Lucy Lynn’s Birth Story

As “stretching” as pregnancy can be for me, I love labor. I crave the details of birth.

Within days of holding my precious bundle, I was reliving her arrival, the hormones and sleep deprivation leaving me weeping over words of sentiment and spiritual realizations. (Read my initial thoughts on Lucy Lynn’s birth here.) And so, it’s not surprising to find myself lingering over the beauty of her birth day again. It’s not often that a woman gets to write her baby’s birth story twice; there’s something divine to a mother about the moment her dreams are held in her arms, and with this quite possibly being our last little Frenchie baby, it only seems fitting to write it twice.

There were many things I planned for, hoped for about our little lady’s debut, but as life is, many of these plans didn’t come to fruition. And yet, everything happened the way it was supposed to be …

… starting with telling my hubby he was going to be a daddy now four times over. Since we were dating, my husband and I have always pulled into HyVee parking lots and elbowed each other at the “Mother-To-Be” parking space. “Wouldn’t it be hilarious to announce it this way?” we tease each other. That’s always been my plan to tell him, at least for one of our babies, to pull up all sly-like into the parking space and let him surmise the rest … however, the closest I got to this cleverness was taking the pregnancy test in a Starbucks bathroom and calling him up for an impromptu lunch date, announcing our growing nugget over a Panera salad. Twenty minutes of waiting to tell him is just too long for me.

Secondly, with being induced for the last two babies after they were just too cozy for their own good, I prepared myself to wait this little lady out. I planned mentally for a week late, a slow onset at home, and then a speedy cruise through natural labor for this little one. It went nothing like this.

And yet, although some may not believe me, just before Lucy was born, I knew when it would happen. I knew it would be on Tuesday. See, my eldest Ellie told me just the Saturday before, out of the blue while sitting together at breakfast, that “Lucy was coming on Tuesday.” I believed her. And she was right.

Tuesday happened to be my 39 week appointment where I found out I had made just a little progress from the week before, dilated to a 2 but for having three babies already, it seemed I was still a ways from labor.

I visited my sister later on and mentioned to her some subtle signs that I had noticed. (Because it’s my sister, I went into more detail than this. Because this is a public audience, I’ll leave it as such.) She advised me to go back and visit my midwife again.

I blushed – even just on the phone with the receptionist – with the disclaimer, “I’m sure it’s nothing, I mean, I’m sure I’m not in labor or anything but …” She got me right in. On the way back to the room, I saw my midwife. “Back again?” How about bright red in the face again?

“I’ve actually never done this, with any of my babies – gone back in for a false alarm,” I started.

“Oh, I did it so many times with mine! Better safe than sorry!” she responded.

I immediately loved her. As she checked me out and dismissed any concern, she mentioned that she was on call that evening, so perhaps she would be seeing me later, but then again, maybe not.

I knew deep down I would be back.

I didn’t want to tell anyone because I didn’t want to be embarrassed if it was false labor. Baby number four, I should know. Unlike me, my body loves being pregnant and holds on to babies until the last minute. I don’t usually get to be a week early with my babies. Even more than all of this, I just hate to be wrong so when I called my hubs on the way home, I let him know it was probably just wishful thinking, but it could possibly be tonight … so, he decided to stay at work a bit later to finish up his duties with a little extra finesse.

When he got home late that evening, I mentioned that a few recent contractions had been stronger and maybe a walk would help determine if they were going to do anything. He laced up tennis shoes and zipped up jackets. I watched our three little ducklings explore steps ahead of us, paused a few times in quiet to feel the warmth of climbing contractions. The sun was setting and they were about ten minutes apart. My plan was to labor at home for the beginning hours, but we were surprised at how quickly things were progressing. Each of our babies had been faster than the last, with the third arriving after only three hours of labor.

It was nine o’clock with suddenly, only three to seven minutes between needing to stop to breathe, and Chris was in full nervous-daddy-to-be mode. A call to the midwife, and she told us to head in. My husband, whose greatest fear was having to deliver his own baby on the highway, was more than happy to oblige.

We parked but went back to the car a few times. Debated in the dark whether to bring the bags in or come and get them later. Left them in the car. Walked three steps and returned to get them.

It felt like a million questions later before we knew for sure that our baby girl would be joining us soon.

Four centimeters at 10pm, calls were made, arrangements arranged, and I got ready to work hard for my baby.

The contractions were closer to a minute or two apart, but I was able to talk for the few minutes between them. My mother, eyes full, held my hands for a bit.

In the beginning, it was steady calm, peaceful but joyful. I turned on some music, my favorite song reminding me – reassuring me – of my deepest belief, what I would need through the journey ahead. However, there was decreasing relief between the contractions. One running into another and even as a descent would appear on the monitor, I wasn’t feeling any difference from the peak.

A few hours later, I asked to be checked. I was starting to reach fatigue as every contraction that would rise found its fire in my back. Heat wrapping around and settling low, it would burn but then linger through the next. Discouragement crept in as I soon found out that despite the work, there wasn’t any progress being made. I found myself reaching desperation as my plan to be able to move freely through labor started to fade. Baby girl’s heart rate wasn’t fluctuating as it should and so I was sequestered to the bed for longer than I was planning. It was agony to lay still but I couldn’t manage shifting, either. It was about then that they broke my water and my eyes closed for the rest of the night. It’s hard to describe my state of mind in these moments.

At one point, I may have harshly hushed the nurses and midwife mid-conversation – then, apologized profusely as soon as the agony would fade into pain. I may have gathered my breath enough to punctuate the peaceful praise music with a couple expletives. It wasn’t my finest moment.

All mamas know well the weightiness of choices in the journey to motherhood. It had been my hope to avoid interventions as much as possible. I had done it once before and loved the experience. But, just as each conception, pregnancy and birth is so beautifully, divinely unique, this again was different. It quickly became one of those times where only I could decide what was necessary. Despite society’s input, family advice, and, perhaps the greatest weight, the pressures and expectations we put on ourselves, it’s an amazing, freeing thing to be able to find confidence and peace in making a decision based on a personal conviction about what is right.

Knowing there wasn’t one right answer except to do what was right for me, I changed my plan.

When the anesthesiologist finally arrived, she administered the dosage, and I waited for the calm. I knew it could take a bit of time, and I kept asking for when it would come, but they said relief should already have happened.

Just when I thought I couldn’t do it anymore, they checked me again. I had warned them how quickly things happened for me, and when they realized my daughter was right there, ready to greet the world, the scrambling act began.

My midwife was barely in position when she started to ask me, “okay, are you ready to …” She didn’t get to finish her sentence. A single contraction did the work without my even realizing it, and suddenly, my daughter was here.

I guess you could say that’s one of the perks of having four children in five years.

The sickness, the waddling, the waiting, the hours of working and all the weighty decisions along the way … she was worth it.

She was warm and loud and heavy against me.

Then quiet and snuggled and holding me back.

She was perfect.

My Lucy Lynn.

Photo credit for some of the most precious photos I will ever be gifted to Briana Gray of Shades of Gray Photography. You can see more of her capture of Lucy Lynn’s birth here.