On the evening of March 31st, I was not sleeping well. Most people wouldn’t find that surprising, seeing as I was only a week ahead of my due date and roughly the size of a beluga whale. But even though I had outgrown all my maternity clothes (as well as most of my husband’s shirts), I had slept well my whole pregnancy. So when I kept waking up in the middle of the night I did what most wives do: I blamed my husband. He was answering work calls, and I was irritated. I would drift back to sleep again, only to be woken several hours later when the husband, Lord help him cause I’m gonna kill him, shifted in his sleep. Also, my stomach was feeling strange, but that was probably his fault too, I just couldn’t figure out why, you know, because I was so tired.
The next morning I woke up around 7, sat on the couch, and settled in for a little quiet time. That’s when I noticed the pain in my back. At about 7:30, I was ready to admit that these pains *might* be contractions. An hour and a half later and I found myself starting to have a little intense fellowship with the Lord. My contractions weren’t consistent, but they were fairly constant. Still, I wanted to be sure that I was truly in labor before telling anyone. I did, however, start packing my to go bag, and attempted to clean the house one last time. I remember muttering to myself that either this baby was coming, or God was playing the world’s worst April Fool’s joke on me. At 10:30, the real work started. I woke Glenn (he had been up late working the night before and was sleeping in), told him that today was The Day, and then promptly set him off to finish my cleaning. And pack some snacks. And buy me a smoothie. Looking back on it, I probably should have given him a little time to celebrate before setting him to work.
I had prepared for laboring: I’d spent hours finding just the right songs to put on my Labor Playlist, had an exercise ball set out, walking shoes ready to go. I never touched any of that. Instead, I spent the next several hours inside a small, dark bathroom, and I loved it. I could close my eyes, relax in the silence, and focus on riding out each contraction.
After about an hour, Glenn drew me a bath and let me tell you, sitting down in that water was one of the best experiences of my life. My contractions may have been getting heavier with exclusive back pain, but in that tub I was happy, comfortable, and in control. I was staying put.
As time went on, Glenn started coming in more frequently. He then offered to help me time the contractions. They started at four minutes apart, then quickly went down to three. He sweetly mentioned that the car was packed- and don’t I want to head out? But I was not moving. The bathtub was my new best friend, my happy place. This whale had found her habitat and she was in no mood to leave it, but thanks for the offer.
At two minutes apart Glenn was still maintaining his composure, though he did offer to call the paramedics, seeing as he was in no mood to deliver the baby himself.
I told him not to tempt me.
Finally, when the contractions were a minute and a half apart, reason got the better of me and I relented. We would have this baby in the hospital after all. Glenn let out a big sigh of relief and shuffled me into the car before I could look back at my beloved bathtub.
By the time we reached the hospital, I couldn’t get from the door to the ER front desk without having to ride out a contraction. But when we arrived at the desk, no one was there.
You have got to be kidding me, I thought.
When the nurse finally came out from behind a door and heard what we were there for, she calmly asked us to sit down in the waiting room, someone would be with us shortly.
And then I punched her in the face.
No, I’m just kidding, but that’s what I wanted to do. In actuality I stood there and glared at her, refusing to budge. A security guard took one look at us, rushed over, offered me a wheelchair, and then declared that he would start walking us over to the maternity ward. Smart man, that security guard. Turns out I was 6cm dilated. Within minutes of being in the room, my water broke. It was time to get down to business.
There is a reason it’s called labor. For the next hour and a half I went from six to ten centimeters. And then the craziest thing happened. I needed to push. No, I HAD to push. Some womanly instinct rose up inside of me, my body somehow knew what it was supposed to do.
In that moment I suddenly felt like a Woman. A powerful Child Bearer, privy to the universe’s secrets, maker of life. Nothing could stand in my way.
I think the hormones might have gone to my head a bit.
And so I began to push. And push. And push. And push. The Little was stuck, so for over 40 minutes the head was showing, but not budging. All my bravado was gone. I had chosen to have a natural childbirth, and without any medications to numb the pain my every drop of energy was devoted to getting that baby out. I had popped the IV off of my hand from pushing so hard and had blown blood vessels on my arms and face. I felt physically spent, and yet there was still no baby. Self doubt began to creep in and I distinctly remember praying, “Lord!!! You have to help me!" And then, an hour after I started, all the work paid off, and out came a beautiful 8.5 lb 20.5 inch long BOY. And, wouldn’t you know it, he looked just like me.
For about 60 seconds everything in the world felt perfect. I was a mother! I had a son. A SON! But only moments after they had placed him in my arms they took him away again. My precious child- this creature who had altered my entire universe in a blink of an eye- was not breathing properly. Our joy turned to confusion and fear as they whisked him away into the NICU, Glenn following closely behind. The next few hours were a blur, and I was so thankful to have my friend Lucy, a labor and delivery nurse, there by our side to help us understand the medical jargon the pediatrician was giving us. Our boy wasn’t breathing properly because there was fluid in his lungs. The next 24 hours were critical- he could keep fighting and the lung could dry up or he could get tired, thus leading to a range of possible complications. We needed to choose a hospital to helicopter him to in case things got bad.
So we prayed. Lucy held my hand and stayed by my side and Glenn stayed with our boy. Soon the situation started the stabilize. At one moment Glenn was finally allowed to touch him- he reached his finger over and placed it onto that tiny little baby’s chest. The boy’s heart rate immediately slowed and stabilized, his little body relaxed. I think that little boy knew the touch of his father, and he felt safe.
Four long hours passed before I was allowed to see him. Our boy was a warrior- he kept getting healthier and was impressing the doctors. The next morning I was finally allowed to hold him. The sweetest tears I have ever been blessed to cry ran uncontrolled down my face. Praise be to the One who “gives to all people life and breath and all things[!]"
We decided to name him Devon Robert. Devon we chose as an homage to our time in England. We wanted to speak blessings of joy and adventure and peace over him- all the blessings that felt characterized our time overseas. Robert was after my brother. He’s one of our closest friends, my hero growing up, and an uncle that he will be blessed by.
We brought our perfect, healthy child home just couple days later. There are no words to accurately express how great the love for a child is. It is a feeling that warms and consumes your whole being. Glenn and I have been given the ultimate honor and responsibility- to love and train up a brand new soul! It is a frightening and exhilarating undertaking, but one that I am so blessed to be a part of.
