Birthday Season. That’s what we Nelson’s call the weeks between mid-March and early April. In those weeks, we celebrate the days on which my three children made their earthly entrances… March 16, March 25 and April 7. Wonderful days, those.
I’ve always known I’d be a mother, not an unusual belief for a woman of my generation. Thing is, I’ve always known that I’d give it my all, that raising kids would be one of my great endeavors. This was not typical for a bright, academically-inclined woman coming of age in the late 1970’s. I was expected to do great things, change the world, ACHIEVE. Thing is, by raising my family, that’s exactly what I did.
The Good Husband (TGH) and I fell in love completely and early. I knew by age 18 that he would be a good partner and parent, and that he would father my children. I spent the next several years learning the skills necessary to be a good parent myself.
When we married, just after I finished student teaching, we had a “first baby in 5-years plan.” Didn’t work out that way. Daughter #1 arrived 13 months later, changing our lives forever, and for the better.
Two weeks overdue, I was thrilled when TGH arrived home from a three-week assignment on an oil rig that was a day’s travel away. Happy to be reunited before b-day, we spent the next day walking through the gardens at The Huntington Library, and I went into labor at ten o’clock the next night. TGH slept while I dozed and dreamed of what lay ahead. By eight the next morning, I was ready to go to the hospital where we spent the next seven hours cosseted in a labor room. We labored away while outdoors a spring storm raged and the teen in an adjacent room heartbreakingly raged, “Get this thing out of me! I don’t want it! Mama, make them take it out!”
I was equally anxious to complete the task at hand, but by gum, I was going to do it with strength and dignity. I’m big on dignity. I faithfully practiced my Lamaze breathing and knew without a doubt when it was time to push. And push I did. Daughter #1 popped into the world after 16 hours of labor and only one contraction’s worth of pushing. The most beautiful baby born that day (seriously – lots of people told us that), D#1 snuggled on my chest while the doctor stitched me up; and I was sitting Indian style in the middle of my bed, eating a full meal three hours later. Birthing at age 22 is easy. So is recovering. I wore all my old clothes by the time D#1 was ready for her 6-week check up. Let me tell you now, that never happened again!
Three years later (perfectly planned so that I, an elementary school teacher, could be home until the new baby was 6-months old), Son-The-One-&-Only was born. Arriving nine days after big sis’ birthday (again, planned… didn’t want immediate resentment of a new sib), he was, like all of my babies, about two weeks late; but he wasn’t supposed to come that day either.
Early in the morning, March 25, 1985, TGH and I trekked to the hospital for a scheduled Fetal Non-Stress Test. Since I was overdue, my ob-gyn wanted to make sure the baby was still nourished. While lying on the table, wide monitor strapped across my bulging belly, I felt a familiar twinge. “I think I’m starting labor.” I told the attending nurse. Laughing, she patted my shoulder, saying. “Honey, you will not be having this baby today and may not have it this week. You’re not even close.”
Trusting the experienced professional, TGH and I began the thirty-minute drive home. But before we reached our freeway off-ramp, my contractions required focused breathing. Once home, TGH made additional babysitting arrangements for D#1 and I paced the family room, keeping time. Two hours after leaving the hospital, we were on our way back. Labor was so advanced I couldn’t sit comfortably, so I lay down in the backseat. TGH paled. He did not want to deliver his own child on the shoulder of Southern California’s Interstate-10.
We arrived. He parked. I got out of the car. “What can I do? What should I do?” Asked TGH. ~And this is how I know I was “in transition” (And you thought PMS was a bitch. If you don’t know, look it up) ~ “Just shut up and walk, God Damn It!” He did.
Back in the same hallway, I looked at the same nurse. “I need to push!”
No rooms were available.
“I still need to push!”
I was literally guided around a corner and given a gown in a back hallway. Completely without shame, I stripped bare, put on that gown and hauled myself onto the skinny little gurney that the shocked nurse provided. The on-duty doc checked me, announcing, “She’s right. She needs to push.” And so I did. Right there in the hallway, as well as in the short maze of not-at-all private hallways that the nurse and TGH trundled me through. My privates no longer were. Without thought or hesitation, I pulled my knees to me ears (I’m very limber) and I pushed. I pushed so hard, I broke dozens of little blood vessels in my face, neck and chest, and was instantly dotted with tiny red and blue bruises. By the time we got to a room, he’d arrived. Three hours of labor from beginning to end. Quickly stitched up, I was immediately wheeled back into a hallway and the next delivering mom entered the room. Busy day in labor and delivery.
In a dark, quiet hallway, I cuddled my baby boy, whose smell was uniquely his own and whose adoring face wrought true that a mother can love more than one child with all her heart. Two decades later, when he nearly died, I stood in another little room, breathing in his wonderfully unique smell and hoped that my adoring face proved to him that my love was and always would be unconditional and pure. I think it did.
With a boy and a girl, TGH and I thought we might be done, but two years later I had a dream. In my opinion, it was right up there with MLK’s. A young woman visited me in my sleep and pronounced herself my daughter. She also made clear that she was awaiting my cooperation and was ready for this earthly sphere. I know. A little “woo-woo.” But true. The next morning I told TGH and, as has always been the case, he supported me. A few months later we were expecting another girl.
On D#1’s 6th birthday, as I ushered the last party guest out the front door, my body set things into motion. But it was early; I hadn’t expected it. And I shouldn’t have. For the next three weeks I remained in mild labor until my doc did some blood work and determined that my body wasn’t producing enough Oxytocin for the process to progress. He invited me to come to the maternity ward the next morning at nine where he began an IV “Pit-drip.” Like clockwork, I was in the delivery room in three hours flat.
That’s where the drama began. With each contraction D#2’s heart rate became erratic. When I was fully dilated, my doc plunged (I’m frickin’ serious here—plunged!) both hands into the birth canal to figure out what was going on. “Don’t Push!” He shouted. “Stop pushing. The cord is wrapped around the baby’s neck.” I didn’t push, but it was darn hard not to. Deftly, the doctor turned the baby and released the cord from her neck, then told me to push. I did, and she flew on out. Really—she propelled. Thank God the doc was a good catch. And then she cried. And she cried. That baby cried so long and so hard that the nurses refused to allow her into the nursery. Fortunately she got it all out early, and proved to be the easiest baby of all.
So there you have it. Three babies born in six years, when their mama was 22, 25 and 28. And now, as of today, my babies are 22, 25 and 28. Seems like the right time to tell their birth stories. I hope this is the right time for you to tell yours. Please use the comment function here or send me an email with your story attached. Let’s share the wonder and the glory of every birthing story.
