I clutched the steering wheel a little harder as another tightening pain encircled around my belly.

Ouchhh. Stupid fake contractions.

A pause. My mind began to wander. How’s Alia doing in the backseat? Man, I can’t wait for this dessert. Why are the boys taking so long? Maybe tomorrow–eek, that one hurt. Wait. Those were close together too…?

My husband had taken my son into the grocery store to pick up ingredients to make The Ultimate Brownies. Bourbon vanilla chocolate, cherry pie filling, Ghirardelli brownie mix–he was going all out.

But he was also taking his sweet old time. When he had entered the store fifteen minutes prior, there had been nothing. No way was this finally labor…

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It started weeks ago. Months even.

At 32 weeks pregnant, the first bout of timeable contractions commenced. Three minutes apart and a minute long, they felt like real labor contractions but ceased as I arrived at my midwife’s office for a NST. For the next eight weeks I experienced long, regular contractions on and off, often for hours at a time. I was told I had an “irritable uterus” (read: irritating uterus–ugh) and it basically felt like I was in early labor for two months.

My irritating uterus proved also to be deceptive, and the constant contractions made me absolutely positively positive baby would arrive early, because my intuition is never wrong. I only had to make it to February 11th to be far enough along for a safe home birth.

February 11th came and I rejoiced–helllloooooo, baby time! 

Then February 15th rolled by, and the 21st, and leap day, and soon March. For weeks I questioned God’s timing, then found peace, then more contractions–so many I had the midwives on standby to come over–followed by nothing except disappointment, the mental agony that comes when a person fixed on control has literally none, and more tears. Daily, the cycle continued and I began struggling with doubt that my body was doing what it was supposed to.

My due date, March 5th, arrived and left without fanfare.

After 37+6 and 39 week deliveries with my first two, how could I still be pregnant?! As if the impatience to meet my baby wasn’t enough, my midwife was going out of town six days after I was due. She had planned the trip months prior and informed me of it during her initial consultation, but I had been confident I wouldn’t be overdue (remember my infallible intuition) plus she had great backup midwives if needed. I wasn’t afraid for her to be gone, but she was my friend and I trusted her. I wanted her to be there.

March 6th, a day overdue, she offered a membrane sweep to see if we couldn’t get this little babe to vacate a tad sooner. Two days later, I returned to her office for another sweep. 50% effaced, not much of anything happening despite the near constant contractions and cramping–neither time left me encouraged.

My husband had the next day off work so we headed to Gravely Point Park with a pizza to spend the evening watching the planes land over the Reagan National Airport. I was contracting on and off endlessly; what else was new? and I suggested taking a short walk before heading home to see if we couldn’t get things chugging along.

Nada.

On the way home, we stopped by the store and as my husband headed inside with my son to pick up brownie ingredients, instantly there was a contraction that felt…different. Then three minutes later another one, and another. These felt sharper and they weren’t wrapping around me like I knew contractions did, but something about them felt unusual–not like the irritating uterus contractions I’d been having for weeks–so I texted the midwives to let them know what was up.

Twenty minutes later, my oblivious husband ambled over to our car only to find me in the midst of a powerful contraction. I barked at him that we needed to go now and he shifted into full dad mode, literally throwing the groceries and our son into the car and racing home.

One midwife, Christine, began heading over and it wasn’t long before my husband called the second midwife, Story, to come with her daughter, a sibling doula who would be helping with the older two.

Contractions promptly slowed down as the midwives arrived but kept up in intensity. I still felt unsure; I didn’t want to believe I was in labor, because what if once more it was nothing and I ended up disappointed again?

T-minus 30 hours to get this babe born before my midwife hopped on a plane to leave town for a week.

It was time to do this thing.

At first I welcomed the pain. Every breath is bringing me closer to my baby, I repeated as I swayed back and forth through contractions, savoring the breaks in between, in total control of my breathing and my mind. I got this. Around 11pm, my husband and I tried watching our yay-I’m-finally-in-labor movie, Nine Months, but we quickly passed out from exhaustion. That is, I passed out as well as I could between the contractions that were now very clearly real labor.

Christine suggested getting some sleep so we headed to bed where my husband promptly passed out once more for the remainder of labor stage 1 (he’s not the bad guy–I was very happy with the company of my midwives and my husband had a busy day with the older two coming up.)

After tossing and turning in bed for an hour, the contractions were too strong for me to lay down through so I ventured into the living room.

Soft Christmas lights cast a warm glow across the dark room, the twinkling lights of the city blinking outside. Everyone else slept, trying to rest before the main event. I reclined on the sofa in silence, savoring the peace, until I kept getting caught sitting down by contractions so strong I couldn’t move.

I needed to stand. I needed to pace. I needed to push against a wall during contractions and rock back and forth, but I’d likely be in labor all night so I also needed to rest.

My midwife, now awake, suggested counter pressure and suddenly, the pain was manageable enough I could focus through it.

Soon, the contractions were rolling over me in sets of three. Extremely powerful, slightly weaker, and another strong one. Around 2am, Story suggested baby sifting to move little man downwards and regulate contractions, and as I slumped on the sofa and stared at the birth ball, motivating myself to get up and wiped out from lack of sleep, she caught on to my procrastination and kindly told me that things were clearly still moving along and I could remain as I was. Oh, sweet relief.

After maybe another hour of counter pressure and very controlled breathing, I was amazed. The contractions, although painful and taking all my focus to manage, didn’t make me feel like I was going to die.

