It begins in a series of painful compromises, and a lot of anxiety. I was booked for induction on the 6th of December, at 42 weeks pregnant. The consultant listened to my history of short, spontaneous, hugely overdue labours, and told me that statistically if I hadn't gone into labour by ten days overdue I wouldn't at all and would have to be induced eventually. I've never been induced, and never gone into labour *before* ten days over. I felt horribly uncertain and worried and guilty.
Birthday season was upon us, and I knew if I declined intervention that day I would quite likely end up in hospital for several days over Morgan and Talia's birthdays. I wasn't comfortable going past 43 weeks, but 43 weeks would put me at Morgan's birthday as Alder had the same due date just eleven years later. There seemed to be only wrong answers.
Eventually, I went home. As soon as I had decided to give myself a couple more days to think about it, I felt at peace again. I slept well, and only half roused when Martin left for work in the early hours of the morning. I had the clear, distinct thought that I should tell him I was having contractions - but I was more asleep than awake still and the waves were light. I drifted back to sleep.
When I woke at six I knew I was going to be having a baby soon. I let Martin know, and he started trying to make arrangements to redistribute his workload (work had refused to make any arrangements for cover because, and I quote, "we can't plan for what hasn't happened yet"). I swayed and walked through some very irregular contractions, then felt a very small "pop" and trickle of waters. I woke Jenna to help me, and she phoned her grandma to come over in case any of the kiddos didn't want to stick around later on. Then I phoned for a midwife, to be told the homebirth service had been cancelled overnight and a midwife wouldn't be available until 8am. Things were happening pretty fast and I wasn't convinced either a midwife or Martin would be with us in time. My options were to wait for my mum and then phone an ambulance, or wait at home and prepare to birth unassisted just in case nobody got to us in time. (Not something we hadn't considered, anyhow, given how quickly Talia arrived!)
Jenna set out a waterproof sheet, found me a towel to sit on, calmly let grandma know there wouldn't be a midwife for a while, put lavender oil in the diffuser, and made sure I had something to drink. She was unbelievably poised and reassuring, in spite of later telling me she was running through all the things she knows about birth and quietly hoping we wouldn't be alone.
My mum arrived, followed mercifully by a midwife who told my (now two!) assembled supporters that she didn't think they'd have time to set up the birth pool. I didn't think so either, but I was starting to feel both slightly spacey and a bit uncomfortable that Martin might not make it home in time. I was mainly labouring leaning forwards on my elbows, trying to get some breathing space between contractions which were occasionally coming one after another without any real break from the intensity.
At some point the new shift of midwives arrived (the first had been at the end of a hospital shift and had come out anyway, hearing I would otherwise be alone) and one was a soft voice I knew from Talia's birth. I was almost fully turned inwards by then, barely aware of voices as distant irrelevant things in a world of powerful surges and shifting within me. I felt Martin's arms around me, and leaned in to him, feeling fully safe and ready for the first time. I had been in labour for about three hours in total by that point but it felt both incredibly fast and endless.
I have no idea how the last part of my labour passed, right up until I recall refusing a sip of water followed by being aware that my body was bearing down and a HUGE splash of clear waters, and the satisfying weight of a head fully birthed. Then a pause, the first gap in contractions in hours, and a midwife offered me an arm to help me change positions. I gathered later they were concerned about the wait, but at the time I was quite happy to move now I was finally not contracting back to back, and I held on to her arms to move myself, aware of Martin supporting my back. Baby just slid out without a push from me, caught by several hands and then in mine. A heavy soft slippery warm real presence in my arms, my eyes still closed, everything in the entire world irrelevant for a moment.
Hands, my family there patting me on the back (quite literally, darling strange children), the midwives sending children running for another towel, a fresh drink for me (water has never tasted so wonderful after an intense labour and eight months of acid-taste!), and all the while just gazing at a tiny pink confused puffy face with huge dark grey eyes.
I felt like a warrior. I could have done *anything* in that moment.
Walking to the sofa with shaking legs, after birthing the placenta and exclaiming over having a son and all four sisters having a little happy cry, turned out to be quite enough anything for a while. Of course. And then we weighed the little pudding and discovered he was actually 10lb 4oz. Heck yes I grew that whilst suffering hyperemesis. Somehow.
It took over a day to name him. And almost a month later I can still barely believe we get to keep him. But the second I held him, it was pure overwhelming love and such a sense of rightness. I can't imagine our family without him.
Alder Luc. Welcome, welcome, tiny one.
