If I Haven't Gone to Bed Yet, This Counts as Today's Post, right?

(Spoiler alert: I had a baby!)

Part 3, or You'll Notice That While I Mention Poop, I Somehow Tell A Birth Story Without Every Using the Word "Vagina"

You know the drill by now, right? Labor, breathe, smugness. At my next cervical check, I was at…nine and a half. Now, a half inch may seem like a tiny amount, but apparently when you’re trying to push an infant’s cranium out of your hoo-ha, eeeevery leetle bit helps. However, Karen knew I was fatiguing, and she offered to try to “stretch” my cervix to get it all the way open.

Now, friends. If anyone, even someone you know and trust, offers to stretch your cervix, you tell them NO THANK YOU JUST FINE OVER HERE GO AWAY NOW. If only someone had given me this same advice. As it was, I thought this sounded like a dandy idea, because I was all too ready to be done with these chump contractions. I wanted to get on with the pushing, which I’d heard that many women actually like, because it feels like such a relief to be doing something. So I assented, thinking, how bad could it be, compared to what I’d been doing and what I was about to do? The answer: worse and not quite as bad, but darn near. But it must have done the trick, because not long after, I felt like pushing.

When you take a childbirth class, they’ll probably tell you that pushing feels like needing to poop. They’re correct. It is one of the more unnerving feelings (and there are many to choose from) in labor, especially if you’re a nancy-prissy-pants like me who has been TERRIFIED at the idea of pooping in front of people, ever since I heard that was a possibility. So after the “stretching” (which is stretching in the sense that being put on the rack is stretching), I resumed the position. Karen left to check on someone, telling the nurses, “Page me when she’s ready to push.” About three minutes later, I felt what could only be The Urge. I mumbled, “Um, I think I’m ready to push?” like I was asking permission. The nurse asked if she should go get Karen, and I confirmed the pushing-similar-to-pooping theory, and said, yes please.

So Karen came back in. I was squatting at the edge of the bed and pushing, like they do on TV, only to be informed that I was not, actually, pushing. “Push here,” I was told as someone’s hand, um, invaded Normandy, shall we say. I pushed. I was told I wasn’t pushing. More emphatic handling of the lady bits. More pushing. But, apparently, not really. Finally, Karen told me I have to push like I’m pooping, and that, in fact, there is poop in them thar bowels and that I should go have some contractions on the toilet to help “move things along.” She says “poop” like an experienced mom: there is nothing self-conscious about it, it’s almost cute. (By contrast, you should know that I’m blushing every time I type the word.)

And here, dear Teh Interweb, is where I would draw a curtain to preserve my modesty (what? Stop laughing), but I do want to be honest. So, let’s quickly blow by the fact that…I pooped. While MOTH knelt next to me. We do not speak of it. However, for any of you who might find yourself in a similar situation, I can promise you that in the moment, I didn’t care. I was certain that I would feel embarrassed about all of these indignities, because, well, come on. But I didn’t. In the moment, I was all about getting the job done, nudity or bodily functions be damned. And when it’s over, it’s like it never happened. You know, unless you put it on the internet.

Back to the bed. I’d requested a “squat bar,” which is a metal bar that attaches to the end of the bed so that you can use it as leverage when you’re squatting and pushing. I remember that there was some fumbling during the installation, and at one point one end of it clattered as it slid out of place. Finally it was stable. I thought I would use the birth ball and different positions, but I ended up lying back in the bed (with the back still raised) to rest, and during contractions, I would pull myself up to the squat bar and push. For days after I gave birth, I had sore shoulders and arms, and I’m pretty sure that three hours of pull-ups was the culprit.

As my Splendoula, E was also in charge of documentation, and she took pictures and video of me a few times throughout the labor. I wasn’t sure that I would want them, but in the days and weeks following Tankbaby’s birth, I went back and looked at them over and over again*. There are pictures of me kneeling over the back of the bed, with MOTH and E in position, massaging and stroking and appearing very somber and respectful, like they’re at a museum. The picture of me pushing (torso and up) looks like I’m trying to do a particularly tough long division problem in my head. These pictures are, incidentally, followed by silly self-portraits of Karen and E (did I mention that Karen was also E’s midwife for her kids?), waving and grinning at the camera. They were clearly having a better time at my labor, with their little love-fest reunion.

Rest, contraction starts, pull-up, push, lie back. Over and over again I did this. I was getting really tired, and wished the contractions would slow down so that I could grab a quick nap in between them. Karen called for ice chips, and directed MOTH to give them to me between pushing, since she was worried I was getting dehydrated. I pushed and pushed, positive I was bursting blood vessels in my face, imagining bloodshot eyes and WC Fields nose in my post-partum photos. At one point between contractions, E leaned over and rubbed my back gently and whispered, “Is there anything you want right now that you don’t have?” I answered, “A fucking baby.”

