It's only 10 pm and everyone, including Jaxson, are in bed asleep. I have a hard time believing that Jaxson is really down for the night, so I'll spend a few minutes on the computer and see if he wakes up. I've been wanting to record a few thoughts that have been floating around in my sleep-deprived mind. Warning: the following is about childbirth, particularly about pushing the baby out. Proceed with caution. Read at your own risk.
The thing about natural childbirth is that you never expect to intentionally inflict such intense pain upon yourself. I had an epidural with Kylie when I was 8-9 cm, had a lovely 3 hour break and took a nap, then pushed for an hour with very little sensation. I had experienced the intense contractions leading up to and during the transition phase, but did not feel the pushing. I simply pushed when the midwife said to push. I relied on the midwife to tell me if I was pushing correctly or not. I watched in the mirror as she emerged into the world. When her shoulders were out, my mom told me to reach down and pull out my baby, and I did so, pulling her up onto my belly. In hindsight it seems very serene compared to my experience with Jaxson.
The contractions with Jaxson were just as intense as I remember them being, except this time I stayed relaxed, thanks to my Hypnobabies training, and didn't fight against my body like I did with Kylie. Not knowing what to expect when it came time to push, I began to panic. My water broke, and I went from a 6 to a 10 in a very short time and was not able to wrap my head around the fact that this was happening...yet the very intense instincts of my body assured me that this was going to happen whether my mind was prepared for it or not. I tried to act as a bystander, letting my body gently ease him out with as little involvement from me as possible. Apparently this is not how God intended for babies to be born. Instinctively, I tried to move away from the pain by crawling further up the bed. I'm told that this is one of the reasons why doctors hate natural childbirth: they have to chase the patient.
The doctor then informed me that the baby was beginning to show signs of stress and needed to get out. Something deeper than the instinct for self-preservation emerged--a mother's protection of her child--propelling me into focused pushing. I tried a few half-hearted pushes, which felt like I was going to split in two. The doctor then informed me that wouldn't get the job done...I needed to push more. Already experiencing the most excruciating and surreal pain and sensation of my life, I had to purposefully increase the pain and sensation. And the only reason why you do it is because you know its the only way to make it end. The head emerged and with it came a sense of relief. I mistakenly thought it was over. Oh no, the shoulders still have to come out. One final push, the most intense of all, saved for the very last when you really don't think your body can stretch any more without exploding apart. And in that moment you access your deepest self, that part of you that is ancient, passed down from all the women of time. Then suddenly it's over. Like a dam breaking, relief rushes out as you feel the rest of the tiny body slithering into the world. I fell back onto the bed with complete finality, reveling in the absence of feeling. From far away I heard my husband's voice telling me to hold my baby. Realizing that my eyes had been squeezed shut the entire time, I opened them to the brilliance of a baby's body laying on mine.
I don't know that there's any way to fully describe the shock/amazement/surrealism of seeing that new life for the first time. The job of pushing the baby out can make you forget that there is indeed a baby behind all this work. Yet the moment he's born, the most intense experience of your life is nothing but a memory which quickly fades in this new light. And you are forever changed.
Kylie and Jaxson with their parents, Grandparents Moon, and Great-Grandparents Moon.
