Maggie's Birth

I've been reluctant to write about Maggie's birth for a couple of reasons. Mainly, I don't want to come across as a sanctimonious twat, looking for a big ole' pat on the back for birthing naturally. Let me reiterate my position on birth: to each their own. Every experience is unique and there are countless reasons for making one choice over another. What's best for me may not be best for you, let's agree to remove all judgement from this incredibly personal experience. How you birth doesn't make you a good or a bad mother. It's my hope that a pregnant woman might stumble upon this birth story while searching "home birth" in Google. We all know there's no shortage of terrifying, negative tales of surviving birth and I hope to toss one positive story into the blogosphere to counter them. Heads up, this post contains a photo of Maggie's birth. Don't worry, it's not a photo of my hoo-haw-I'm not insane in the membrane. However, if you are squeamish around emotionally raw and intense moments like birth, give this post a swerve. I won't be offended if you don't read this, promise.

MAGGIE'S BIRTH

She came fast and furiously. She arrived as though she had a purpose and was in a hurry to get to work here. After days of teasing me with start and stop contractions, she couldn't argue when my midwife broke my waters for me on that bright Friday morning. Eviction notice served! The water ran clear and we breathed a collective sigh of relief that my munchkin hadn't pooped in her apartment, we were still on track for a home birth. We all went downstairs to sip tea and eat banana bread. We talked about the housing costs in Hamilton, we talked about our kids. We talked about how my mother and all her siblings had been safely born at home in Northern Ireland. My mom washed dishes and topped up our teacups, it was a perfectly normal day except that I'd be giving birth very soon. The contractions started coming in waves, crashing over me and rendering me speechless and awestruck. It's happening, I thought. She's on her way, my body is doing what it needs to and I can cope. I can do this.

As the contractions got stronger and closer together, my awesome posse supported me in different ways. Tim was a rock, I felt as though his strong hands were the only thing holding my body together when I thought it might just splinter, crack and crumble under the pain. My mom was a comforting presence, always close but never intrusive. My midwife stayed nearby and offered plenty of verbal reassurance like "This is normal, you're strong. You're fine. Let the contractions be strong too, don't fight them". She bolstered my confidence in myself and in my body but she mainly left me in the comforting hands of my calm and focused husband.



I love Tim's face in this photo. I was just catching my breath after a contraction and his face just says "sorry kiddo, I feel for ya." Maggie was born about an hour later. Photo credit goes to my mom.

They were coming harder and faster and the sweet breaks I had between them were pretty much obliterated. I labored downstairs, swaying back and forth on my knees, until it was time to climb into the warm kiddy pool on my bedroom floor. I crumpled into a ball halfway up the stairs, gripping the balusters and waiting out a contraction. After Simon's birth, I swore that I would maintain just an ounce of decorum by wearing a bikini top for my next labour. Well, screw that. I pulled my shirt over my head and Tim helped me waddle out of my yoga pants. Decorum?! Ha! What was I thinking? I'm groaning, grunting, sweating and  threatening to barf on the rug...what difference is a bikini top going to make here? I'm basically an animal. I surrendered to the process. With the boys, I was gripped by fear during the intensity of labour. Like thick vines that crept from the soles of my feet, up my legs, the fear enveloped me. The vines of terror pulsated around my torso and threatened to wrap  themselves around my neck, while my mind entertained thoughts like "I'm dying" or "This kind of agony can only end in death" or "Nothing good can come of what's happening to me". This time, I pushed the soles of my feet down into the floor and imagined the seeds of those vines being crushed to a fine, dry dust beneath my strong, sturdy feet. As the contractions came, I thought "Bring it!" or "I got this" or "Come on, baby. Come on!" I knew that we'd both be safe with my midwife and I felt strong and capable of bringing a baby earthside.

Anyone who knows me well, knows that I appreciate the value of bad language. Those words can be cathartic and powerful in the right circumstances. Labour seems like a good time to use those words, so it's odd to look back on Maggie's birth and realize that I didn't swear at any point. Even when Maggie's head was out and my mother went into a tizzy with the sheer emotion of that moment. She was shrilly announcing that my baby had so much hair, that she looked like I did when I was born, and that I was amazing! All things I'd be happy to hear if only I didn't have a human half-way out of my body, with shoulders yet to come. I angrily told her to "shut up!!!" and she very happily obliged, no hurt feelings. I think even she was surprised that I hadn't told her to "f**king shut the f**k up". Maybe my body was so engrossed in it's task, it didn't have any energy left over for superfluous words like 'f**k'. Well, it's a theory anyways. My midwife, Sarah, had been warned by the midwife who caught Simon that I'd curse a blue streak and be a real mess towards the end so Sarah was waiting for me to lose my shit a bit before she called for the second midwife to come. I didn't lose my shit and the second midwife didn't make it in time. In a flash, she was in my arms. Warm and sticky, like a fresh little cinnamon bun. She let out a wail and I wept with joy, relief, pride and gratitude for her existence. Gratitude for the fact that I was holding my daughter for the first time.

A wonderful moment, check out my little cheesepuff.