Birth Story for L3: 2nd Homebirth after Cesarean

Today is L3's 2 week birthday. It is also her "due date". So, it is about time I get the story down. There are some pictures, but nothing graphic (no genitals or nipples, but bare belly and breastfeeding baby). From beginning to baby took about 25 hours, 13 hours less than L2's birth.


Ever have that dream where you are going to the bathroom, only to wake to hoping you were just dreaming and can make it to the bathroom in time? December 4th, 2011, Sunday morning, I woke to that, only instead of an urge to pee it was a pop and a gush. I wouldn't be making it to the bathroom, my water had just broke.

So I waddled to the bedroom door, seeing that it was about 3:30am, and wondered where my husband was. He should have been home from work about an hour earlier. I loudly whispered his name (he had been reading on the couch) and told him the news. He was surprised, to say the least.

I got to the bathroom, while Mike called our midwife, Dr Brandy, and doula (also our midwife's assistant), Megan. At this point, what is happening hits me, and I completely break down in a panic attack. My birth of L1 started with my water breaking, and it did not go well from there. It took my husband, and phone conversations with my birth team to calm me down, and put us back on track for our plans of a homebirth. Since we weren't having any contractions, everyone stayed home to wait and see how things played out.

Since my boys were still asleep in our bed (and the wet spot I created in my spot at the foot of the bed), and Mike hadn't even been to bed yet, we set up in the living room to get some sleep. Only, my contractions started about an hour later. And got stronger.

We had intended to send the boys and roommates to my brother's to wait. But when they decided to wake up at 5:30am I called my mom to come get them. I knew there was no way I could keep myself calm and focused with kiddos who had woken up too early. So, we kicked everyone out by 8 or 9am.

Mike and I spent the day resting in our "nest", watching the second season of the original series of Star Trek, taking walks, and just being together. My contractions were very uneven, though were pretty strong. All day we played that game. Sleep, snack, Star Trek.

At 5ish, I was getting uncomfortable and decided to get into the tub. Everyone (myself included) thought that my baby would wait for nighttime to arrive. But instead of resting, my contractions became stronger. I breathed and moaned though them, in the glow of our Christmas lights, with Christmas music playing. I remember at one point thinking it was taking forever, and a non-Christmas song came on. The lyrics to the song were EXACTLY what I needed to hear (really, listen to it).

I bawled my eyes out. We were in gear and really progressing. We called Megan to come over. I got out of the tub needing to use the bathroom. And the contractions stopped.

Damn.

So again, we rested, we snacked, we walked (not pleasant at all: 20 degrees and throwing up on the stairs), we listened to Christmas music and basked in the glow of our lights.  Déjà vu all over again. Megan told my husband to sleep, me to relax in the birth tub, and she made herself scarce (My doula is rad like that. She knows when to kick my ass into gear, when I need encouraging, and when to just leave me alone. Check her out if you want an awesome doula). With everyone otherwise occupied I started having good, steady contractions again. The birth tub got cold, so I moved to our shower. 

I decided to check myself at that point. I was beginning to loose some of my hope, and was hoping to find myself decently dilated, which I was. I still felt a bit of a lip though. So, as Mike dozed while sitting on the toilet (just as a seat), I labored in the shower. There came a point where I started feeling like pushing, but was worried it wasn't really time. So, I pushed a little. Then a little more. I didn't tell anyone I was pushing, I had a fear they would tell me to stop. When I realized I couldn't stop pushing, I woke up Mike and told him to get Megan. When she saw there was no access to my bathroom, she encouraged me to try to get to the bed.

I made it out of the tub and to the toilet. Then I realized if I stayed much longer, I was going to have a baby in the toilet. So, I moved again. About 3 steps. Then I announced I couldn't go further and needed to push, even though I wasn't sure I was complete enough. Must have been though, because I squat down (right at the edge of the bathroom linoleum) and pushed. Good thing Megan keeps medical gloves in her pocket, and the chux pads were in arms reach of Mike. Out came baby in just a couple of pushes! I reached down, lifted the baby to my chest, and fell back into Mike's arms. After a few moments of rubbing baby down to get some response, we took a look and saw we had a GIRL! Really. I checked repeatedly over the next few days, that is how surprised I am. 

After delivering the placenta, exploring the system that nourished my little girl (cord that went FOREVER, twice around her neck, and around her body, between her legs), attempting to initiate breastfeeding (she wasn't interested yet), and the arrival of my midwife (because I didn't mention how far along I thought I was, no one knew to call her sooner. Sorry Dr. B!), we shifted to the bed to snuggle for a bit before cutting the cord, checking for tears, and doing her newborn check. She was 7lbs 6oz, 19in. All healthy, no stitches needed, and we were bundled up for the best part: the first nap, snuggled in my bed, with my husband and beautiful new baby girl.

