Continued: This is the second part of my oldest son’s birth story. His birth into the world, and my birth into motherhood, felt like an all-encompassing journey worthy of more than a page. Part I of the story focuses on his labor and birth, and Part II reflects on the early postpartum days that followed. May someone find themselves on this page and know they’re not alone.
Meeting His People for the First Time
Over the next couple of days, dear family and friends greeted us in the hospital and held our little baby. Eventually they’d follow us home where I welcomed any visitor, so long as they brought food or treats.
We were in the thick of late summer, and I didn’t feel worry about sickness being passed to him. Perhaps I should have, but he never got sick, so that was a grace. When I recall the healing after our birth story, these are the faces I call to mind.
Pops and the Crew
The first to visit were my parents and siblings. They arrived around dinner time, just hours after his birth and the evening sun poured into the room. My brother cried when he held him and my dad just watched us both in awe. As they lingered in our small room, I watched their love for this little person bloom. I smiled sleepily to myself, feeling my eyelids get heavy. My mom noticed sleep coming on, and said, “We should go and let them get some rest.”
They left us and I felt the tension of wanting to sleep, but also not wanting to take my gaze or touch off this sweet swaddled baby.
The Friends We Hold as Dear as Family
The next day saw my mom (again, to no one’s surprise) along with my granny. Four generations huddled in this small hospital room together; I didn’t need to overthink the beauty of this moment.
Later in the evening, some of our dear friends visited with Chick-Fil-A for dinner. They had all come from work, a concept that felt so odd to me. You mean people still go to work, even though there’s new life to behold?! I thought. My mind and heart were far from the paces of the world in those early days as I held this wonder in my arms.
Traffic, paychecks, life outside of this baby’s reach – it all felt so small.
Both of our friends were expecting at that time too. They wanted to know everything about the birth, no detail left unsaid. (Though I saved most of the details for a later visit for the sake of their husbands). When one of them – the same one who guessed Forrest’s name months before his birth – held him for the first time, the baby in her womb started moving. As if saying hello, I think we’re going to be friends too.
When the lactation consultant walked in during their visit and asked if it was a good time for her to visit, I looked down at the food in my lap and around at the friends who were nourishing my spirit. And I basically said Heck No. I would later come to regret that, though that is a story for a different day.
Discharge Day
The next morning, hours before our discharge, some college friends came by. They happened to be in the hospital for their own prenatal appointment, and figured they’d take the short elevator ride to our floor. Little did we know that about 3 or so weeks later, we’d be gathering again in that same exact room to meet their baby girl.
Here We Go
Finally, late in the afternoon, we received the all clear to go home. This achievement was earned by battling with lactation, and ultimately carrying a pumping and bottle-feeding plan to home with us.
As we left, I wondered how I could be trusted with this little baby. I had no training or knowledge, really, of babies. Other than what I’d read in pregnancy, or what I’d learn loosely over the years.
And yet, here we were. They told us we were ready, and we had to trust they were right. We’d lived our birth story, the thing I had prepared so much for, and now I was second guessing if I’d prepared for motherhood well enough. My anticipation of getting home intermingled with worry of my own inadequacy.
Underneath The Birth Story
You remember that man we small talked with in the nursery? The one who mocked natural birth?
I wouldn’t realize it until many months later, but that man’s comment would ring in my head and compound hurt on my birth story for a long time. I cannot blame him for the shame that resides within me, and I truly have grace for his experience of becoming a new dad. But those few words he shared reinforced deeply held doubts I kept to myself.
I noticed it, even in the way I shared the birth story with those first visitors. I was ashamed of what I’d endured.
Something in his words made me feel small and unworthy of the birth I wanted. My desire was squashed in a single sentence. And the more the idea swirled in my head, the more ashamed I felt that I hadn’t accomplished the birth I planned for myself. And for wanting it in the first place. I wondered, What did I hope to accomplish going unmedicated? Do I actually think I’m above everyone else? Am I foolish?
If Only…
Not only did I feel shame for what I wanted, but I felt shame for not achieving it. I berated myself, telling myself all the things I should have done differently and counted all the ways it was my fault.
If only I had practiced more deep breathing and yoga, it could have gone better.
If only I was happier, I would have gotten the oxytocin flowing.
If only my own cowardice hadn’t prevented contractions.
If only I trusted myself, I could have labored at home more.
If only I’d prayed more…
If only….
So many things about my “birth plan” did not go as we had originally envisioned. I took a deeply felt responsibility, truly believing for a year or more postpartum that I had done something wrong to prevent my body from progressing naturally. Shame clouded my birth experience in those early months because it highlighted yet another way I didn’t feel good enough. I was too broken for my own birth plan.
The Answered Prayer of this Birth Story
My heart hurts to admit my shame now. The cost of those thoughts was my unfettered joy over God’s good and peace in His sovereign work in my earliest days of motherhood.
But as I look back, I have so much grace and compassion on that woman as she stood on the edge of the biggest transformation, apart from renewal in Christ, she would ever know. She stood up against the beast that is the curse of laboring in childbirth, and though she was afraid, she took one breathe at a time until she got there. She became a vessel of strength in her moment of weakness.
My prayer during pregnancy was to have a connected and empowered birth. I envisioned gracefully and beautifully sticking to my plan, and thought that would be the perfect answer to my prayer.
But God did something different.
God did far more.
God Allowed a Better Birth Plan
He gave Travis and me a full day of connection before labor started in a way that has become a highlight in our marriage. He allowed us to lean on each other in the days that followed. We were not suddenly confident in ourselves, but we were confident in the Lord. He allowed us to connect in pain and agony, and strengthened us thus.
He allowed my plan to be nearly forgotten. In this great act of disempowering my own sense of control, He empowered me to lean on Him. He empowered me to call on Him alone, and not on the black ink on the page. He upheld me, even when it felt like I was letting myself down.
God, through time and gentle tending, showed me the beauty of this birth and my transformation into motherhood. He was the One making it exactly what my heart and my baby most needed. He ordained the moment of my water breaking, the moment of the first Pitocin drip, the moment of his first cry; not a moment was unaccounted for on His watch. And he was the one empowering our story to glorify His loving and gracious hand over us.
My Powerlessness Was a Gracious Answer to Prayer
I met my powerlessness face to face, and there I found the great fulfillment of empowerment in the form of my Heavenly Father’s strength sustaining me. I stand in awe when I consider all that he protected me from, even the things I’ll never know to glorify Him for.
I tell Forrest’s birth story now, and I see it bound in steadfastness, patience, and acceptance. The trust I needed to have in my team, headed up by the Lord, required great steadfast hope. The patience to allow the story to unfold, and the acceptance to bend when the story stalled, gave me my first lessons in motherhood.
Laboring to meet Forrest was a crowning achievement of my life, and that’s hardly due to the physical endurance his birth required. The greatest reward was in laboring with my Savior, and seeing him meet me with loving hands at the end of myself.
God could have chosen a number of ways to sanctify me. I’m forever grateful he chose childbirth into motherhood as the avenue to lead me nearer to Him.