Yes, this is the story of my son’s birth, and yes, that is the first thing my husband exclaimed upon the delivery of that sweet little boy. Is he supposed to look like that?!

I’ll be honest, it crossed my mind too. You see, my son was born with the cord wrapped around his neck twice and a serious cone head, plus as my husband so aptly says, he was covered in pregnancy slime. Grey + cone head + covered in pregnancy slime = creepy alien-like appearance. None of us had ever seen a new newborn and we didn’t know what to expect–but what we were expecting was certainly not that.

I’m getting ahead of myself, so allow me to back up to the very beginning. The very, very beginning is detailed here, a post about the pregnancy that made me want to die (yep, it was that bad!) but the timing of the delivery that ended my pregnancy was so perfect and so much of a gift from God it needed its own post, plus what mom doesn’t like reading the gory details of labor and delivery stories? I’m just kidding–I’ll leave the gross stuff out, but I wanted to share about the amazing experience I had delivering my son. He’s almost two and I’m getting sentimental and reflective, alright?

A little recap from my pregnancy: my Marine husband left for five months of unaccompanied military training across the country when I was 37 weeks pregnant, I moved out of my apartment alone when I was 38 weeks pregnant, and my son was born exactly at 39 weeks. The most incredible part of all?

My husband was there for the birth. He even helped deliver our little boy!

This is where the story gets amazing, because when I said goodbye to my husband at 37 weeks pregnant, it was for five months. He was not supposed to come home for any reason and we didn’t expect for him to meet our little boy for a long time. As you might imagine, my pregnant and hormonal self shed many, many tears.

He arrived at his new training facility and was told he would be in a holding platoon for just over two weeks until his classes started. I had tried everything to naturally induce labor before he left but baby simply hadn’t finished cooking and would not vacate my belly–so if we wanted my husband to be there, the only choice left was to medically induce right at 39 weeks. My husband would come home for the weekend, we would begin the induction that would take about 48 hours until delivery, and my husband would leave again a day after that.

One day as a family.

Better than none, right?

There was nothing that excited me about a medical induction but none of that mattered if my husband could come home for a few days, so we scheduled the induction and a week later, I made the two hour drive to pick up my husband from the airport. By the time my husband appeared through those glass doors, I was struggling to walk from the frequency of my Braxton Hicks contractions.

I was instructed to call the hospital the following morning at 6am before my 7am induction to confirm everything was in order, and I did. What they told me left me devastated.

I’m so sorry, Emma. We had six women go into labor last night so our labor and delivery unit is full and we aren’t taking inductions. 

But–my husband–there can’t be… he’s only home for three days–

We understand, dear, but there are no more rooms. We have to leave availability for women in active labor, but we’ll call you at noon; there might be an opening then.

My husband and I did the only thing there was to do as we dealt with the shock of finding out our chances of baby boy being born before my husband’s flight back had just become tiny: We went to a diner for breakfast and drowned our sorrows and our pancakes in maple syrup. I distinctly remember the waitress asking me when I was due, noticing in confusion I was still in the gown I had worn to labor and deliver in, and us telling her I was supposed to be having a baby right then as I choked back tears.

Noon came closer and at 11:30 we received another call–three more women had gone into labor and they wouldn’t be able to admit me until at least the next day, if that early. It was Friday afternoon and my husband’s flight left in less than 48 hours. The induction process was supposed to take that long. My Braxton Hicks contractions were regular enough at that point we decided to go to the hospital to see if maybe they would admit me anyway, but I was less than 1cm and they sent us back home.

I spent most of that night in tears, hardly sleeping due to anxiety and contractions that were going nowhere.

The next morning, I called the hospital again and was told they were ready to admit me and I could come in then, but my husband was leaving in 30 hours and there was very little chance my son would be delivered in time. We packed the bags in the car and when we arrived, the doctor came to begin the induction and all of a sudden we could see God’s hand in every moment of waiting.

You’re 4cm dilated, he informed me with a smile. This is not an induction; you are in active labor, and he broke my water and walked out of the room. It turns out all those Braxton Hicks contractions I had been experiencing were actually three days of early labor.

I remember the moments after his announcement as it sunk in and the flurry of activity began. The first 12 hours of my induction were supposed to be waiting as the medication went into effect very slowly, allowing my body to get ready as naturally as possible, but all of a sudden I was in active labor and we didn’t necessarily have 12 hours before the baby was coming. My husband had to step out to put some things in order so I was left alone for an hour and by the time my husband got back my contractions were in full force and I couldn’t even stand without doubling over.

It went quickly after that. I fully intended to have an unmedicated-as-possible birth, but the contractions were on top of each other with no break in between and I was quickly realizing my pain tolerance was perhaps lower than I thought.

Let me just take a second here to brag on my husband:

He doesn’t do well watching people he loves in pain. He doesn’t do bodily fluids well (except for the blood of his enemies–he is, after all, a Marine) and when I told him gory stories about other people’s labors and deliveries he sat there staring blankly at me, thoroughly traumatized. This man couldn’t attend birthing classes or the hospital tour or anything that would give him some indication of what was to come, yet he was the perfect birthing coach–calm and collected, like a rock. Inside, he was simply hoping I didn’t die, which was very thoughtful of him to keep to himself while I was laboring away.

I was headed into transition when the nurse informed me new moms usually push for an hour or two before delivering their babies. An hour or two? On average?! Someone had told me beforehand to prepare for the pain by imagining the physical sensation of a limb being ripped off and I laughed at them because that’s ridiculous but my pain tolerance is obviously pretty low because it really felt like that. Perhaps I was being dramatic but there was no way I could have mentally prepared for the amount of pain I was feeling. Yes, I could have mentally prepared and drastically reduced how I was feeling the pain, but I hadn’t done that and the resulting pain felt unimaginable. I didn’t want to push for two hours while dealing with the sensation of my arm being yanked off (interestingly enough, my son now tries to do this regularly when he wants something); I wanted to rest after three days of waking up every eight minutes due to stupid contractions.

