I wasn’t sure that I wanted to have children, after having grown up in a less than ideal household. I was intensely independent and the idea of pregnancy sounded alien to me. To be honest, I was bit terrified whenever I considered the experience. However, I met my husband Grant on a trip to Portland and all of those fears dissipated. He and I spent three years exploring the country, 4 years expanding our business, and another year renovating a new farmhouse on a small plot of land near my favorite lake in the Midwest. After a few months of enjoying our quiet home and watching him with his nephews over a few summer holidays, I told him that I was ready.
I immersed myself in all things birth. I couldn’t believe what a corner I turned, growing more excited by the day. I felt I knew all there was to know, but, the actual experience of it was much harder than I anticipated. The nausea and heartburn of the first trimester plagued me. I could hardly stay awake during the day. I drowned myself in water and positive affirmations and prenatal vitamins that seemed intent on choking me to death. I spent the second trimester nesting, over analyzing, nagging my doctor with every new twinge, photographing my growing belly in pure amazement, and crying over birds in the backyard. The third trimester brought with it wave of frustration. I was swollen, tired, and very much “over it.” The old lady at the deli told me to enjoy it while it lasts, and I wondered if she’d ever been pregnant before. I wondered how I could handle being up all night with a newborn, because I could hardly sleep now with the back pain, numb hip, and what felt like a walnut sized bladder. I spent my days feeling like a zombie.
But then, it happened. I woke with a contraction at 4am, three days before my due date, and I knew what it was instantly. I tried to go back to sleep, but it seemed that labor had just begun out of no where, and there was hardly a period of rest. We started timing them on Grant’s phone and they were coming every 15 minutes. We relaxed as much as we could but by 6am I was up, swaying, breathing, trying to manage the pain. I got a shower and shaved my legs between contractions, which seems so silly now. Grant tended to me and packed the bags. We had done “labor drills” a few times, but still, we forgot the carseat.
We arrived at the hospital by 11am, and I was in a lot of pain. Triage was full, so I waited 20 minutes before I was able to get into a bed. I remember the exam was painful, but they told me I was 7cm! They accidentally broke my water during the exam, and I remember the nurse telling Grant it was “time to get upstairs because it won’t be long now.” I wish that were the case.
It took another 4 hours, a lot of crying, and an epidural to finally get permission to push. I felt a little disappointed in myself for requiring an epidural when all I wanted was a natural birth, but looking back, it really did make the experience better. I felt joy when pushing, I felt a little calm and determined. I was exhausted, but I finally had a purpose. The doctor let Grant help catch our baby, and I won’t ever forget the moment where I witnessed my husband become a father. Grant placed Eliot on my chest, and I became a mother.
The next days were a blur of pokes and pains and tests and bad hospital food. Nursing was painful too, just like the rest of it, but our son was a real champ. He and I figured it out together, and I successfully nursed him for 16 months. He is now 2 years old, and I wonder often how the experience will differ next time, if there is a next time. I wonder how it will change me, our family, our life. I wonder how Eliot will change, the moment I watch him become a brother. It’s the most exciting question I have ever quietly contemplated. I watch my husband with our son, with the birds in the backyard, and I know it’s almost time to tell him again, I am ready.
– Cara