I am sitting here on the now constantly used couch in beautiful sunshine thinking about how three weeks ago today, at nearly this hour, Griffin came into our world. Three weeks is such a small amount of time, but it feels as though he has been a part of our lives for much longer. He is wrapped to my chest as he sleeps, squeaking and cooing (and sometimes sounding like a dinosaur) and I can think of no better feeling than this.

Andrew has set up a blog for our family and we’ve been wanting to start writing entries for, well, three weeks now. I only recently have felt like I have the energy to sit and type up some of my thoughts about his birth. The actual labor feels like a distant memory already, so I thought I should get it down sooner rather than later.

Griffin’s due date was March 28th, although throughout my pregnancy I tried not to get hung up on a date. I knew very well that most babies are not born on the exact date (four percent, as a matter of fact), and most first babies are usually a little tardy. When people would ask me when he was due, I would say the end of March/beginning of April, feeling enlightened and above this antiquated idea that one can predict when a baby is to be expected. I really believed the idea that “the baby will come when the baby is ready!”—until his due date came and went.

The last few weeks of my pregnancy became increasingly uncomfortable for me physically, and the longer he stayed in, the harder it became. Priding myself on a relatively drama-free nine months, I found I had to let that go as those last few weeks became a roller coaster of emotions. One day, I would be content and happy knowing that our baby knew when to appear and he would be here soon enough, and the next I would call Andrew in tears because one too many people had asked me when I was due. I remember breaking down once because the excruciating physical pain I was experiencing in my pelvis had prevented me from walking four blocks to the store. I felt trapped at home.

The good news was that he and I were both still extremely healthy, so the doctor was not pushing us to induce. The bad news? I was really, really uncomfortable (have I mentioned this yet?) and wanted that baby out, out, out! I tried everything: walking, sex, pelvic tilts, spicy food of every ethnicity, special “Prego Pizza” from Skippolini’s, fresh pineapple. Everything. Okay, so I didn’t try castor oil. I wasn’t willing to have massive intestinal discomfort that may or may not work in inducing labor and would almost definitely leave me on the toilet for hours and hours. Regardless, all this time I was also having what felt like early labor signs: more frequent Braxton Hicks contractions, the baby was descending lower and lower into my pelvis, and the doctor reported that my cervix was softening quickly. This all felt like good news!

But on and on the pregnancy went. We went to the doctor on Monday, April 6th, where she finally encouraged us to schedule an induction since I would be officially 42 weeks on that Saturday. Unfortunately because of scheduling, we had to take a Thursday evening slot with a probable induction on Friday. I was extremely disappointed, but ever more determined to get the baby out on my own without the use of drugs. That evening, I went to see an acupuncturist and she worked on me for an hour and a half. I did start having some cramping during the session and following it, but because I had tried so many things and had so many false signs, I didn’t get my hopes up. The next day, I woke up with more cramps and some stronger contractions, but nothing so different that it made me feel as though I could be in labor. Andrew and I went to lunch with a friend (I had something spicy, just in case!) and to a matinee movie at the Grand Lake Theatre, and went about our day. I was having stronger contractions, but nothing that was taking my breath away or felt like the real thing.

I do have to take a moment to mention at this point the fact that in the 11 days over the due date that we were waiting for Griffin, Andrew and I were extremely productive. We completely finished the baby’s room (which we had expected to finish over the summer), we planted a container garden on our back deck, we went on several dates and saw lots of movies, Andrew attached all of our bookcases to the wall (making them a little less of a hazard in an earthquake), I finished a stuffed elephant I had been working on along with a few other sewing projects, and our house had never been cleaner or more organized. We definitely filled our time!

Anyway, I went to bed that night at 10:30 and was awoken by a very strong contraction at 11:30. I got up out of bed and breathed through the contractions the way we had practiced and was starting to feel as though this might be it. I excitedly timed them for an hour before waking up Andrew, and found that they were never further apart than 5 minutes and they were lasting for 45-60 seconds each. I really couldn’t believe this was it. I reluctantly called our doula, Nancy, for fear that this might be a false start. Being the nice Minnesotan that I am, I didn’t want to wake her unnecessarily. She was happy to hear from us, though, and told me to call her when I thought it might be a good time to have her come over. The plan was to stay at home as long as possible before heading to the hospital, but never having done this before, I wasn’t exactly sure when to call her. She made some suggestions, and we decided we’d call her back when I thought I needed her.

An hour later, the contractions were getting stronger, harder, and closer together. They were unlike anything I could have imagined, and thinking back to the practice in our birthing class, I had to laugh remembering that the closest thing to physical pain we could get was soaking my hand in a pan of ice water for a minute at a time. HA! Also gone were my visions of a peaceful, quiet birth. I was LOUD, and it was coming from someplace very deep inside of me that I was happy to let out. It helped immensely. Andrew called Nancy back as I took a hot shower and moaned my way through the waves of contractions. She arrived in record time, and upon arrival (I later found out) told Andrew we had to leave PRONTO. With me, of course, she was calm and wonderful. She gave me yogurt and crackers with peanut butter and let me hang on her during the worst of the contractions. Her down coat was such a comfort to bury my face in as I hung my arms from her neck and moaned into her chest.

