Starting at the beginning...

WARNING: This post is the story of the home birth of my fourth son Oliver George Payton. It will not be censored. There may and likely will be anatomy of female parts and all the things that you can imagine accompany birth openly disclosed. If you are friend, family or even someone who would prefer not to read a live human birth story, please, skip this post. I will not give you a test when I see you next. I promise. I write out the details of my son's birth because I as the mama, want to honor his amazing and victorious entrance into this world. And because it is where our story starts...



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On May 20th, 2008 I still had 8 days until my estimated due date. I was feeling impatient. I was huge, and swollen and the temperature outside was 100 degrees. We had purchased a six foot wide and 18 inch deep kiddy wading pool from WalMart. I was contemplating seeing how much of my swollen 5'7" frame I could fit under the cool water, or if it was worth leaving the sanctity of air conditioning. I decided I was just too tired to deal with the pool, and besides, that would mean one very active four year old (Ryan) would be using my body as a fun house in the pool as well.

At 11am I convinced said four year old that it was really noon and "lay down time." Surprisingly he didn't give me the usual attempted pep talk that he was a big boy and didn't need lay down time anymore. We went into my darkened bedroom, the ceiling fan gave a low hum and a gentle breeze as it attempted to help the air conditioner with temperature control. I could hear the trains of Roseville rumbling down the tracks out side my bedroom window. I drifted off into a gentle summer nap. Sometime during this nap Ryan decided that he was indeed still a big boy, and gave wonderful proof of that by sneaking his way away from sleeping mama, to go indulge in some bonding time with the XBOX 360. What can I say? He gets it from me. At least he turned down the volume. I was sleeping so soundly.

At 1:15pm the sound of a key turning the deadbolt of my front door arose me from sleep. I knew it was my 10 year old Bradley home early from school. It was open house night, so all the kids got out early that day. (I never would have guessed I'd miss his open house) I realized Ryan had pulled a fast one after I dozed off and went to peek on him. He was winning the battle of Lego Star Wars on XBOX 360, I could rest safely, knowing darth vader wouldn't be allowed to rule the world. I was grateful. My oldest son Jacob didn't have to be picked up til 3:15pm so I could just snooze two more hours. I was so sleepy.

2:15pm I'm thirsty. So much for one more hour. I wrestle my pregnant body to a sitting position on the edge of the bed, I hear an audible pop from inside me. I think "yeah right" because what I think was popping doesn't happen to me. I will be pregnant forever. My water has never broken on it's own. Besides, I have 8 days to go. How can I be obsessing on labor while half awake? I need a distraction. Why did I get up from sleep? Nothing sounds better than iced cold Gatorade. I went to the kitchen, pulled a glass from the cabinet. Poured one large glass of Gatorade. As I drank in the cold fluid, warm fluid came from me. Warm fluid continued to come from me. My heart skipped a beat. I'm peeing my pants. No, that's so much more than I could pee, besides, I'm "holding it" and it's still coming. I say aloud "no way." I abandon the Gatorade and run for the bathroom. Sure enough, my thin maxi pad (when you sneeze while pregnant or laugh or cough, you lose a lil bladder control) my undies, my pants...they were toast. I sit down on the toilet. It's still flowing. Now I have managed to get myself stuck on the potty. No towel, no clothes for my lower half.

In the meantime Bradley and Ryan have taken up the task of keeping that kiddy pool used. I yell for my 10 year old Bradley through the bathroom window. He comes in and I ask him to hand me the phone through the bathroom door. He does. He runs back out to kiddy pool play land. I sit for a minute, staring across from me at the bathroom counter stocked with all my vitamins, and clean washrags. I catch my own eyes in the mirror as I contemplate who to call first. "Hi me. We're having our baby today." My lip quivers. My son is coming. May 20th is a good day to be born. I call my midwife. She asks about color of water, contractions and baby movement. All sound well to her so she says she will check in soon. I call my husband. He can't believe my water broke, but he says he's knew it would be soon. He had even put a load of towels through the wash, and they were sitting in the dryer even as I told him it was time. He had known. He says he will leave in 15 minutes, get my oldest son (Jacob) from school and then be home. I have one more call to make. My mom. I tell her my water broke. She says it's a great day to have a baby.