Itty Bitty baby butt, huge  boob. 

Birth of L2: August 20th, 2009

As I began to write my birth story for L3's birth, I realized that L2 was never cross-posted here. So, enjoy while I work out my thoughts on my latest birth!

After many days of warm-up labor, I felt we were at the real thing Monday afternoon. Went to bed about 10 that night after calling our doula to warn her things were happening, but we were going to try to sleep. I woke up to strong contractions at about 1:30am. After an early morning of getting things put together, kicking out family at 9ish, midwife check about 9:30, we then had a whole day of uneven contractions. It wasn't until 10pm, when I realized that L1 was about to spend his first night away from my husband and me, that I needed to put my all into this and not just wait and see.

(Totally loose track of time in this part. Somewhere between 1am and conclusion at 6:35am.) So we walked, then I started telling myself when to have contractions. I would tell myself "Now," a contraction would start, I would be with it, it would resolve, I would take a drink and a breath, then start it again. Soon after they took the pace on their own and we were officially in to hard labor. As things became more difficult, I spent time in the shower and in the labor tub. I remember getting angry that it hurt so bad! I would hit the tub edge. When I was getting IV antibiotics for Strep B, I was stuck to many times, my midwife's assistant FELL on me (I am sure she was horrified) and when my midwife broke my water she accidentally stuck me with the tool. At that point I WHINED. I complained that it wasn't fair for it to hurt so bad, people

falling on me, being stabbed with everything. I was told I was complete, second check revealed I wasn't. Midwife left for another birth, I had a backup midwife come (who was wonderful as well, even if I did hate her for the great help she was in pushing aside a cervical lip when I couldn't wait to push anymore.)

Finally, my son was born at 6:35am, in my bed! He was born with his hand next to his cheek, causing all the trouble! 8lbs 12 oz, 21in. I had 8 stitches to repair tearing, then we spent the rest of the morning sleeping, IN MY OWN BED! It was amazing. Now, 3 weeks later I am back to work, can chase

my toddler around again, and am almost 100%. I couldn't imagine a better way for things to go, as they all went in the way to bring me to my amazing HBAC! I really do feel like a REAL woman now.

Body Image

I feel like I have always been aware of my body as something to be ashamed about. I have always been short and stout, rounded and pudgy. It has always been, and body image issues seem to run in the family. My dad's side has the over eaters, my mom's: the sometimes dangerously under eaters. I grew up hearing my mom talk about how fat she was, how horrible she looked weighing so much. As I was much more rounded than she was, I took that to mean I must look horrible as well. She never intentionally said anything like that about me, it was just the natural conclusion I came to. Even more so, as she always seemed to look slender to me. I rebelled against this ideal of body perfection, at least that is what I told myself. I didn't care what I ate, or keeping active.

I wore my first bra at 8, with a horribly embarrassing trip to K-Mart where my mom just kind of nudged me into the intimates department and told me to pick something. I bumbled through tears and feelings of shame until a suitable item was found. And the following day, being scoffed at and teased by other girls for wearing a bra to "hold my fat in." I recall middle school clothes shopping, when I was to pay for half of my clothing budget, having picked out items from the plus sized area (already) that rang up the wrong price. My mom was helpful in standing up for the price listed, but I was so ashamed to say they were from the plus size section for the price check I would rather had paid the higher price. Picking out clothes my first year in high school at age 14, I was a size 20.

During high school, I was more active. Our school was the largest in the state, so to traverse it's grounds within the 5 minute transfer period was a strain. Marching Band also helped (and shut up of you don't think a couple of hours a day with a bell set strapped to you wouldn't help you drop a few rolls!) as well as forgoing breakfast, and usually lunch. Not exactly healthy, but is what it is. So, when I met my now husband as a 16 year old, I was a size 16.

After high school, my weight climbed again, then would drop off when I changed jobs or started fashion design school. (Walking around downtown Seattle, and spending class time with mostly size 2 girls, and being told I would only being taught how to design clothes for that size did little for my self-image.) But slowly, it climbed up and up. In early 2006 I stepped on a scale to the shock of the answer being 287. I decided that "it didn't matter" and went on, surely gaining a few pounds after that point.

It wasn't until a few months of failing to get pregnant that I realized that maybe my weight was the issue. So, I finally started thinking about what I ate. And the weight started coming off. I was pregnant 4 months later. By 6 weeks postpartum, I was 50lbs less than my first exam. Someone told me if I did that with every baby, a few more and I could be a super model.

