The birth of your first child. Or second. Or third. What are your initial impulses and feelings? Every mom’s story is marked with unique emotions, expectations, and confusion at the gap of how she thought she’d feel and how she actually does.
My first-born was an emergency c-section. I was overwhelmed with his presence, my recovery and the bittersweet mental playback of his delivery.
When I got pregnant with my second there were sighs and heads tilted sideways as doctors and friends listened to my instinctive need for a vaginal-birth-after-c-section (VBAC). Not many people, my husband included, rallied around me with encouragement and support.
So I googled, I stretched, I exercised, I relaxed, I prayed. All tiny little blocks trying to build up the footing to have a case to stand on that I could do this. My body could do this.
And I did. Or we did, the little tiny baby girl who came two weeks early.
After the delivery my sister sat with me and asked me what it was like, a journey she was facing in almost identical footsteps. These two births were just so different. What would I do again if I had the choice?
That natural and rapid delivery felt like I was being drowned by a tsunami. I was full-on seeing-stars terrified to see what my body was capable of doing. I couldn’t imagine going through labour of that intensity ever again.
The C-Section left me with more of a let down in my body, and even if it is misplaced – in my womanhood. My recovery was like crawling up hill on hands and knees versus the little speed bumb of the VBAC. Though, the words ‘scheduled c-section’ were bouncing around during the second pregnancy. They floated over my head like a calm little cloud ready to swoop down and pick me up before I hit the tsunami.
Right after each delivery I had said ‘never again’ , but we all know I’ll get that special reproductive-phenomenon called MOMNESIA and I will hope to do it again.
And I will hope for a VBAC.
Because having a VBAC was one of the most empowering events of my life. I looked at my body with so much pride, amazement and trepidation. I felt part of the ‘womanhood’ in a red tent sort of way. I was present, even when I didn’t want to be. It was something I was desperate for in a way a child is desperate for whatever is wrapped in the prettiest paper.
And through all the doubts and canned responses about ‘you don’t want it to happen again do you?’ I did it, and I fearfully loved it.