By 300pm the midwife and assistant stopped by to listen to baby heart rate and check on things. They claimed to be in the neighborhood already, but I think they're just birth junkies. Oliver's heart pounds away. He sounds good even through a mild contraction. They are happy and assure me it won't be too long and they will see me soon. They go home to pack the car and take a breather for the night that is coming of things to do in my home.

By 330pm my husband is home. All my kids are now home. I feel safer knowing my little family is together. My contractions pick up. I have to focus on them now. I have to breath hard and sometimes a moan escapes at the peak of the pain. My husband is up and down, in and out, in a flurry of things to do and excitement. He is here for me, but I knew he would be here for me in a different way. He knows I need my women around me to birth and he gives room for them to enter my space as they arrive. He cleans my birthing nest, vacuums, brings me drinks and manages kids. I've showered and braided my hair. I learned that contractions on the toilet are worse than contractions elsewhere. I loved the hot water in the shower. And Enya is by far the best music one can hear during labor. I bounce and rock on my yoga ball as I play on the internet and update online girlfriends about my "progress."

515pm? Maybe 530. Mom arrives. She helps with kids and talks with me. We time contractions a wee bit and talk of what lays ahead. It's quiet. The room is darkened. The music is soft. My body follows the scene and picks up labor more. The midwife arrives with assistant and second assistance who is an apprentice/Certified Massage Therapist/herbalist. They set up a giant tub at the foot of my bed with flannel backed tablecloths underneath. They remake my bed with disposable pads and more tablecloths to save the mattress yet make me a place to climb into after my baby arrives, so we can cuddle, and bond and nurse. They mix intriguing formulas of herbs and tinctures for healing and everything is set up and prepared. Things go into the freezer and fridge, items are laid out for quick access. Then all is still and quiet, and I turn further inward, we all seem to turn to my own personal inward and we wait to welcome Oliver.

The calm before the storm.

Slowly my house is filling with people. Mostly I am unaware, but sometimes the noise rises. I moan through my contractions, my breathing not as controlled as I like. My door softly opens and closes and I open my eyes to see hushed note taking and discussion barely audible accompanied by a dim flashlight in a corner near the cradle that waits for my baby. I turn my head to see a four year old grinning at me in the dim light. "Is the head sticking out yet mama?" I respond "no baby, but I will tell you when it does and you can come see." This scene repeats over and over and over. And as the contractions hurt more and my coping becomes more out of control, I am assured to allow myself whatever it takes to just. get. through. each. one. I scream, I cry, I give up, I give in. I start over. And each shout out that is louder than before I hear the little voice "is the head sticking out mama?" He doesn't want to miss it. It's his baby too. He's kissed it, and rubbed it and called it by name and nurtured and grown this little being inside of me too. We napped together the three of us, every day. He curled around my belly as it swelled larger and larger each month. It's his brother. I assure him over and over, not yet. He knows I am working hard, he knows it's going to be loud and mama is going to yell at the pain, but it will be okay. He feels the water in the birth pool with one little finger. Satisfied, he goes out to announce to the living room full of friends and family that "it's not sticking out yet."

At one point, the people were too many. And they leaked into my birth space that I had made so quiet and serene. I was happy to see them, but amazed at how my body responded to the change in energy. The people that had been in the room with me were responding to my energy and matching it. They knew I needed quiet, I needed to lead in how that room felt, and be followed and supported. My space was interrupted, my energy distracted. It was done with good intentions, but not with good judgement as to the environment was being walked into. It was done with little control. After my space was reclaimed as mine, and the women came back into my room, time seemed to stop.

To my amazement, I had not another contraction. I began to panic at the pause even though it felt good to stop. But that wasn't right. It's not supposed to stop. Was it going to start again? Would my body begin to close back up? As each minute ticked by, it felt wrong. My baby needed to come out. I couldn't sit like this. This was wrong. I rocked on my ball and searched desperately for the energy I had lost. Where was that vibe? I moved to the toilet at the midwifes suggestion, once I was empty I had permission to enter my birthing pool full of clean warm water. I emptied as quickly as I could but was still caught by a good "toilet contraction." They are so strong on the commode for some reason. I was glad to have one. I climbed into my tub, and no other contractions came.

