Thad’s Birth Story | Part 9: “Hello, Little One! It’s so good to see you.”
I shared Thaddeus’s birth story in installments on social media. Since not everyone is on social media, I wanted to also share the story of his birth here on my blog. This version is the narrative form version, which I wrote initially for family and friends. If you’re jumping in here on this post, you may want to go back and start with Part One.
Alternatively, I also have an overview post of my pregnancy and Thad’s birth over here on this post.
The low back pressure was so intense it was hard to tell when a contraction started or ended. But they were definitely not 7 minutes apart. They were coming fast and furious. Which was convenient because I was just pushing as much as I could. It was nice that the contractions got on board with that!
I have a video of the moment Lazlo was born. You can hear the soft music playing, you can hear my careful breathing, you can hear the slight sloshing of the water as I move around and catch the baby and pull him up to my chest.
This birth was not like that. If there was a video, the sound would probably have been distorted. This was not a quiet birth.
Gabe said to me at one point, “Remember, if you can hold off pushing, you can let everything stretch more and might reduce your risk of tearing.”
With every birth I’ve needed stitches, and I hate recovering from stitches. I wanted to avoid tearing… until I was in the midst of all those “baby is coming out!” sensations. And then, I simply didn’t care. This was the 4th time my body has done this. I’ve been consuming healthy, Omega-rich fatty foods and drinking collagen and bone broth like a boss. If my body doesn’t know how to stretch, not tear, at this point, I’m not sure what else I can do for it. So be it, we’ll deal with the stitches!
Charlotte slipped in from the dark porch at some point. I didn’t hear her come in – my eyes were closed, I was squeezing combs, and I was PUSHING loudly. She kissed my forehead. I know it is her by the scent of her hand sanitiser.
“Charlotte, I don’t want to do this. I want to be done,” I complain, taking a break from pushing.
“I know. You’re nearly there. Can you feel the baby?”
I checked and sure enough, a very encouragingly short distance lay between the baby’s head and the outside world.
It was just the thing to propel me on. With what I think was the next contraction, I pushed again, and felt the incredible intensity of the baby’s head just about to come out. I took a deep breath and pushed again. “Head’s out!” I announced to no one in particular. Charlotte was by the table, jotting notes or getting something. Gabe was near, but not watching – he might have been confirming something with Charlotte.
Another push. “Body’s out,” I state. Gabe lunges for the birth pool, later he told me he thought our baby was free floating in the water. His arms splashed into the pool to rescue the helpless infant, his sweatshirt soaked to his shoulders. Only problem is that the body isn’t all the way out.
A moment of confusion for Gabe, another push from me, and the baby is finally completely born. I pull the slippery, familiar form up to my chest and heave a huge sigh. It was 6:02am.
I can’t remember exactly what I said.
Each morning, when I first see my kids, I make a point to stop whatever I’m doing, look in their eyes, and tell them, “Good morning! It’s so good to see your beautiful face today.” A lot of my communication with them is directive, like “Put this away, please,” or “Sit on your knees or bottom,” or “You need to finish your breakfast.” But I like the FIRST thing I say each morning to be an expression of my delight in them.
I think I instinctively did the same with this fresh, new family member. It was something along the lines of “Hello, little one. It’s SO good to see you. Welcome.”
And then I looked at Gabe and Charlotte and said, “I’m so glad that is over!”
Part Ten