Part of the Still Her, Just Pregnant series

– read Post 1 (what I wore) and Post 2 (hospital bag) first if you haven’t already.

I did too much research. I knew that going in and I did it anyway. Birth plans, breathing techniques, diaphragm pushing, delayed cord clamping, golden hour — I had a plan for everything. What I didn’t plan for was mulching my front yard the day before I went into labor.

Let me back up.

The Day Before

Our house was being photographed for an award on Monday, November 4th. So naturally, Sunday November 3rd was spent doing full yard work — re-mulching the front, cleaning the house from top to bottom. Baseboards. Walls. Ceiling. The kind of clean where it looks like no one lives there. We finished around 7:45pm and I sat down on the garage step to tie my shoes before going to pick up dinner.

I felt a wet gush.

My first thought was that I peed myself, which at that point in pregnancy was completely normal and not even embarrassing anymore. But something in my brain — some quiet, certain part of me — said that wasn’t what happened. I walked inside, told Anthony I thought my water broke. He looked at me and said no it didn’t. So I left to get dinner.

I know.

The Contractions Hit

I had a weird cramp in the car but nothing major, and I wasn’t leaking anything else, so I filed it away and picked up the food. Twenty minutes later I walked back through the front door and the contractions had started. I got in the shower to relax — which genuinely helped — and when I got out and stood up to get dressed, a huge gush of water came out. That was the confirmation I needed.

I called my doctor who gave me the option to labor at home or come in. I wanted to stay home as long as possible, so I did. I have a high pain tolerance and the contractions weren’t unbearable at that point — about ten minutes apart. I moved between the toilet and my hands and knees on the floor, which was honestly the best position I found. Nobody tells you about the hands and knees thing. Add it to your list.

Meanwhile Anthony was showering and packing a bag, because Pia was three weeks early and we had nothing ready. Truly nothing. Once the contractions started getting more intense I became convinced I was going to deliver in the car, so I basically pushed Anthony out the door. We live 45 minutes from our hospital. The car ride was not fun — but I want to be honest with you about the pain, because the internet will terrify you and I don’t think it needs to. Contractions aren’t exactly painful. It’s more like a full body tension you can’t control. For me, it was the lack of control that was hard, not the pain itself.

Triage & The Anesthesiologist

I was 6 centimeters when I got to triage. By that point I felt like I wasn’t getting a break between contractions, so I asked for my epidural immediately. The anesthesiologist was, to put it nicely, an asshole. I talk when I’m uncomfortable — conversation fills the silence and helps me stay calm. I was trying to ask what was happening behind me and he was not having it. Not even a little. Just loosen up a little, buddy. I’m about to let you put a needle in my spine.

After the epidural was placed I felt pressure but not pain. I groaned — loudly, like a cow, I’m not going to pretend otherwise — and it helped. At some point I felt a big gush and the nurse told me that was a bloody show (genuinely one of the worst phrases in the English language) and that I’d be fully dilated soon. Then she paused and said something I’ll never forget: “you shouldn’t be making those noises. I think your epidural failed.”

The anesthesiologist came back, put something in my IV, and I saw unicorns. I mean that almost literally. Whatever he gave me reset everything and I was able to recenter completely.

The Birth Plan vs. Reality

My entire birth plan was built around one thing: I did not want to give birth on my back. I wanted to push on my knees. When I asked, they said no — but the doctor did tell me I had great mobility with the epidural, which I’m still proud of for some reason. I pushed on my side for three times and felt Pia moving down. Then the doctor asked me to switch to my back, and I knew — I knew — it was for her convenience and not mine. That’s frustrating. That’s the thing no one warns you about. You can have a plan and still have people work around their own schedule in the middle of it.

My other requests were not to tear and not to poop. I had studied diaphragm breathing specifically for pushing — breathing out instead of holding my breath. I had a real mind-body connection going. And then the PA started counting to ten and yelling at me to hold my breath.

I wanted to tell her to stop talking so badly. I didn’t need to be counted at. My body knew what it was doing. But I stayed focused, kept breathing my way, pushed on my own timeline — and Pia arrived at 6:33AM on Monday, November 4th. Twenty minutes of pushing. Eight pushes. No tearing. No pooping.