Not According to Plan, But Done.

Birthing Royal

I began writing this on October 14, 2022. Majority of it was finished by the following October. It took a while to process it all, but upon reflection, I’m happy I took the time to write it all down. I hope it’s as interesting as you’d hope a birth story would be. I unfortunately cannot recall where I put the polaroids of me laboring or after her birth, but if I ever do, I’ll return to this post to add them.

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Her due date was April 17, 2022. But that date passed a week and a day ago. Thoughts and talk of natural induction became more common. How long before my body and the ever-growing-rib-kicker finally link up with an exit strategy?

Feeling the suspense and impatience collecting in my mind, I began googling remedies to evict and was willing to try anything reasonable (but not too forceful): long curb walks, pedicures, bumpy roads, spicy foods, sexy time. If anything, the latter and bodies of water helped ease the discomfort of carrying extra weight. After a classic session of erotic push and pull, my mucus plug found a cozy spot on our tan sheets. If you don’t know what that is, it’s exactly what it sounds like: a slug-like chunk of mucus, often laced with blood, that closes off the cervix, keeping the uterus (which has been housing my babe for 9 months) separate from the rest of the vagina.

“What is that?” These are the words of a guy who has no idea what his eyes have witnessed, or what he has gotten his not-so-innocent eyes into. If that grosses you out, you’re in for a wild ride, I thought.

Prior to pregnancy, the presence of the feminine attributes of the sky: the darkness, the moon, the stars, were my favorite part of the repeating 24 hour cycle. But, during this time, I began to dread the later hours of the day as they turned into night. In these hours, I could feel unavoidable tension arising in my body, and sharp pressure beginning to signal the final phase of transformation into motherhood. The darker it got, the more difficult it was to cope. I felt alone and scared in pain. Moving through every squeeze. Taking any second of relief to rest and reset my breath. In hindsight, I wish that I had been more adamant about reminding myself to trust what was happening.

Her father, who was often a night owl, snored through my groans, no matter how loud. I was the restless night owl now. I often created a right angle with my body, tightly gripping the sheets as I swayed from side to side, or bending and elongating my legs, then curling back into bed for 10 minutes (or less) of rest. For two nights, I let him sleep as I endured 10-60 second crunching pains. I was never all that good at asking for what I needed. I never liked being in the limelight either. I needed more support than I was comfortable asking for. I didn’t want to burden anyone. I wouldn’t even call my doula or mother over unless the sun was up for at least 3 hours that day. Well… for the first 2 days. The 2nd day, in the later hours of the night, I found myself in the shower howling through breathtaking sharpness, my eyes sewn shut by eye boogers, and my nose dripping with salt. Her father rose, hurrying to the bathroom after realizing I was no longer weighing down my side of the bed. He began timing contractions, noticing that I no longer had the capacity to keep track on my own, and found that they were pretty inconsistent still, but close to 3 minutes apart. He called my mom and doula, who then showed up at my house it seemed like 3 minutes later.

I originally had a desire to birth at home. None of my community had experienced that before, and because of their discomfort, I compromised, deciding to go to a birth center that had a good relationship with the hospital, if necessary. The midwives at the center said to journey there once my contractions were 5 minutes apart, lasting one minute long for 1 hour, commonly referred to as 5-1-1 by birth workers. So, when my mother and doula showed up at my house and Babe’s father updated them on what he had recorded while timing my pain intervals, they decided that it was time to get moving. I knew in my body that it wasn't, yet. It still felt early in the birthing process. And I was right.