I pushed for about three hours. Towards the end, not knowing it was the end, I asked a nurse desperately, “Is this doing anything?” She misheard me and answered soothingly, “Yes, you’re doing great.” Finally, MOTH told me that he could see the head in between pushes. In my dazed state, I sort of didn’t believe him, because, after all, I was planning on having this baby hours ago, and everyone keeps insisting I’m doing great, but I have yet to produce the child. Realizing that I was faltering a bit, Karen grabbed my hand and put it between my legs to feel the head. This was motivating (Actual baby part! Near the exit, even!), although at that point, all damp, hairy, bloody parts felt kinda the same to me.

A mirror was brought in. I mostly ended up ignoring it, as my eyes were closed during contractions and pushing. I have a vivid flash of watching as a contraction ended, watching that little purple head recede a bit. I also remember the trickle of bright red blood where I would later receive stitches.

Now, if I may be a hippie, the room’s energy totally changed. There were lights being set up, the end of bed was dropped, equipment tables were brought over. I remember E telling me, “See all this stuff? They’re getting busy down there, that means it’s almost time.” Like MOTH, I understood what she was saying, but I still only half-believed her, because by this point I was convinced that, like Sisyphus, this would just be my life’s work from now on: rest, pull-up, push until the end of time.

But she was right. MOTH was gowned up, Karen took up her position and my feet were placed in stirrups, (wo)manned by nurses. I didn’t see E at the time, but a dozen pictures of my girly bits tell me that she was behind the camera (Again, I thought I wouldn’t want these pictures, but wow. To have the very first breath my kid ever drew on film, even if the background is rated XXX, is pretty cool).

I don’t remember a moment of “the next push is it,” but there was one particular push where I knew it was the one. The much-lauded Ring of Fire sensation (fairly accurate, by the way, with apologies to Johnny Cash), and then relief as the head came out. Another push of the shoulders, and a giant slippery rush as the rest of the body followed (which is, in case you’re unfamiliar with babies, what you want to see). MOTH told me later that the baby was crying, although I didn’t hear it. I reached down, greedy, to pull him to me, and heard, “Whoa, whoa!” because the cord was still attached. MOTH cut the cord and the warm, squirming, wet baby—my baby—was on my chest.

I hope you don’t think less of me when I tell you that, in that moment, I was equally elated that a) I had a gorgeous, healthy baby, and b) I was ALL DONE WITH LABOR.

Our birthing class teacher had sent us this crazy cool video about the breast crawl, a natural instinct in babies to, moments after being born, seek out the breast. It seemed weird and neat, so we wanted to try it. Somewhere in my daze, I had pulled up my tank top, and sure enough, that little tiny being, who had so recently been promoted from fetus to creature of the air, squirmed and wriggled and latched on. It was amazing and only later did E tell me how hard it was for her to sit on her hands and watch, rather than just “whomp that baby onto the boob.”

This should really be the end, except that hardly anyone talks about the rest. Before the credits roll, you’ve got to deliver the placenta. Unless you’re me, in which case you apparently hang on to it a bit, until there’s enough bleeding that you get your ass put on an IV with a little Pitocin, as well as some fluids (looking at pictures later, I did avoid broken capillaries, but I am…a little peaked-looking, shall we say. Probably a good call on the fluids, there). Then there’s the stitches and general tidying up of the, well, I don’t want to say “exit wound,” but you know what I mean. At some point, the adrenaline kicked in and I began shivering uncontrollably, while still holding the baby. I remember wondering why no-one was trying to take him. E coached me to do my deep breathing again, and lo and behold, it works. I stop shaking. I turned to her and said, “Tell me the story about the day when no-one wants to do anything painful between my legs again.”

Somewhere in here a hapless cafeteria worker comes up with my long-awaited dinner. She apologizes profusely when she enters the room and finds me…a la carte, but by that point I’m beyond caring, and I mostly want what’s on her tray. I’d heard that the hospital had great milkshakes, and, as the cafeteria closed at midnight and my son was gracious enough to be born at 11 PM, one of MOTH’s first acts as a father was to order the mother of his child a turkey sandwich and vanilla milkshake. They were both tasty as hell, and one of my favorite pictures is of Tankbaby nursing while I have half a sandwich stuffed in my mouth.

Karen finished her naughty-bits needlepoint and dashed out to deliver another baby. I finished my meal and started texting friends and family while MOTH helped clean and weigh the Tank (who, at 8 lbs 6 oz, was perfectly average at birth. Little did we know). E stayed for a bit longer, then went home to her own family when we were moved to a post-partum suite. And Tankbaby slept, which lulled me into a false sense of security about the next thirteen months.

So that’s the story about the day I had a baby. And an excellent milkshake.

*In the days immediately following the birth, I felt kind of weird about it, because I didn’t feel like I’d been a good Hypnobirther. Sure, I’d used the relaxation techniques and I hadn’t ended up using meds, but I complained bitterly…in my head. I felt like a whiner, like I’d been weak. Which I know now is preposterous, but it really helped me to see photographic evidence of me being strong, being calm, doing this amazing work that millions of women have done and do every day. It is the most common and yet most miraculous thing, and the photos I have, while not for public consumption, remind me of that. No matter the method or how it may vary from your original plan, to give birth is nothing short of a miracle. If someone gave birth to you, go hug them right now.