We waited. I rocked back and forth, spreading my hips in the warm water. My Enya CD continued to play and replay. By now all my women knew that song 12 is the end, and it skips, they all knew how to push stop and then play to start the CD over again. I was amazed every time it had reached the end again. That meant twelve songs had played. Twelve Enya songs...that's a long time. Someone put medication in my mouth, and within minutes a small contraction came over me. I felt reassured, soon another. Then one that made me moan. At one full hour after my space was disturbed and a little extra urging from the homeopathic melting under my tongue, and Enya singing that beautiful energy to just me and my baby, the full bore contractions resumed. I was back on track. I silently praised and cursed at my Higher Power for the rocking contractions. My baby was coming thank God, and it hurt so bad dear God!

My husband came in and began telling me about the kids and how he was going to put them to bed. I didn't realize it had become so late. I lifted my head to notice it was dark outside. He kept talking, then he reached out to touch me. I couldn't process it all. I was still fighting everything going on inside me, fighting for control that my body would not give me. Desperate for breaks between contractions. I yelled at him "stop telling me what you're doing, stop checking in, just do it, just do what you do and let me be." He whispered "I love you." and silently left me in my own battle field where I felt that I was losing despite the occasional words of encouragement that I was strong and beautiful. I felt naked. Because, I was naked but I really didn't care. They had been naked before too. I felt weak. I felt panicky.

They kept putting straws in my mouth and each time I gulped down liquid with unquenchable thirst. They gave me small pellets under my tongue that kept things going in the right direction.

I gripped the edge of my birth pool, I could not find a comfortable position. I couldn't sit, I couldn't crouch and leaning backwards was just out of the question. My mom and husband had been taking turns pouring warm water over the top part of my back. I kept feeling nauseous and there were buckets at the edge of the pool. Someone suggested I allow my midwife to check my dilation. She could speed things up a bit by stretching my cervix. I knew that any hand even her tiny petite gentle touch would hurt. Did I want more hurt? I knew it would take more hurt to get my baby here, I knew I wanted to consent. It took me minutes to make my way back to the bathroom. I stepped out of the pool and they dried my legs. I put my hands on the bed and moaned and huffed through a contraction. I waddled to the bathroom as if I'd been riding a horse. Back to the evil toilet that dishes out contractions of hell. But I had my own ammunition in return. I found myself leaning over the bathroom sink. I was caught between toilet and bed. No one was telling me where to go, and I felt unsure to make my own decision. Never had I labored with no instruction. My mind was chewing on the concept of me being in control of my labor. And yet as the contractions hit me I knew in my heart I had no control. I was struggling with where to draw the line of surrender and raise my white flag. I caught my eyes in the mirror, and I saw panic. I was near terror.

And then as a contraction began to rock my world again, a gentle voice came in next to me. No touch, just her presence. She told me how to ride the wave. How it was me that was making that pain, because that muscle was so strong. I was strong. And all I had to do was get out of that muscles way. My body would do the work. It was so hard to not fight it. It was hard to move out of the way. As it peaked with intensity her eyes met mine and her mouth blew the air out, my body latched onto that breath. I copied her face. She touched her own face where it needed to relax, and I knew that meant to relax mine in those places too. And suddenly it had passed. That contraction had passed and I had stayed open. I had not screamed, I had blown and stayed calm. She gave me all the credit. We did this again and again. During the breaks, I would stare at the water spots on the chrome faucet in my sink, and the tiny scratches in the porcelain and the crack in the grout. Waiting for the next wave. Waiting for the intensity. Waiting for myself to allow my baby to come.

I realized that this was a passage. I was a little girl, so unsure of what I was doing. These women in the room...they were giants. They were so sure of this path I was following, they had all walked it before, the three midwifery people and my own mother. I was a tiny willow tree growing around a pond that was surrounded by ancient whispery willows. They embraced me as I screamed at them all. I hated this journey. I wanted it to be easy. I knew it wouldn't be and so did they, but I really, really wanted it to be. I made my way to the bed. I was checked again. We don't do numbers but she assured me not long. Based on my pain, I agreed. I thought it should be now.

I felt tired. I didn't want to battle this anymore. But it was too hard to surrender. I kept complaining that I was tired. They explained why my body made me feel tired. I had to go inside, where I dare not go, and listen to the monster raging through me. Someone said that if I lay down I could fully rest in between the pains. I just wanted a little rest, a little break. One moment of no pain. I laid on my left side. Pillows went all around me in immediate support. My bed, my God, my snuggly bed, so fresh and clean. I knew next time I laid in my bed I would be curled around this new little being. I curled around him now, in a different way, with him still inside me. I knew it would take 2-3 contractions to get used to the position. I had one and I yelled at how much I hated it. I rested and nearly drifted to sleep. I had another that I screamed through and opened my legs, couldn't roll to my back, couldn't stay on my side. And then rest. My husband was curled around me trying so hard to comfort me and be close to me. I was aware of his loving presence, but could still not stand to be touched or cuddled.

