Birth Stories: A Family Affair at Home

The day my fourth child was born was beautifully mundane. He was born in my upstairs bedroom, into the hands of his eldest brother while my husband held my hands, my sister-in-law sat with my daughter and other son on my bed, and my brother and mother prepared dinner downstairs.

Ziggy was born early in the evening on a warm mid-may afternoon. His birth came after weeks of waiting on labor, months of wondering how our family would feel once he joined us, and years of family-building, during which my husband and I had brought two other sons and a daughter into the world and experienced three pregnancy losses. Conceived the week after my daughter turned one, I squealed with joy when I saw the two pink lines that let us know of his presence and delighted in the fact that I would get to experience having 2-under-2. And then, I immediately called my midwife; I couldn't want to tell her that I was expecting.

During my first prenatal visit, I talked at length about how beautiful and soul-searingly life-changing my daughter's birth had been. While my first two sons were born in the hospital, I knew before I even clipped the hospital anklet off my second son that I would never birth there again. My birth experiences with my first two children had not been traumatic, but I’d felt like I was on guard, and that I’d had to push to have a physiological birth rather than one rife with interventions.

When I thought about how I wanted to birth my third baby, I imagined a birth where I didn’t have to leave my space, where I could sleep in my own bed, and where the people catching my baby truly knew and cared for us. I didn’t want to have to state my name and birthdate over and over through contractions or remind anyone of my birth preferences. I wanted to be seen and known and cared for by my birth attendants like women have been for most of the last millennia.

The hours I spent laboring with my daughter in the quiet heat of the July night and the moment I lifted her from the water to my chest forever changed me. She was only days old when I realized I couldn’t wait to experience birth like that again.

As my pregnancy with Ziggy progressed, I visited my midwife every so often. We would listen to my son's heartbeat and she would gently knead my belly, taking my hands in hers to show me how he was lying and helping me identify his different parts. We talked quite a lot too. About my hopes for this birth, how each of my children wanted to be involved, my worries and fears, the big and small things that cross your mind and occupy your energy when you're carrying a precious baby.

My oldest son, who was eight, was delighted to be adding another sibling to our family; he’d been in the pool with me when his sister was born and was adamant that he wanted to catch the next baby on his own. My midwife took care to include him in each appointment, talking with him about the job of catching, teaching him to use the doppler, and encouraging him to roll the measuring tape over my belly when it came time to see how big I’d grown.

As my due date approached, I waited as patiently as I could- sending a silent prayer into the universe each night when I laid down that it would be the last one before I met my baby. As the links on the paper chain I’d made for my children to count down to the birth disappeared one by one each morning, I wondered when my baby would decide to join us.

And then, on May 12th, he did. Exhausted from the sheer effort of existing as someone 39 weeks and 6 days pregnant, my husband had snuck out of our room early to ready our children for school and let me sleep in. I woke up slowly, trying not to be disappointed that I wasn’t in labor, and decided that I was going to have the loveliest day possible: I’d take a long walk, soak in the bath, go out to lunch, and prepare something delicious for dinner.

When I noticed a little bit of uncomfortable cramping a few hours later, I did my best not to think too much of it; I didn’t want to be disappointed by false labor. When I noticed the gentle wave of cramps coming around every 8 minutes an hour or so later, I sheepishly told my husband that my body might be getting ready. “Should we get the house ready?” he asked, worried about inflating the birth pool and organizing the towels and blankets I’d had ready in our room for the last month. “No,” I said, “let's go out to lunch.” He rolled his eyes but agreed and we set off to my favorite restaurant. By the time my roasted chicken and sweet potatoes arrived, my cramps were about 5 minutes apart and I had trouble talking through them. Still, I wasn’t ready to declare I was in labor, so when we got home I insisted that my husband take a walk with me. By the time we’d circled the block, the contractions were strong enough that I let him call our midwife and go pick up our kids.

I sat on my ball in the dark then, the shades drawn and my favorite candle flickering. I placed a hand across my belly, knowing these were the last quiet moments my baby and I would experience on our own. I thanked him for deciding to join our family and let him know we were so ready for him.

My midwife arrived around the time my husband and kids got home and I labored in the nursery while they filled the tub. As the contractions got stronger I did my best to remember how grateful I was to be able to experience this labor and how my body and baby were working together. I heard my mother, brother and sister-in-law arrive and smelled the birthday cake my 5 year old was baking as I swayed and moaned through contractions with my husband's hands pressed to my hips.

When I felt ready, I got into the pool. The intensity of labor was overwhelming and I called out that I couldn’t do it. My midwives, my husband, and my son murmured quiet affirmation and, within a few minutes, I felt my body begin to push.

Pushing was a sort of work I hadn’t anticipated; my daughter had seemed to sail from within me, but this time I was having to really work, to use every muscle and every bit of strength I had to bring my son down. As I felt his head leave me, I heard my midwife whisper to my oldest son that the baby was still in his bag of water.

For just a moment, my oldest son's hands held my youngest son's head, separated only by the paper-thin membranes of an intact bag of water. Then, with a final rush of strength, I pushed with everything I had and my baby tumbled into my son's waiting hands. Together, he and the midwives lifted my new baby to my chest, pulling the bag over his face and untangling his body from the cord.

 Sometime later my middle son cut the umbilical cord and I moved from the pool onto the bed where my husband and children circled around my baby and me. Later, as I ate lasagna and cake and my midwives lifted my baby from the bed in a cloth sling to weigh him, I understood why pushing had felt like such work; he was 10lbs and 12 ozs. Nearly a whole pound heavier than my next heaviest baby!

That night, after the midwives had left and my older kids had been tucked into bed, my husband and I lay together, our newborn between us, and wondered over him, in awe of this little creature who was ours forever now. His birth was one of my favorite days and I’m so glad I chose to have him at home, surrounded by the love and care of my other children and a team of midwives who truly cared about us.

Julia Pelly, MPH, is a writer, birth and postpartum doula, La Leche League leader, and founder of Your Postpartum Plan. As an expert in maternal and child health, she helps parents plan and prepare for all the big things parenthood will ask of them. Julia lives in North Carolina with her partner and four young children.