Birthing At Home: If I Believed in Anything, It Was Birth Itself

By Anonymous |
By Anonymous |

Submitted by a 26-year-old mother of four.

I knew I was ovulating the night of Dec. 16. Later  on that  night I said to my husband firmly, “It better be a girl.” He assured me that I would not become pregnant and I was being overly paranoid. I took it to mean that he didn’t want another baby (I didn’t either, but we weren’t trying not to) and he was projecting his paranoia onto me. Having already accepted the fact that I would indeed be pregnant, it took presenting him with a peed on stick showing two lines to convince him. “It better be a girl,” I said for the 10th time that next month.

If I believed in anything, it was birth itself. I had given birth three times before, the last by myself in the privacy of my bedroom, with only my arms to welcome my dear babe to the world. My first birth, the most medically managed one, was a disaster that nearly resulted in death for my  son. My second birth was the clash of the titans: Medical know-it-alls vs. a despondent, very pregnant woman who only knew that she wanted to just hide from the world.

For the first time ever in a pregnant state of being, I wanted it all to be over with. I was uncomfortable, only at 41 plus weeks or so. I often repeated, “She’s never going to come out!” which seems silly to say but many a pregnant woman will sincerely believe it at times, so please respond with empathy. I also of course was convinced it was a girl this time, and my speech was peppered with female pronouns.

On Sept, 20, 2004, after performing my much practiced ritual of examining every square centimeter of used toilet paper, I spotted what looked to be stringy bloody mucous. Finally, something! This of course was after several weeks of  painless contractions. All day was more of the same on and off contractions, but I found myself fully preparing for things to really kick into gear by taking an afternoon nap.

By around 10 p.m., my husband was home from work for the night and we were sitting on the couch eating dinner. I was still pretty comfortable but very sure the baby would be coming soon. When I had to suddenly stop talking to get through the next rush I was convinced the baby was finally on her way.  An hour later I found myself pacing the house, leaning on the counter, and somehow I recalled that belly dancing originated as a labor dance. With the counter as a partner I danced my way through many contractions, moving my hips in a simple figure-eight motion, and it did help. My husband decided the best thing he could do was get some sleep and he stayed on the couch while I retreated to our bedroom.

It was the first cool night after going through a long hot southern summer, so I opened our window and a breeze kept coming right in, keeping my head cool. I settled into a spot on the floor at the side of our bed, in front of the window, lounging and sleeping between each rush. I had every pillow and blanket available piled around me to keep me comfortable  and I sipped on water to keep myself hydrated.

It didn’t that seem much time had passed before contractions were right on top of each other. I was getting loud enough for my husband  to wake up and come kneel by my side. Once again, I had back labor, and soon was laboring on my hands and knees. I asked my husband  to try to massage the spot on my lower back that hurt, but as soon as he touched me it made my whole body spasm so I said, “Forget it! Don’t touch me!”

In the back of mind where my conscious self still lingered and observed I knew transition had hit. Still, I hit a point of despondency, looking over to my husband and begging, “I just need a break. I just need a little break.”

In all of his infinite wisdom he replied, “I don’t think you’re going to get one, honey,” as gently as he could. Talk about not what you want to hear!

I then said “OK, I am going to throw up now,” and he instantly disappeared and reappeared with a big white bucket. I was nauseous, but never did get sick.

I instinctively knew that the baby would be coming very soon. I don’t believe I felt an urge to push but I decided to go ahead and try a little push, and “ahhhh” that felt so much better! With my knees on the floor, and pillows and blankets piled up on the bed in front of me, the conscious pushing quickly became the primal, overwhelming rush that nothing could reign in.

My next memory that stands out well was when my husband, peering at my bottom with only the bathroom light to see by, said, “I see the sac!” I thought, or perhaps said, “Oh, of course, because my water hasn’t broken at all!” It was funny how the simple logic went through my brain at the time as basically “Well, no duh!”

Finally I felt the familiar stretching, and while roaring into my pillow, pushed her head out. In a matter of seconds, knowing there was no way I was moving from where I was, I growled, “CATCH HER!” my  husband knelt at the ready, and I’m sure he felt like he didn’t have a clue as to what he was doing, which was alright as all he really had to do was make sure baby didn’t just plop onto the floor.

I screamed  into my  pillow — a prolonged “Get out!” — and with one more irresistible push, she slid right into my husband’s waiting arms, and I heard a resounding “Kersplash!”

“What do I do?” was the first thing I think I heard. “Just hand her to me,” I said as a turned over to sit on the floor. After my husband  pulled the rest of the amniotic sac from her, she was right in my arms. Sure enough, we discovered, I was snuggling a newborn baby girl to my chest! My husband was soaking wet and  thoroughly overjoyed. Only then it fully occurred  to me that she had in fact been born in the caul.

I put  my hand around her cord and could still feel the blood pulsing through. Soon she was breathing on her own and sputtering and gurgling a bit. Just as I did when my son Liam was born two years earlier, I put my mouth to her nose and mouth and gently suctioned out a little bit of mucous, and everything was fine, as I knew it would be. My husband dashed out of the bedroom and back in again and announced that it was a quarter after four in the morning, Sept. 21, 2004.

It went without saying that her name was Rhiannon Morgaine, and I felt that I had waited a long time to get to be her mother, and her body with spirit was with us at last. Still practically stunned I was holding a baby girl, I started  taking her  in as we got her wrapped up and snuggled next to my breast. She had tons of dark hair and I had never seen one of my babies covered in so much vernix.

My husband produced a camera from thin air and we took her first few pictures. She mouthed at the breast but seemed to want to spend time looking around more. The placenta was born uneventfully a few moments later, and I started feeling the urge to move, so we grabbed the baby shoelaces from the previously boiled and now cold water as well as a small pair of scissors, tied off the cord in a few places, and I had my husband cut the then-lifeless cord. I believe out of four children, that was only his second time getting to do that.

I had the bed prepared for possible labor but definite post-partum use, and had my husband give me the baby and I laid down, put her to my breast and she latched right on. Within minutes we were both sleeping soundly. A few hours later I woke up and I enjoyed that first celebratory pee, and noted  that nothing hurt at all, nothing was even sore. I got into some fresh underwear and cloth pads, the baby stirred, I snuggled and nursed her, and we both were asleep once more.

Giving birth to my son Liam all on my own was a powerful, life-altering experience. With Rhiannon, it seemed she just slipped right into our lives in a normal and expected fashion,  but her birth is just as special to me. I appreciate all of the unique things that came of laboring on my own in the quiet  dark with a gentle breeze on my face.