Gosh darn it, I got that epidural.

The anesthesiologist came in and gave me a little something extra to take the pain away quickly–I guess I looked close to wanting to die–and within minutes I could take my first full breath in hours. I knew I was getting close to 10cm so the nurse suggested I take a nap while I could and my husband and I promptly passed out for an hour.

When I awakened, the sun streamed in through the billowing white curtains. Birds were chirping outside. The room was bright and calm and silent, and the nurse in the corner looked over, beaming. She checked my progress, then said those words. You’re at 10cm. Are you ready to deliver this baby?

My husband groggily raised his head off the sofa bed on the other side of the room. What? Baby? Push? Now? It hit him that he was at the final stage of waiting for his son and I think just the realization alone shocked him straight out of his slumber.

We were about to do this thing. It was getting real.

The nurse explained how to push and I did exactly what she said but without warning, the baby monitor next to bed started beeping like nobody’s business. I was promptly told to stop pushing. We let baby’s heart rate come down, and then we tried again, but the beeping was back and the nurse looked worried.

I don’t remember exactly what happened after that because I was still in a daze after waking up from a nap and being told it was time to have a baby and then something about the baby being in distress and needing to wait for the doctor who was on call and couldn’t arrive for 40 minutes. What I do remember is that physically, I felt nothing, and I’ve never been more thankful for the epidural because 40 minutes of not pushing when every cell in your body is yelling at you to evict that baby sounds harder than trying to football hold a writhing toddler and a diaper bag and all the sixty-three bags of groceries when you parked at the other side of the giant lot. However, because I could feel nothing, I read a book and waited painlessly while my husband sat tensely in the corner. Finally, the doctor arrived.

There was no way to tell for sure why my son was going into distress every time I pushed so the plan changed: get the baby out as fast as you can. There was an urgency the doctor and nurse were trying to quell, and I didn’t realize it was there until thinking back on their words and faces. Something was wrong and to this day I am immensely thankful they didn’t let on how wrongly it could have ended until I was told afterwards that my son’s distress was life-threateningly serious.

Get the baby out as fast as you can, I thought. Alright, it’s go time.

Fitness has always interested me, and I’ve spent countless hours training for half marathons and practicing Muay Thai and doing squats and planks. In that moment, years of training my body came together and I started the most intense abdominal workout I’ve ever done in my life.

One contraction, then two–

There was a flurry of movement as my son crowned and the problem was discovered–the umbilical cord was wrapped twice around his neck and every time I pushed, the cord choked him and he couldn’t breathe. Thankfully, the doctor and nurse on staff were brilliant and unwrapped the cord before we had any idea what was happening. Praise Jesus my son was safe.

Then the doctor to my husband: Would you like to deliver your son? 

My husband said no.

Clearly, the doctor was used to shocked husbands and gently informed him of what he needed to do: grab the baby under the shoulders and pull. My husband did just this, and tiny, pitiful cries filled the room.

It’s mostly a blur after that, to be honest. My husband looked at the itty-bitty, pregnancy slime covered, cone-headed, grey thing screaming his tiny lungs out and balked. “Is that what he’s supposed to look like?”

Slowly, as my son began breathing normally after the issues with his umbilical cord, he turned from grey to pink. His cone head mostly went away within the hour and a soft towel solved the pregnancy slime thing. Our tiny, sweet, baby boy no longer resembled an alien but his daddy.

Oh, he was so perfect! 50 hours of early labor, 6 hours of active labor, and 8 minutes of pushing and my son was born at 7lbs and 9oz. My husband left for the airport less than 20 hours later.

Postpartum recovery was a breeze and probably in need of its own third post, so come back in a few days!

God never fails to amaze me with how He can perfectly plan out timing. If we hadn’t scheduled an induction, my husband wouldn’t have come home for the weekend. Had there been openings at the hospital the day I was scheduled to be induced, I wouldn’t have had the chance to go into labor naturally. If I hadn’t gone into labor naturally, my son wouldn’t have been delivered before my husband had to leave again. And, while I believe in as little medical intervention as possible, if I hadn’t had the epidural, my body might not have been able to wait 40 minutes to push and the outcome of my son’s delivery could have turned tragic quickly.

Of course, of course, of course God always knows best. I spent a lot of time leading up to my son’s delivery questioning why God gave us a baby and sent my husband away three weeks before he was due. Could the timing have been any worse?

No. It couldn’t have been any better.

Special thanks to my dear friend, Tami, who stepped in as proxy mom when my own mother couldn’t come due to work in Malaysia. Tami came as soon as we found out I was in active labor to lend her support, encouragement, and expertise after having three children of her own and she stayed until I was discharged three days later. Although she isn’t mentioned in this story, she was there almost every moment, keeping me company, offering her wisdom, and staying in the background during the moments my husband stepped up as birthing coach. She’s a military wife herself and understands the life of a wife whose husband is always leaving. Thank you, Tami. We love you!

Labor and delivery was certainly the best part of my pregnancy, not only because it put our sweet boy in our arms, but also because once I was active labor it all went so smoothly. In fact, it’s about the only thing that went smoothly the whole nine months, and now I have the happiest, sweetest, craziest almost two year old to show for it. That kid is my pride and joy and he was so worth feeling like I was losing a limb for.

Part 1: The pregnancy that made me want to die
Part 2: Labor and delivery–“Is he supposed to look like that?!”
Part 3: Postpartum, coming soon!