This is the third, and please let it be, the last part of the little savage's birth story.
So when we left off last time, I was crying for my mom. But not like that. Anyway, Husband managed to get some sleep but I didn't. I just continued to muddle through contractions until my midwife came in to check me and suggested I get into the bathtub. So I did. And I guess I was in there for a few hours but I think time moves differently when you're in the labor groove - a contraction lasts for three days and the space between them is shorter than... insert something witty and short. Ooh, Tyrion Lannister! (Game of Thrones, anyone?) I remember getting super hot every time I had a contraction. I would start my birth song* and that would be my midwife's cue to start fanning my face with a wet washcloth. I didn't love being in the tub but it seemed like a long time before the appeal of dry land outweighed the effort of dragging myself out of the tub.
At some point, I mustered the strength to stand up and begin the slow, hard journey from bathtub to bed. I had Husband call my womenfolk to come back to me and they got there unbelievably fast. I suspect teleportation. Everyone assembled around me on the bed and manned their battle stations. I had one sister fanning me, the other in charge of removing my blankets as fast as humanly possible when a contraction came on (because I felt like I was burning, why am I laboring in the fiery pits of hell?), and my mom responsible for covering me back up when my contraction ended (because I was freezing, why does it feel like Siberia in here?). And Husband was making a sandwich.
So, to get through these contractions I began to bear down justalittleteenybit. After one, my midwife asks me if I'd like her to check me and after she does, she asks me if I'm ready to start pushing. Apparently, yes. So. Ok. I'm done playin'. Birth just got real, y'all. I pushed and I pushed and I huffed and I puffed and I broke some blood vessels in my face and I got that baby out. It was like, six pushes in maybe fifteen minutes total, no lie. And then my little love slides out into his daddy's hands. Husband places him on my stomach and he's so little and slippery and wonderful and I just cried, "my baby, my baby." My baby. My baby, who weighed 8 pounds, 21 inches tall (or long), and came out with his hand on his face. Wikki-what? Yeah. Head and hand, birthed at the same time. But NO TEARING! That's my favorite part of the whole story, the part where my lady bits stayed intact. Early on, I expressed concern, to put it mildly, over the potential ripping, tearing, and otherwise disfiguring of the lady bits that can happen during delivery. But my midwife assured me that she would apply counter pressure when the little was crowning to reduce the potential for down-there disaster.
We waited until the cord stopped pulsing to cut it. I put the little savage straight to the breast and cuddled him and kissed him, even though he was covered in birth goo. We were in awe at how perfect and beautiful he was. And 12 months later, we still are.
There are some things that I'd like to do differently if I ever give birth again. I went at this birth with no expectations, no specific plans on how to manage contractions, or where or how I wanted to birth. Everything was very instinctual, very primal. I liked that. I liked feeling that primitive need to birth, like every mother since the dawn of time. Next time, I'm finding a cave.
*Did I just say that?
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