed, I could see the very spot where Button was born, where I labored and endured and overcame, where she came out of my body and into my arms, where I first saw her face. 

To me, that’s pretty powerful, to be able to stand in the place where you looked pain and fear in the eyes and pushed through it; the place where a new tiny life was welcomed to the world. In fact, I told Hubs that when we eventually move out of this house, I’m taking that section of floor with us. The place could use some new carpet anyway.

Looking back, the whole process of bringing Button into this world was one of the most difficult and rewarding things I have ever done in my life. It reminded me how strong I am and how beautiful birth really is. I have experienced childbirth three times, and each time, it has taught me something new. It is amazing and miraculous and transformative. It has helped shape who I am and has given me the courage to face any challenge that comes my way by reminding me of just how brave I really am. 

The experience of bringing this sweet, tiny baby earthside, feeling that pain, coming through it, and looking into her beautiful eyes for the first time was priceless and is something I will treasure for the rest of my life.

Welcome home, Button.

*names have been changed to prevent the involved parties from sheer mortification at being included in my hormonally fueled monologuing.

My midwife is Heather Johnston, CPM, LDEM, with BirthWise Maternity Care. If you are considering homebirth or are interested in looking into it, I can recommend her whole-heartedly. I just love her!

Photography by Mal Walker Photography. Look her up. She's amazing! 

Oh, and since I know someone is going to ask: no, I did not poop during my labor or delivery. Nosy, nosy readers... ^_^