Fast forward! (I'm done with the sob story.) L2 is born, with all his food sensitivities/allergies.  But, more than that story, was the birth of PRIDE in my body. It wasn't until recently that I even made that realization.

That realization came when I decided I wanted to do more than my twice weekly Zumba. I wanted to run. My doula suggested looking into the Couch to 5K.  I am working on week 2. It is still early in the plan, but I am feeling great about it. I choose to run at random times as well. I push myself when playing with my kids. When parking is scarce in my complex, I will jog the short distance home around the pond.

Moreover, I LIKE my body. I still fall to thinking that I am still a "fat girl" and head straight for the plus sizes when shopping, or shirking from photos. I grasp at compliments, sometimes to the annoyance of my husband, to bolster my new self-image. I don't need that plus size section anymore. I take pictures of myself, for the pride I feel about it. I am so proud in fact, that I LOVED finding these pictures to share with you:

 This is almost 4 years, 2 babies, and plenty of lessons learned about body image ago. I once believed my body didn't work. I was then convinced of that by Dr's who told me I couldn't birth my baby as nature intended. Then, I found out we were wrong. My body is amazing. It will continue to amaze me, the more I value it. In fact, my body is one of an athlete. It may not (yet) be slender and toned, but it has endurance, strength, and stamina beyond what I ever imagined. Now, I am determined to continue that theme into a new realm of fitness that I have never known. I might even do a marathon. Soon. Want to join me?

When did you discover you LOVED yourself? How can I support you in loving yourself MORE?

Growing

This week is my 5 year anniversary of being married to my awesome husband. It is also L2's 1st birthday. It is a week filled with contemplation and reflection.

My first son was born 2 years after my husband and I got married. We had great plans to forgo interventions and have a natural birth in the hospital. Circumstances kept us from taking the birth class we wanted to prepare ourselves, and events of my labour took us further from the path. Straight to the operating table and my cesarean. Most people know the story. And that when we were expecting again, did everything possible to keep from repeating that horrible experience.

So, L2 was born at home. Attended by a midwife and a doula. But mostly, it was my husband and I focused on the labor and the process of bringing our child into the world.

I labored for over a day. I spent much of that time trying to forget the pain. Ignore it, not let it have control of me. It wasn't until 24 hours in, when I realized that L1 was about to spend his first night away from us, that I knew I needed to stop trying to not feel pain. It wasn't a pain. This was my body doing what I had looked forward to, expected, needed it to do since my first "failed" labor. Until that point, my body had always failed me. I was always too fat, too slow, too ugly...too whatever. It was that moment that it was MY BODY. Mine. And I could make it what I wanted it to be. All while sitting on the toilet wishing this baby would just come already! I know many women had to learn to let go, I had to learn that I am responsible for me. So, I would tell myself it was time for a contraction, and then picture myself opening, my baby being born. This was my turning point. Things finally took off, and L2 was born a few hours later. It was amazing. 

L2 continued to be a driving force in recreating myself. He was dairy intolerant, and because we breastfed, I cut dairy. A few months later the symptoms still hadn't cleared up, and had gotten worse. Not only was there a rash, but he stopped smiling, laughing, reacting. So, we (by which I mean "I", as we were of course still exclusively breastfeeding) cut soy and gluten. And low and behold, we had our happy boy again! The side affect for me: loosing weight, fast. I realized that though I had gone down in weight each pregnancy (eating better for baby!) that all of a sudden, I was loosing more. And I LIKED It. So for the first time ever, I felt like moving. I hate the E word.

So, I slowly started asking around. I found a Zumba instructor willing to let me participate with my chunky +20lb boy. I never needed to take him, but having it be a possibility broke down my last excuse. So goes that story.

I write all this to tell you that I cried today. During our cool down. I though about being in labor last year.. 2 years before that, I was expecting my first child. 2 years earlier even, I was preparing for my wedding day. And today I was caring for myself as I never had before. I stretched further, knowing I had grown much more than just my baby turning one tomorrow. I was a new person. I am a wife, a mother. More than that, I am me, and only I can decide what that means.

I had so much more I wanted to say, but just don't know how to put it all into words. You know what? I forgot to thank the academy. And by that, I mean every person who has touched my life and helped make me who I am. Husband, kids, dad, mom, sister, friends. Even the OB's that attended my first pregnancy (hey, who knows if I would have learned so much if we hadn't had such a bad time?) or the first person who ever made fun of me. Ok, not her. She can stay in the lost corners of my memory.

Now. What comes next? I'm ready.