Original post date: July 19, 2013 (Moving my content from one blog to another. It just feels right.)
I had a baby. Her initials are not JAR. This is bothersome because it breaks the pattern. However. I refused to name her Jessica or Jezebel. So she's baby DLR? Not catchy. But the truth often isn't. No matter. She's a keeper anyway.
So baby DLR was born three months ago. Already, the memories of pain and suffering have diminished with time. I can nuzzle my face in the nape of her neck and sigh, "it wasn't so bad," her heady scent rendering me drunk with new baby love. Those mommy hormones don't mess around.
But if I really concentrate, I seem to remember hours of searing pain, intense vomiting and wishing that someone would punch me in the back. (That seemed like a great solution at the time... a sort of counter-pain? No one was willing. The nurse seemed to think it would be some sort of liability. Modern medicine. Puh!)
I'm not really interested in writing about all of the details. Centimeters, effacement, contractions. Boring. What I really remember are just a handful of moments. Moments I hope to hold on to forever.
My daughter took twice as long as my son. We all expected her to arrive in the car or parking lot with lots of screaming and excitement. That's not her style. She took her sweet, sweet time. What's that phase of labor that comes right before pushing? The really terrible one? Transition or something? Well during that phase I remember bending over the hospital bed pressing the side of my face into the mattress. The back labor was excruciating. I had to completely succumb to the pain and try not to die. I couldn't move. I could barely breathe. I just stared vacantly, drool trickling from the side of my mouth.
Big JAR says to my mom, "oh look, she's sleeping."
"Are you sure?"
"Yes, her eyes are twitching."
They stare at me tenderly. Poor, exhausted thing.
I must be suffering from temporary locked in syndrome. I can hear them, but I can't respond. I want to scream. "I'm awake you morons! Who on God's green earth could sleep through such shattering pain?! Of course I'm twitching!! My bones are separating to make room for a freakin' person!!! " Instead this comes out as a soft whimper and my husband rubs my back lovingly. Whatever. Probably better for our marriage that I can't speak.
So that's a moment.
When it gets close to pushing time, I haul myself into the birthing tub. The water feels heavenly. I just bob around like mother Earth. I'm between contractions. I stretch out, close my eyes and feel completely present. My birthing mix is softly playing from my iPod. Moon River.
My midwife says, "you know, you really have a beautiful pregnant belly."
My mom says, "Venus de Milo." (Although Venus' stomach is actually pretty flat, I appreciate the sentiment.)
I don't care how much trauma my body endures. I still love a compliment. Even if it's bologna. Keep talking ladies.
That was a moment.
Now it's time to push. My husband sits behind me. My midwife sits in front of me, sipping a ginger ale. She tells me, "your body knows what to do." That's the extent of her coaching. I dig it. I do know what to do. My hips were made for this. I am Ixchel, Lucina or any other fertility deity. So I push. While I push, I scream. Like a maniac, banshee and/or wounded animal.
Once I can feel the top of her head, I shift my inarticulate shrieks into a two-word mantra -- "my baby, my baby, my baby, my baby" until she arrives. Slick with vernix, red and screaming, absolute perfection. I hold her and sob with joy, relief, and ferocious love.
That was the moment.