My previous labors, both in the hospital, had been augmented by prematurely breaking my water and pitocin, and the contractions were agony. I had no idea such pain existed and to this day my heart races remembering it. Since then, I’ve learned how tense I was, plus the unnecessary interventions, are what caused the particularly tremendous pain.

This time around, I was in control, and I felt dang good.

About 3:20, Story suggested an internal exam. Six centimeters! Our grocery stop had occurred only six hours prior–we were making progress! I needed to use the bathroom and she advised putting my feet up on stools as the position would encourage baby to move down.

At this point, my sense of time vanished.

Almost immediately, the contractions went from focus and breathe through them to intensity level my-uterus-is-about-to-explode. After a mere handful of contractions, I called my midwife in telling her I felt I needed to push. Very little time had passed since I was six centimeters; had we really reached this part already?

Quickly, my husband was jolted from his slumber. A tarp was laid on the bedroom floor, the birth supplies set up, and Story’s daughter awoke my three year old son so he could come be with us.

(After a very informative demonstration at a prior appointment involving an adorable little cloth doll that could give deliver an itty-bitty baby doll, including the placenta, umbilical cord, and all, he was fascinated by birth.)

I could no longer stay quiet. I had never done this part with feeling before–with my older two, I had felt transition as the epidural had only began working when I was fully dilated.

An unmedicated delivery was all new.

And I was wildly unprepared.

My son, born at 7lbs 9oz had required eight minutes of pushing. You may recall my daughter, a teeny-tiny 6lbs 4oz, was one push and done. Perhaps you recollect this ridiculous tidbit from my daughter’s birth story:

“I told my husband I was ready and took a deep breath, then went at it with all my might. In the mirror, I saw a dark head appear and suddenly the doctor was in the way–a tiny, wee babe in her hands.

It had been maybe 30 seconds of pushing, probably more like 10.

Hah! That was so easy.”

Oh, I want to face palm. Yes, it was easy, because I couldn’t feel a dang thing and she was minuscule!

This kid was five days past his due date. Why on earth I was expecting another infinitesimal push and for him to shoot out, I dunno. Wistful thinking, outright foolishness…I was terrifically unprepared.

One push.

Why is this baby not moving?

Another push. And another. And a couple more. Baby’s head was nowhere in sight–I was hollering my way through labor once again, my son in the corner dancing with his sibling doula, my sweet husband firm and unwavering. Occasionally, Matthias would announce he was scared and leave the room, only to bound back in four seconds later with an enormous grin on his face, totally unphased.

As the midwives encouraged me, Matthias followed suit: “You’re looking good, Mom!” he would declare. The pain was unreal but on my hands and knees, in my husband’s arms, ringed by encouragement and joyful faces, I was back in control.

Hands and knees soon felt like the wrong position, so the midwives directed me to squat against the edge of the bed, supported by my husband.

So. Much. Better.

But also, the intensity! My body had taken over and was working to get this baby out even though his stubbornly big head was not moving nearly as hastily as I fancied.

More hollering. Matthias perched at my feet and gaped in awe as his brother’s head appeared. The ring of fire. The most peculiar sensation I’ve ever felt as my baby’s head crowned. Wait, I still had to deliver his body too? Ugh. Something big popped out, presumably his shoulder, but the work was not yet done. I remember feeling like I was going to explode and bellowing at my midwife, Story, GET THIS BABY OUT OF ME!

And that’s exactly what she did. There was a bizarre slithering sensation and suddenly this slippery, purple, wet, wee thing was on my chest.

Everything was a blur. It was over; I couldn’t believe I had done it. My son lay sweetly in my arms. Home birth = crushed.

Don’t mess with this mama; I was a flipping badass.

Then the placenta, a crime scene level of blood, all sense of my own decency long gone, yada yada yada. I didn’t care. Finally, I had the sweet boy I had been longing for desperately snuggled against my chest and I was never ever going to let him go.

His name is Corrin Bjorn, and he was a chunky 8lbs 7oz and 20.5 inches of squishy newborn bliss.

We spent the next hour in bed while the midwives cleaned up the room and filled out paperwork, I finally got to shower and stubbornly refused the help of my midwives who I’m sure would have been really genuinely helpful but yep, I’m far too bull headedly independent for that, baby was weighed and examined, our amazing sibling doula prepared my son and the rest of us organic mac and cheese and a honking plate of fresh fruit, husband held the squishy babe for the first time, we called our families to share the news–it was simply sublime.

Three hours following my chunky monkey’s debut, a sleepy eyed toddler sporting wild, blonde bedhead wandered into our room.

Baby? came her tiny voice. She stared at him in wonder before scampering away, distracted by breakfast.

The midwives headed out soon after, leaving us snuggled in bed, all four of us gazing lovingly at our new family member in perfect peace and quiet, bathed in the glow of the rising sun. There we remained in sweet, calm bliss for the rest of the day.

Kidding, kidding.

Because there were two older kids too. Bloody bed sheets to be washed. Hungry mouths to be fed, latches to be improved, spit up to be cleaned…life doesn’t stop when a new baby enters the world.

Praise Jesus that my husband took over while I spent the week in bed getting to know my new little buddy. I didn’t have to go anywhere, the midwives came back for check ups, there were no nurses insisting I sit in a wheelchair to leave the hospital because “otherwise I might fall and drop my baby,” and the food was a heck of a lot better cooked by my boss husband at home.

Two weeks later, I’m entirely smitten by this squeaky, fuzzy, bright-eyed dumpling.

The home birth was perfect. God’s timing was perfect. Our baby is perfect and we couldn’t be more in love.

Welcome to the family, little Corrin!