Birth (4x)

Nineteen

and I was too young, my body barely filling out into the form of a grown woman. It had been an accident. A careless one, but an accident at that.

There was a surprising gush of fluid in the middle of the night, and then seven hours of blurred chaos. There were IV's and Pitocin and a catheter and narcotics and an epidural that paralyzed me from breastbone to toes and constrictive fetal monitoring belts and a cold bed and stirrups and a nurse telling me "there's no use in crying. This is nothing. It's going to get SO much worse." There was blood everywhere and meconium and the sockets of my teeth were bruised and the blood vessels in my eyes had popped from the forceful pushing. There were heart decelerations and a NICU team on hand, and so many strangers packed into one little room.

And when it was all over, and we were both declared "safe", I felt like I had just been through a war zone. I glanced at him and thought, "well that's a nice looking baby, but can I eat and sleep now?"

Twenty

and I was still too young. But there had been another careless accident, and it had happened because I had not yet lived long enough to learn my lessons without doing it the hard way. Twice. I didn't want another baby and I was bitter and deeply depressed about it. The previous birth had disconnected me from my body. I saw nothing miraculous or amazing about any of it. I was miserable, physically and mentally, and 18 months after the first was born, I walked right back into that hospital and I let all of the same things happen to me, and to my baby. Because I didn't know then, that it could ever be any different, and frankly, I didn't care.

And when this little one appeared, my mind sat blank. Utterly and completely blank.

Twenty Six

and I was fiercely determined that this time, everything would be different. There was a homebirth plan in place, and a gentle midwife who answered my every call, day or night, and mentored me right into authentic motherhood. There was a birth that happened so lightning fast that I stood at the edge of my bed, completely incapacitated by a head barreling through my pelvis. It was a train I couldn't get off of, and couldn't even manage to slow down. I was afraid.

But after I had screamed him out, and he appeared, quiet, and pink, the only thought in my head was: "I can't believe I just DID that." It was a transformative moment--the first time I ever felt an inkling of awe at my own body--of its strength and its resiliency and its power.

Twenty Nine

and it would be my last. My last chance at having a daughter, my last birth, my last baby.

I relished his birth. It was one inhalation and exhalation after another, and it just quietly unfolded. There was no resistance whatsoever. It was a time of complete awareness, complete presence, and a peaceful and confident trust in my body. I needed no one. Just the sounds of my own breath, and then, towards the end, the feeling of his legs kicking himself downward. I coaxed his body out, and I cooed to him when his head appeared, under a blanket of warm water. "Baby...oh...my baby." There was no fear present. Not inside of myself, and not in a bedroom full of silent observers.

And when he slipped out of my body, and I lifted him out of the water and held him in my hands, and stared into his brand new face, the first thought that ran through my head was: "That was so fucking awesome."