A home birth story

The arrival of our daughter, Lucinda Faye

Both of our boys were born one day after my due date, so when this baby girl had not arrived on Saturday, a mere day after her due date, I was full of impotent (unreasonable) rage. I was rude to anyone who asked me when the baby was coming. I was teary and irritable and had run out of things to organize and tidy. I felt, irrationally, like I was going to die pregnant.

That night, however, after the boys went down, things started to shift. I was hesitant to say it was the real deal, however, having been warned by my midwife that third babies can take their time with early labor. Mild contractions started around 7 p.m., and I decided it would be a good time to repaint all of the kitchen floor grout. I was on my hands and knees on the tile, meticulously painting and praying, and Guion asked if I wanted to go watch some TV. “It looks like you might need to do this right now instead,” he said, wisely. I kept it up for another half hour or so, and then we watched the final episode of Mr. and Mrs. Smith while I rocked on the birth ball.

Around 9 p.m., I told Guion to alert our families that things could be happening, but even then, I was filled with so much hesitation. I likewise texted our midwife, Kelly, and doula, Meredith, but couched my messages with lots of hedging. I didn’t want people to prematurely come and then be waiting around for me to have this baby. The surges were still bearable, and I imagined it was just going to be a long night.

Contractions continued to be very spaced out for most of the night, in a somewhat irregular pattern ranging from 6 to 14 minutes apart. I tried to rest in our bed through them for several hours. But when I could no longer take them lying down, around 2:30 a.m., I called Meredith. She lives an hour away, so I felt like I was giving us all plenty of leeway in case nothing picked up and this was just drawn-out early labor. Meredith said she’d get on the road, and as soon as I hung up the phone, I told Guion that maybe nothing was happening, and Meredith would probably just want to sleep upstairs in our guest room tonight.

We set about preparing the house for a birth anyway, despite my hesitation. Guion started inflating the birth tub in the living room. I lit some candles on the mantle. I rocked on the birth ball in the kitchen and would stand up and grip the counter when the contractions came.

Meredith arrived at 3:30, and I felt a great deal of peace and calm seeing her. We chatted and I told her I hoped I hadn’t made her come without good reason. She mentioned that it was the snow moon tonight, the full moon that often marks a time of renewal in winter, and asked if I’d gone out to see it (I hadn’t; I was grout-painting!!). We agreed that we’d call Kelly, the midwife, to come if things picked up. Then a contraction came, and it was suddenly very powerful and surprising. Meredith applied hip compressions. After another few minutes, I threw up the pineapple I’d eaten earlier. Then, standing at the kitchen sink, I felt a great deal of pressure and said, hilariously, as if I had forgotten what we were doing, “Something is coming out!” Ha. Yes, that something would be a baby. My water had broken, and Meredith asked if I could walk to the bed, where I got on my knees, gripping the headboard.

As I moved in that direction, I’d told Guion that I wanted to get in the tub now, knowing full well that it wasn’t ready, and so he’d rushed into the bathroom to start filling up the tub with a hose reaching from the shower. While he was in there, I felt the strong urge to push, and I heard Meredith call out, briskly, “Guion! Come back in here now!”

Meredith coached Guion to get on the bed and get ready to catch our baby. Her head emerged, and I heard her sweet cry, and in another two surges, she was born. Guion caught her and passed her to me, and we all looked at each other, astonished, that she was here, with a perfectly round little head with very fine blond/brown hair and covered in vernix. Kelly arrived about 20 minutes later, finding us all resting in bed and marveling at Lucinda Faye.

A few minutes old

I praise God for Meredith, who continues to fulfill the role of a guardian angel in my life, and for the experience of this birth with her and Guion. Some months ago, when sharing my anxieties this time around, Meredith gently counseled me to consider what it might be like if joy was the watchword for this birth—instead of endurance, which characterized Moses’s extremely unfun, arduous birth, or power, which felt fitting for Felix’s more movement-oriented arrival.

I feel absolutely that this was a joyful birth, completely astonishing in how it unfolded, and filled with a deep gratitude for Lucinda’s swiftness and vigor. Welcoming her into our lives was so peaceful, supported in our quiet home by Guion and Meredith, and I know I’ll always look back on her birth as a great blessing.

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Lucinda Faye, or Lucy, as we’ll likely often call her, is named for my two grandmothers, Mary Lucy Land Johnson and Loretta Faye Kingma Roy. Together, they represent the best of what grandmothers can be: funny, wise, compassionate, energetic, affectionate, and joyful. Though they did not often see each other, living in two different parts of the country, they were thick as thieves when they were together. Together, her name means light or illumination (Lucinda/Lucy) and fairy (Faye).

Loretta Faye and Lucy

We hope and pray that our Lucy Faye will resemble her great-grandmothers in many different ways.

The grandmother hypothesis

Lucy’s big brothers are very pleased with her and curious about what she’s doing and her particular capacities. (Felix woke up asking the other morning: “Baby Lucy walking?”) They’re very eager for her to play and join their universe.

Boys watching the midwife work while they eat breakfast, the morning of Lucy’s birth

We are all resting well and learning about our new family world order.

Cheeks coming in

I’m so grateful for this baby girl and for my time at home with Guion during my leave. It feels, fittingly, like our world has grown very small, and we are enjoying this smallness as winter fades into spring.