At this point, I was a little sorry that we had decided to deliver at a hospital 25 minutes away. The contractions were difficult enough while standing and I could not imagine sitting in a car through five or more of them. However, once we were on the road, the white lines of the highway illuminated by the headlights in the dark of the night were meditative, and with Andrew’s reassuring presence, I felt in control. We arrived at the hospital around 2:30 am, and was measured at 5 cm in triage.

We walked to our birthing room and got set up. The contractions were strong, consistent, and unrelenting. I closed my eyes, breathed through the contractions with the help of Nancy and Andrew, and did my best. My thoughts originally were that I very much wanted this to be a natural, vaginal birth, and while it may be difficult, it would likely feel doable as long as I could get up and move. The whole staying-in-the-bed-for-birthing thing really doesn’t make sense to me and I wanted to move around as much as possible, but unfortunately we had a nurse who did not know how to properly get a good read on the fetal monitor, so I was hooked up longer than I would have liked. You have some mobility while connected to the monitors, but it feels like you are strapped to the bed. Contractions were coming fast and hard, and the pain was often overwhelming, especially without full mobility. (Andrew reminds me to not downplay the pain. It was really, really intense—when I look at the pictures I realize that my mind has already forgotten how excruciating it was.)

An aside: So many people say that giving birth is the most beautiful thing. And the result, Griffin, was certainly beautiful. But the birth experience itself was so much more difficult than I ever imagined, and so primal and as far away from beautiful as you can get. This is not to say that I would change it in any way, but to go in thinking I would have one of the most beautiful experiences of my life didn’t prepare me for the amount of sheer pain. I don’t know if any sort of knowledge or training could really prepare someone for the experience, but “beautiful” is definitely not an adjective I would choose.

We were eventually able to convince the nurse to detach me from the monitor, and I was able to move around the room. But at that point the contractions were so brutal that I was starting lose control. It all felt like too much, and the ability to move around came too late to help me get back on track.

Although I knew I was making progress (my water had broken and I was dilated further) I was starting to entertain the possibility of an epidural.

At 6 am I had had enough. The contractions had been unbelievably intense, every two or three minutes for three hours, and my body and mind were reeling. I decided that I needed something to take the edge off, something to help re-center me. Nancy suggested Fentanyl, a powerful narcotic. God bless Fentanyl! It did indeed take the edge off, and I was able to bliss out and concentrate through the contractions once again. It helped me feel in control and focus my energy on helping this baby make his way out.

As expected, however, it wore off after about an hour and the pain was stronger than ever. I asked for a second shot, but it was a lot less effective. Nancy got me up out of the bed to walk around, and Andrew helped rinse my back with hot water in the shower. At this point, I was in a lot of pain, and I was feeling out of control. Nancy reminded me to moan deep and low, but it was hard not to cry and scream. I kept reminding myself that this baby HAD to come out eventually, but I was exhausted and wanted it to be over. The idea of an epidural was sounding better and better, and at around 8 am, I decided to say something. Once I resigned myself to this, it was an enormous relief to think that the pain could be over soon and I could get some respite. I had given it my best shot, and while the thought of an epidural was a little disappointing, I knew I could not go on like that for much longer. I was at the point of “I just can’t do it” and I wanted to be done.

Andrew summoned the midwife (much to his relief, I think—it was difficult for him to see me in so much pain) and she checked me to see if I had dilated any further. Surprise! I was at 9 ¾ cm. No epidural for me; time to start pushing! It was a marked change in mood for me. The contractions were no longer there to just make me writhe and moan. Now they had the expressed purpose of helping me push this baby out. The transition into pushing helped me regain control of myself and gave me renewed energy and purpose. I knew from reading the birthing books that pushing was the home stretch, and it helped me to know we were getting closer.

I pushed. And I pushed. I knelt on all fours, I laid on my left, then on my right, pushing, pushing, pushing. They still wanted me attached to the fetal monitor (which was showing an incredibly relaxed baby, by the way), so I was confined to the bed. After a couple of hours of pushing, I finally convinced them to let me stand up and squat. That position felt the most productive to me, and with every push, I expected the baby to pop right out, but his head was moving only millimeters. Pushing, pushing, pushing. The midwife called in the OB/GYN on duty to make sure I could still proceed without intervention. Thankfully, he gave the thumbs up. Pushing, pushing, pushing, with Nancy, Andrew, and the midwife supporting me. I kept pushing, but it seemed as though the baby was not going anywhere. The midwife was working hard to get the baby out, too, using oil to massage and stretch my cervix. She finally suggested an episiotomy which I politely declined having read that it is much more difficult to recover from than a natural tear. She respected my wishes. After a couple more pushes and no more progress, however, she revisited it with added concerns that I could tear severely since it appeared I was stretched to the limit. I looked to Nancy for guidance, and she thought it was a good idea, so I consented.

Finally at 12:08 pm, four hours after I had started pushing, he quietly whooshed out of the womb in one fell swoop. He was not laid on my chest like I was expecting, but was whisked to the pediatric team next to my bed. Apparently he had expelled meconium (fetal fecal matter) during the birth, and when that happens, they are very careful to make sure the baby has not inhaled any. He was quickly checked out and delivered to me as I lay on the bed, exhausted.

He was quiet and perfect and wonderful. The army of nurses and specialists congratulated me on a job well done (“nine pounds! four hours of pushing! no epidural!”), but all of that melted away as our new family admired one another, each of us with new eyes on the world.