On the third contraction, I scrapped the laying down idea. That's just plain stupid. I briefly thought of hospital births...what a stupid idea to put a women on her back in bed. I couldn't even do my side. I could not lay down. Now I realized how truly insane that idea is. No wonder they screamed for drugs after a few hours of back laying. A few hours...hell, I couldn't make three contractions. Amazing.

It's about 900pm. I'm guessing because my children are sleeping, it's dark outside. And I shift around on top of my bed. I stand at the edge and lean over. I try some pillows to lean forward on, but the height is wrong. I try the birth ball but it's in the way when a contraction hits, because it's too tall and too hard. I realize I am squatting a little during contractions, up and down, up and down. Someone points out to me how good that is, and that my body is doing that all by itself. I look down and sure enough I am doing this funky squat like a man pressing weights above his head while standing. Wow. My eyes divert to the floor for a moment, and I notice red. The midwife points out bloody show. She says that means I'm very close. What is very close? I think to myself. I can't talk, I can't ask, I can only realize I am tired, I feel weak. I am hot. I am huffing and puffing, hyperventilating and screaming through my contractions. I muster the whisper that says I'm so tired, and I cannot get comfortable. I feel warm oil on my back and gentle hands. The massage therapist has taken mercy. As her warm hands work miracles in the shape of circles, I feel her body talk to mine and literally feel my hips widen in response to her hands request. How did she do that? And then again. And then again. These amazing widening circles. A contraction hits and she steps back for me to work through it, even though I feel I have no grace about it. She takes up my case again. We dance back and forth for what seems hours. But in hindsight it was 4-5 contractions.

I'm too tired to stand. I can't do squats anymore even if my body loves it. I crawl up onto the bed. A HUGE stack of pillows and blankets for me to lean over during my breaks awaits me. My breaks-I demand them. I scream at the ancient Willows that I must still have my breaks. In my mind they can make that happen. They just reassure me in calm gentle tones. I need them I plead, I need them. I can't do this if they go away. Someone tells me that I am on a break and wasting it. I shut up and try to rest fully into it. The relaxation brings the surrender which brings a contraction. I have not put together that link yet in my brain. All I can think of is my break. My last break and how good it was, when my next one is and how long I can make it last. I hate the pain. I don't care anymore where it's coming from or how strong I am. I don't even care about the progress. I just want something different. A different pain, a different way to cope, some sort of change.

Enya. Enya must change. I look up during a break and ask if they are all sick of Enya yet? No one says a word. My mom smiles. I tell her to just turn it way down. The house is quiet now the energy disturbances all have left, and only the peaceful slumber of my beautiful children echo's to me from silent rooms. The window is cracked. I hear my trains rumble by. The strong trains that never stop. They rumble by unmoved by weather or time or my pain. That is strength. I silently pray for that strength. A train moves through me too and I begin my usual routine of trying to breathe with evenness and deepness and control, and yet moaning and screaming. I'm so loud. I don't care. The face is with me again, breathing with me as I silently panic...okay not so silently panic. I complain, I yell, I blame. She breathes. I breathe. I feel the hands of my dance partner again, and my hips open more. It feels so open that I think I should hear cracking, but it's not. It's her and my hips, the trains rumbling, Enya whispering, and the face I need to connect with that is saving me. She breathes with me, I question her with surprise and fear in my eyes because I can't form words, she answers me with "yes" "it's right." It is right, my body is right, it's doing this. I shake during contractions blowing so so hard into her face. I shake my head no as if I am burrowing deeper and deeper if I shake harder. She shakes her head yes to embrace it and allow it to burrow, I try to copy her, and realize I am shaking my head in circles. Whatever, it's progress. The contraction subsides and she smiles at me. I think she is proud of me. It makes me feel proud of me.

