How Peter Made His Way Into our World

The day started like every other Monday.  Waking to the sweet sounds of sing-songy Asher playing in his adjoining bedroom, quickly showering and dressing, waking the kids and then hurrying them through the morning routine and into our van.  Then onto our homeschool charter where I wandered between Ash's childcare, Jonah's pre-algebra and Gabe's kindergarten.  Except that on this Monday, I was waddling more than usual; really, I was barely walking.  At 38 weeks pregnant, I felt like I had hit my wall and wasn't sure how I would manage through the final days of pregnancy.  After lunch, we headed to the campus library to wait out the afternoon while Jonah attended his last class of the day.  Tears filled my eyes as I repeatedly inched my way across the library, helping one child and then another (not voluntary sad tears, but involuntary eye-wetting because I ached so much).  As I walked with Gabe to the restroom, I froze in my steps when I could have sworn a fist nearly punched its way into the world.  I counted five Braxton Hicks contractions during the 25-minute ride home.  I felt hopeful that baby Peter would be making an early entrance, maybe only a few days away.

Once back to the house, I rested while the kids got to work on their chores.  The promise of a bonfire spurred them on, and we were soon sitting around a blazing fire in our backyard, roasting hot dogs and S'mores.  I was uncomfortable in my camping chair, not helped by the pyromaniac sons that I was trying to keep alive.  Eventually, Clint brought the little ones inside to bathe, and I lingered outside with Jonah and Autumn.  We gazed at the stars and talked for a while.  Finally, we came in to get ready for bed as well.

But sleep didn't come quickly.  I watched some TV, and then just as I was ready to turn in, Asher started to cry in bed.  I settled him down and tucked him back in, then climbed into bed myself.  At 12:30, a half-hour later, he was standing beside me, crying again.  I took him back to his bed, only to have the same scenario repeated 30 minutes later.  During those 30 minutes, I began to have contractions.  My iphone consistently timed them at 2-1/2 minutes apart.  I brought Asher into bed with me, trying to comfort him while my contractions grew stronger.  I think he sensed this was his last night as Mommy's baby, and we both enjoyed it as much as possible.  But the pains were only intensifying and so, after a few minutes, I woke Clint up and asked him to put Asher to bed.  It was 1:30.  I thought my labor would be long (Peter was transverse, just like Asher and, at 13 hours, Asher's was my longest labor); I hoped to get some sleep before waking Clint for good.  At 2:00, my legs began to shake and I started having visions of delivering in the hospital parking lot, in our car, in our bathroom, or in bed.  Ditching my earlier plan, I woke Clint up and we hurriedly dressed and packed my bags, cursing ourselves for not preparing ahead.

It was 2:30 when we pulled away from the house, and 2:45 when I was brought into my hospital room.  A nurse checked me, said I was between 6-7, and admitted me.  (She announced my admittance like it was a glorious surprise; I was definitely not worried about being turned away.)  Knowing my history of childbirth and labor, I knew that I usually have a very short time between that point of labor and delivery.  I wanted an epidural and knew I would need to get it right away, or lose the opportunity.  I sent Clint into the hallway to track down the nurse that had just left our room, to explain/demand/beg for this.  We were told I first had to finish one round of antibiotics (I'd tested positive for strep B again), and that we'd have to wait a bit.  Maybe the anesthesiologist was actually MIA, I don't know; but that call meant this would be a natural birth.  Woo-hoo.  (I had not accepted this obvious reality yet; working through each contraction took all of my focus and I knew that would break if I dwelt too long on rings of fire or sleeping anesthesiologists or lips stretching around watermelons.)  Instead, I quietly focused on the contractions, trying not to tense up and stop them from doing their work.  I repeated self-affirmations in my head; things like, "This is what your body was made for,"  "This connects you to women through the generations," etc.  Sounds new-agey, but it really made me feel empowered and, if it didn't speed things along, it certainly didn't slow them down, either.


Probably around 3:45, I started to feel some pressure.  Not quite the pressure to push, but the pressure of a baby settling way down low.  Heidi, my delivery nurse, checked me and said I was at a 9 +.  I delusionally asked what my pain management options were at that point.  Calmly, she explained we could try to hold things off and get the anesthesiologist (although it was obviously too late for an epidural), or we could get the Dr. to break my water, which would speed labor and get me to a quicker delivery.  I decided to rip off the band-aid, so to speak.  About one minute after my doctor broke my water, as he was getting up to walk out of the room, I started pushing.  Not feeling the need to push and listening to the nurses who were telling me to wait until they were all freaking ready for me to push; pushing.  I don't know what woman is able to resist the urge to push during natural childbirth- knowing this is the only way to get rid of her pain- but clearly I am made of lesser stuff.  And so I pushed.  (My husband, bless his soul, never batted an eyelash.)  And you know what?  They hurried up and got ready to catch the baby.  I mean, really hurried.  It would have been more entertaining to watch if I wasn't so busy.  And, a few contractions later, at 4:15 AM, Peter Leonard Firth made his entrance into the world.  He came with a cry, his small head covered in dark red hair.  The world seemed to pause as I held him in my arms, cord intact and freshly born.  At the time, I was really grateful this hospital let their patients do that.  Now that I think about it, they probably just didn't have the isolet or medical supplies ready to be able to take him from me.  Since I didn't listen about waiting to push.  Heh.

I felt so happy, and it was such a contrast from the intensity of the previous 3 hours or the exhaustion of my Monday.  The fulness of my large womb was gone, and as I watched Clint looking over him, now in his isolet, I smiled with genuine happiness.