My little girl is a warrior, but that is not her whole story, and it is not the beginning of her story either. The beginning of her story was a warm fall day in October of 2018, a Saturday. She was born two days later, on a Monday evening. It began like this.
The day I went into labor was not the day my daughter was born. The books said, your first labor might take awhile to really get moving. They said, keep going about your normal business. They said, you’ll be laboring in a bed for a long time later, so for now try to stay out of bed. They said, get things done around your house, repack your hospital bag, take a shower. Ok, we said. So, I cleaned my entire house. Upstairs and downstairs. Dusted, scrubbed the bathrooms, swept, vacuumed, cleaned the kitchen. Spencer raked up all the piles of grass across our three acre property. Why were there piles of grass everywhere? Well, our riding mower had been at the mechanic (that’s right, they have mechanics for riding mowers in the country–oh the things we never knew existed back when we lived in San Diego!) for three weeks. There was a delay because it was the weeks leading up to a potentially catastrophic hurricane (a great time to be nine months pregnant), and the mechanic was busy making sure everyone’s generators were fixed, so our mower went to the bottom of the list. When we got it back, we wanted to be sure we had our grass cut before bringing the baby home, thinking surely we would not have time or energy to mow for awhile.
So, the week before I went into labor, Spencer mowed and I raked. Of course, you normally don’t need to rake up grass. But when it is three feet tall you do. I was not about to bend down to pick up all those piles with my nine month pregnant belly, and we didn’t want to leave our entire property covered in piles of grass that would surely cause big dead patches underneath them. So, the Saturday I went into labor, I cleaned and Spencer picked up piles of grass and threw them in the forest. Because these are the things you should do when you’re in labor, right?
My poor mother who lives across the country was so worried. All day, she was calling and texting, asking me why on earth I thought it was a good idea to clean the house. At one point she called and I said, “Mom, can I call you back? We’re playing Scrabble.” I’m so sorry, Mom.
Labor started at 5 am. I woke up to my first contraction, used the bathroom, and went back to bed, without even waking Spencer up. When he opened his eyes to the sunlight coming through the windows on that fall morning, I said, “Babe, today’s the day!”
This is me, about to NOT have a baby…
But, the day I went into labor was not the day my daughter was born. It was the day we cleaned the whole house, picked up all the piles of dead grass, played scrabble, and waited. That night, Spencer took a picture of me bouncing on my yoga ball in the kitchen while he cooked dinner. In my blissful ignorance, I was thinking here we go, off to the birth center. I am smiling in the picture, peacefully sipping tea. Oh, naive first time birth…
We repacked the hospital bag, stayed calm, called my grandmother to tell her we needed her to come stay with the dogs and the chickens. Spencer ran around lighting candles, making the house the peaceful oasis I wanted to labor in. Off we went around 11 pm, and it was starting to feel real. The drive was brutal. One hour on winding country roads, wondering why my husband felt the need to hit every pot hole, as he calmly and expertly navigated the route, dodging deer, maneuvering around cars that were going too slow (*read: “going the speed limit”). Since it was after hours, we had to check in at the emergency room entrance. They wanted to put me in a wheelchair to get me up to the birthing center. “No thanks,” I said. I was a strong woman in labor, thank you very much. I was ready to labor all naturally, I was ready to listen to my body and my baby, I didn’t need no stinking wheelchair! It’s protocol, ma’am, they told me. First of all, MA’AM?? Second of all, I’ll walk, kthanks. (Note: If you are offered a wheelchair when checking in to the hospital while in labor, and you turn it down because you are a badass woman who doesn’t need a wheelchair…you are in what the medical world lovingly refers to as “early labor”. You aren’t having that baby yet. Go home.)
So I walked, escorted by a reluctant guy pushing an empty wheelchair next to us, and my sweet husband, asking me if I was ok and watching in awe of the power of a woman’s will. Up we went, checked in, turned off all the harsh hospital lights, plugged in our rock salt lamps, snuggled up with my own pillows and blankets. I had been “in labor” for 19 hours, if you count from the very first contraction (I don’t). I was two centimeters. TWO CENTIMETERS. Child’s play.
They sent us away, telling me to labor at home and come back when it felt really serious. We left at 6 am, got home at 7 am. At this point, we had both been awake for almost 24 hours, and they were not restful hours. You’ll recall, our house was spotless and three acres worth of grass piles had been shoveled. Plus, labor and labor coaching. We were tired. Spencer slept for a few hours on the couch. I tried to sleep in the bed, but was awake every 10 minutes or so with contractions. Now it was Sunday morning, and I was home, discouraged, tired, and still in labor…
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