Birth Story

It's been too long since I've written, really written. I have to admit I've missed stretching that particular muscle. I often blame sleep deprivation, or my lack of energy, or that there are just too many other things to do on a farm, but honestly sometimes I feel as if my creative well has dried up, and this makes me sad. My good friend Charles is convinced things will begin to flow again once I start deciding what it is I want to tell my son. In honor of that possibility, and to commemorate Mother's Day, and in celebration of getting a straight five hours of sleep for the first time since Owain's birth 9 months ago, though trying to describe giving birth is kind of like trying to lasso an ocean, I'm going to tell my birth story.

Birth is, like most other elemental aspects of life, a paradox. It is a process at once miraculous (a person comes out of there!) and mundane (women do it all over the world, every minute of every day) - an experience completely specific to each mother, and yet universal in that we ultimately feel connected when we do it, to our own ancestors and to women everywhere.

I don't know how many of you have carried a baby in your womb longer than 40 weeks, but those who have know that time gets all wonky, especially if you are committed to letting the baby decide when (whether!?) s/he will make their appearance. You also have a real understanding of the term "great with child." I was pretty sure of our conception date and also pretty sure of my burgeoning whale-like silhouette, hence I was very sure that despite my midwife Paula's calm ministrations ("a due date is an estimate," "the baby and your body know the right time") my baby was LATE and wanted OUT. It was hot, too. Really hot. The fat Fred Flinstone feet were tired. The mama was getting desperate. Jay was a hero, taking me anywhere with air conditioning during the day and thrashing through weeds and underbrush on the farm with a machete at night to release his own stress (as a result, he had a nasty case of poison ivy when Owain was finally born).

It was a little silly what we tried in order to meet Owain: spicy food, a few stiff drinks, acupuncture. Jay saw more bulky-awkward bedroom action then he had in months. I cried all over my midwives. Once you get that pregnant, you're going in for a weekly check-up, and I begged them to just say "see you next week" instead of "see you when you're in labor" because I didn't want to get my hopes up. I had days of calm and good humor, when I'd actually saddle up and ride, trying to trot the baby out, and days when I laid on the couch in a hormonal funk, practicing my best glassy-eyed stare.

Then on the 14th day past my due date, the day we had some tests scheduled at the hospital to make sure everything was still okay in there, my water broke in the early morning - a warm, welcome relief. At first, I laid there in stunned silence, knowing that I would not be suspended in time in my swollen state, that the child was going to find his or her way. We called my mom and dad, who came to the farm from the cities. We called Paula, who had me checking for signs of infection and timing my contractions. We played a game of Scrabble through the contractions out on the deck. Despite my not-so-delicate condition, they didn't let me win, I remember that. The heat had broken and it was a beautiful day. We drank lemonade and ate lots of good snacks. I remember at one point looking out over our farm, drenched in life, and thinking that soon I'd be sharing it with my dawdling child. It was wild to think that Jay and I would leave two and come back three.

I called Paula when the contractions got stronger. She said, "It will be time to come to the birth center when Jay is calling me about the contractions because you aren't able to talk on the phone." That time came pretty quickly, and by 2 p.m. or so we were driving the seemingly interminable distance to Menomonie. When I arrived at the birth center, dear Krista met me with a big hug, and even though my contractions were pretty strong by then, I was flooded with joy. Paula and Karen were already there too, and I was glad.

After a few minutes of laboring and talking downstairs, for the third time in my life I threw up. All my good snacks and lemonade - back out where they came from but in messier form: a sign that hard labor was nigh. And oh, was it. Jay and I went upstairs and got into the birthing tub and that's when my birthing Id made its appearance. By all accounts, I had a powerful labor. Owain was hung up in my pelvis, and the contractions reached a place where they were coming without breaks. It was a stretch at first for me to realize that my stoic Scandinavian self would have to give way to the (significantly noisier) cavewoman within. Indeed, windows at the birth center would need to be closed.

For my birth I had packed a bag that included a massage wand, essential oils, CDs, snacks and a Scrabble board for me to play between contractions. I'm not sure that bag ever even got opened, because Jay and I were working hard together, in survival mode, for several hours. I believe I entered an altered state of some sort, perhaps my body's way of coping. We labored in the tub, on a bed, spooned tightly together. Paula checked me and determined in her birthing woman wisdom that Owain needed help moving down, so I started to walk the stairs. Two at a time. This was my toughest job yet. Ever. Jay was with me. I struggled, because hard labor is not conducive to climbing stairs. In fact, it feels wrong. At one point, Karen grabbed me by my arms and had me look into her face. "You're experiencing a very intense labor," she said, "you must keep on." And this was a turning point for me. I felt validated. I pushed up and down the stairs, and then I was pushing Owain. On a stool, against Jay, against Paula, and in the water again. And my own mother and my sister and the midwives kept at me with food and drink and cold cloths for my head. And my husband was baptized by most body fluids you can think of, and continued to hold me, holding firm. And the pushing felt good and hard and regular, and my body knew what it was doing, and I was happy because I was doing and not just enduring. Though I was drained, I had purpose and the baby was coming and I could do this.

Owain arrived peacefully amid the tempest. They had to rub him down a bit to get him squawking, which is what often happens with water births. When I look at the pictures, I hardly recognize the blonde amazon propped against her husband in the tub, too weary to cry, babbling to her big, healthy child. She looks strange and powerful. She looks to have received an ancient gift.