During my first pregnancy, I took two birthing classes: Bradley Method and hypnobirthing. I meditated and practiced my Kegels, repeating chants with the totally calm doula on our class recording. All my husband had to do was whisper, “And now it’s time to relax…” and I immediately lowered myself into my preferred birthing position, synchronizing my breathing to match my visualizations of a smiling baby gracefully and rapidly entering the world.
I had a full birth plan in place. I knew every stage of labor by heart. I packed my hospital bag two months before my due date, hooked up the co-sleeper to my side of the bed, and met with a lactation consultant and baby-wearing expert. My nurse-midwife high-fived me for my focus and dedication, using me as a teaching model for the new nurses on staff. I prepared in every way for my perfect birth and the trophy I would receive for birthing my son naturally, even as I faced a challenge in terms of baby size (everyone thought I was having twins).
I was ready.
It wasn’t until much later—32 hours deep in my labor when the midwife announced, “We’re sunny side up” and “Wow that’s a huge head”—that I realized my birth plan had begun to unravel.
I had dilated quickly but took forever to efface, and the baby just refused to drop. By that point, after not sleeping for two days, I found it impossible to do my hypnobirthing visualizations; in fact, I couldn’t visualize anything other than killing my husband for his role in this nightmare. I didn’t want a massage or encouragement. I refused to squat anywhere near the man who’d done this to me.
Eventually it became clear to both the midwife and me that I needed some rest if I was going to be able to get this baby out. She suggested an epidural, which went against my vision of a natural birth, but she thought there was a chance it would give me back my focus and hope. But once the pain was dialed down, I was devastated. I had failed. I wouldn’t get that trophy after all.
Over the next few hours, the baby finally dropped and I began to push. Then, after all that struggle, his shoulders got stuck. He was jammed in place, unable to budge, his heart rate fluctuating dramatically. I was transferred to the OR and my baby was born via C-section less than 30 minutes later.
I watched my husband holding our son. He cried in relief and joy, kissing our baby’s purple, cone-shaped forehead and told me what a great job I’d done. But I knew better.
The fallout from that birth was intense. I responded poorly to both the epidural and the morphine, which delayed my milk production. It took two weeks to get the hang of nursing, and supplementing with formula was another guilt rollercoaster I rode as a mother. I had very little perspective, and the birth itself was a traumatic experience that I had to revisit and work through as I approached my next pregnancy two years later.
With baby number two, I saw an obstetrician who specialized in VBACs, vaginal births after cesareans. I didn’t take any classes and spent the entire pregnancy chasing after my toddler. I agreed to the doctor’s demand for an epidural “just in case.” When it came time to deliver, I faced the same difficulty with my baby refusing to drop. When the doctor loudly questioned the potential VBAC, I got mad and really started to push.
I got my VBAC that day, though a cord emergency at the end required an intervention that resulted in 18 stitches. No natural birth trophy for me again, but I had my healthy baby girl and the vaginal birth I’d long hoped for—and I also found forgiveness easier this time around.
I also didn’t have the lingering depression that I’d had after my first baby was born. My milk came in quickly, and my daughter took to nursing like a champ. The stitches were pretty awful, but perspective tempers everything.
“Hey, you wanted that VBAC!” the doctor reminded me, and it struck me that a good chunk of the struggle we have with expectations around birth is rooted in patronizing, brisk caregiving. All too often, we’re treated like children ourselves. I nodded and thanked him, then found a different practice to go to.
Three years later, with baby number three, I talked freely with the midwives at my new practice about my complicated history. I asked questions without apology, offered opinions based on my experience, and expected those opinions to be respected. It was an entirely new patient-caregiver relationship.
This time around, I had patience with my body and could remind the medical staff: My babies always wait to drop until the very end. I always dilate fast but take forever to efface.
I recognized my own body and its patterns, and my husband did, too. I also had two older, amazing children at home waiting for me. Their very different births, neither perfect or natural, had in no way impacted their health or abilities. I finally realized how much my own mental state impacted my birth experiences and recovery, and how birth itself was simply its own transition from inside to outside: from pregnancy to motherhood.
So when I got to the hospital at 2 a.m. with baby number three rumbling in my giant belly, the nurse asked, “Do you have a birth plan?”
“Just to have a healthy baby,” I said.
My midwife let me dance until it was time to push. When I yelled, “I’M NOT DOING THIS!” at the very end, my husband laughed and knew enough this time to just whisper, “You’re doing great!” and then back out of the strike zone. Three hours in, I pushed my daughter out like I always dreamed. I held her on my tummy and let her worm her gooey self up to nurse—just like in the birth movies I’d watched five years earlier.
It was lovely, truly. But it also didn’t make me think about trophies. I was so happy she was healthy and strong, like her siblings. But I immediately remembered those earlier births, and wished I could go back and hug myself, tell myself, “Listen to your husband. You did great, mama. You did just right.”
Because every birth is sacred and hard. However our babies arrive, we did it just right.