And then another. Wait. Where's my break? She explains how I'm so close they will come two at a time. One strong hard one, then a short break then another small one. The second is smaller? I want to ask for that in writing with a signature of blood. She assures me always smaller. And then my break? Yes. Okay. I commit to one more. But just one. I am so done with this. I get two, one big, one little. She was right. She didn't lie. I'm tired again. I don't want to be on my knees anymore. I just want to be done so I can get comfortable. It's taking forever. I hate Enya now. I hate the stupid trains. I'm hot. Someone turns on the fan and they gently guide me toward the water which has cooled just a bit.

I step in and it's heaven. I am instantly cooled off, but the contraction in the cold is so intense I am begging and screaming for relief. Warm water begins to fill the tub. I can fully ease into my break. I demand my breaks now, like a greedy child wanting the whole pack of gum. I plead my case of how deserving I am. I fight and threaten to quit. I refuse to go on without my breaks. I scream at them how bad it hurts. She offers me to get up out of the water, get dressed and drive to the hospital where I can have drugs. Is she kidding? I know she has a stash. No, no, no. My brain is spinning. She asks what I want. I say I know I want to stay but this is so. damn. hard. She agrees with me. It doesn't take away the pain. It validates it. I'm validated. Like a parking garage ticket. Yes. It hurts. Yes. We know it hurts. Yes. You have to do this yourself. I know with the validation that they are fully aware of my pain. And I know I already trusted them and still do. So if they are aware of my pain level and they are calm and say it's okay to hurt that bad... then I know on a deep level it is. I'm validated. It still sucks rocks.

And another pain rocks my world. I scream and yell at her again. She smiles back at me. I cry and cry real tears. I cry and cry and sob and cuss. I stretch out and hang over the edge of the tub and proclaim I am absolutly certain I am dying. I know I am. And part of me was. The little girl inside of me was dying and the giant was beginning new growth. I'm becoming a bigger Willow. A voice tells me to see what I can feel if I reach down. I argue no. There's nothing there, I will feel nothing. I reach down inspite of my fear and it's confirmed. As high as I can reach is nothing. My God. Nothing. I am dying. I know it in my heart. I will die from this. This will kill me. I really truly believe I will die, and they will all be sad and realize how much it hurt because I died.

The pains are faster. I am screaming high pitched bloody murder with each one. You can't outshout me, you can't help me anymore. It's me. And this pain. And this baby. You should all run away now. The thought to push crosses my mind and I grunt a grunty push. It doesn't help. Nothing helps. Now I am dying I and I will die as loudly as I can. I hate everything about this. My body realizes I allowed it to push, and suddenly beyond my control (and with no break) I am pushing. I scream the word pressure, I scream that I'm pushing, not to say I am consciously pushing, to say my body is pushing beyone my control. It hurts more. I am told "good, then-push!" There was no relief with pushing. But it was different from the endless pains that had taken me to this point. And I knew if I hurried that I could be done. I could sigh with doneness and never look back. I could hold my reward. I see my husband. Where did he come from? How did he know? He shuts the window. I realize that the whole neighborhood knows. I don't care. They aren't saving me either so they can suffer with me. I just. don't. care.

I scream so hard, I feel him come down. I feel my face turn shades of purple with my screams Excited voices tell me his head is emerging. Could it be? Is it really almost over? A mirror confirms for my own view a little head emerge from my body. I am holding the top half of my parts. I don't want to tear upwards. I think I already tore elsewhere because of the burning feeling. I feel massive pressure going back in, instead of out. I scream with demonic possession at my husband to get his hands the hell off of me. I keep screaming at him to stop it. He holds them up to show me he's not touching me. My face changes as I realize it's the baby rearranging himself. I scream for someone, anyone to pull him out. I desperately look face to face begging someone to pull him out. I am told that I have to push him out. No one will touch him.

I bear down again with all that is within me and the last bit of little girl is gone. At 12:15 am on May 21, 2008 I have emerged into a full blown woman. A grown Willow. And I see my husbands face and look down, he caught my baby. Our baby. Our son. MY husband and I birthed our child. No one else did that, no one else could. I pushed and he caught. I smile as I think that he once again got the easy end of this deal. Welcome earthside Oliver George Payton. We begin this insane journey in the land of wise Willows and rumbling trains. And Enya will be our choir. You were born in your home, into your fathers hands, your grandmother's eyes watching over, with your brothers sleeping only feet away in their quiet bedrooms. We welcomed you into our home, your home, your whole family. I love you more than all the stars in the sky baby boy. Welcome.