My firstborn was in no rush to make his entrance into the world. My body was ready, but he clearly wasn’t. In fact, my obstetrician confidently told me, “I rarely say this, but there’s no way he’ll be late.” Yet, his due date came and went without so much as a hint of labor. Just me, waiting and very much pregnant.
During my pregnancy, my partner and I attended a birthing class. They prepared us for the pain of childbirth by having us hold ice cubes—an experience that pales in comparison to actual labor. Like many expectant mothers, I aimed for a “natural” labor—no medications, just breathing techniques and the understanding that it would eventually end.
In my quest to keep things natural, I enlisted every old wives’ tale I could find about inducing labor. I walked three miles daily on hilly terrain, practiced yoga poses, and attempted to eat chicken parmesan and eggplant parmesan—whichever one was supposed to kickstart labor. I spiced up my meals with hot sauce and sipped raspberry leaf tea like it was going out of style. Nothing worked.
By this point, I was a week into my 12-week maternity leave (because, of course, he would not be late). I knew he was comfortable in my spicy womb, but returning to work still pregnant would be rather awkward. So, I reluctantly scheduled an induction for 10 days past his due date, hoping he would arrive on his own before that.
The day before the induction, still no sign of labor. In a final attempt, I visited an acupuncturist. As she prepared me with needles, she asked, “Why are you so adamant about avoiding induction?” I explained my desire for a “natural” birth experience, avoiding drugs and savoring the process. She looked me in the eye and said, “No matter what happens, this will be your unique birth story.”
That statement struck a chord with me. I was so focused on doing things “right” that I had overlooked the significance of the day. This was a monumental moment for my partner and me as we were about to become parents. I realized I shouldn’t tarnish this experience by fixating on my expectations. If Pitocin was necessary, then so be it.
Ultimately, my first child—and my two subsequent ones—had to be induced. My partner and I even established a secret code phrase for when I wanted an epidural: “I’m serious darn it!” Labor progressed so quickly that I didn’t even have time for the epidural. But I knew that if it had come to that, it would have been perfectly acceptable.
Looking back, I don’t dwell on the medical interventions I needed. Instead, I remember the overwhelming shock of suddenly welcoming a new member into our family. I think of how he announced his arrival with a loud wail and an impressive pee shower that caught everyone off guard. I recall how he looked both exactly and completely different from what I had envisioned. I remember his tiny size, which felt monumental in my heart. Most importantly, I reflect on the immense relief I felt: I had done it, he was here, healthy, and I could finally hold him.
It was my story, our family’s story. And it was nothing short of perfect.
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Summary
In her reflective narrative, Jennifer Marsh shares her journey of navigating the challenges of inducing labor. Initially fixated on having a “natural” birth, she learns to embrace the uniqueness of her experience, ultimately realizing that the day was about welcoming her child into the world rather than adhering to a specific plan. Through her story, she emphasizes the importance of focusing on the moment rather than the methods.