Check out all of my babies and their birth pictures. Each birth was so different and so important to who I am and the kind of mother I am. Elyse made me a Mom. I had no idea what I was doing, I just knew how to love her. She allowed me the experience to grow comfortable as a mother. Andy's birth gave me confidence in my voice. To fight for my child, and do what I know to be right; even if it means going against doctor's advice. Milo's birth taught me that courage doesn't always feel strong.
I have noticed that women that have had all vaginal births rarely understand my obsession with pushing babies out of my own vagina. Like most things, you don't appreciate what you can do unless you can't do it one day. Being able to birth a baby is such a defined moment of womanhood. When you can't do it, you feel like part of your womanhood is broken. Of course it's not, and logically we know this. But what our head knows and our hearts whisper are sometimes different.
I had accepted that my body would never know what it was like to push out a baby. When I thought of women that had experienced a vaginal birth, they were so much more "all-powerful woman" than I considered myself. I joked with people that I preferred cesarean. "Just lay me down, and cut the baby out. Yes please!", I'd say to people. "Why would ANYONE want to labor, anyway?"
I didn't want anyone to know that I wasn't proud of my births.
But one year ago, I did it. I was able to push out my baby, and the experience is just finally starting to sink in. It's such a deep rooted sense of self that it wasn't the automatic empowerment that I thought it would be. In fact, as our insecurities will often do, I found new ways to consider myself inferior even amongst the "vaginal delivery" birthers. You were weak. You got an epidural. You cried. You wished for a cesarean. You had a hospital birth. You lost control of your contractions. My mind colored in all kinds of reasons why I still wasn't good enough to be a strong birthing woman. I felt like a fake.
As time passes, little flickers of pride allow themselves to exist deep inside me. In the most random of moments, I will think to myself, "I pushed my baby out of my vagina. I really did that." I try to remember more of the moments that made me feel strong. Pushing on my own. Working hard for something and achieving it. Not being afraid of my big baby coming out. I don't know if I feel more like a "real woman" but I feel proud when I get to tell people that I pushed my baby out. It's an ordinary thing that's done every single minute, but it feels extraordinary when it used to be impossible for you.
So a year later and my little vba2c baby is about to turn one. From the outside he is your average gorgeous one year old. I am your average tired and busy mom. But I have one extra little thread of experience that binds with the rest of me to make me stronger.
I researched, studied and prepared for the birth I wanted.
I suffered through tremendous pain, and persevered when everything in me wanted to quit.
I pushed a human being out of my vagina and he took his first breath because I grew him strong and healthy.
For his birthday, and my "birth day" anniversary, I think I'll go ahead and give myself a little high five for doing something awesome.
I have noticed that women that have had all vaginal births rarely understand my obsession with pushing babies out of my own vagina. Like most things, you don't appreciate what you can do unless you can't do it one day. Being able to birth a baby is such a defined moment of womanhood. When you can't do it, you feel like part of your womanhood is broken. Of course it's not, and logically we know this. But what our head knows and our hearts whisper are sometimes different.
I had accepted that my body would never know what it was like to push out a baby. When I thought of women that had experienced a vaginal birth, they were so much more "all-powerful woman" than I considered myself. I joked with people that I preferred cesarean. "Just lay me down, and cut the baby out. Yes please!", I'd say to people. "Why would ANYONE want to labor, anyway?"
I didn't want anyone to know that I wasn't proud of my births.
But one year ago, I did it. I was able to push out my baby, and the experience is just finally starting to sink in. It's such a deep rooted sense of self that it wasn't the automatic empowerment that I thought it would be. In fact, as our insecurities will often do, I found new ways to consider myself inferior even amongst the "vaginal delivery" birthers. You were weak. You got an epidural. You cried. You wished for a cesarean. You had a hospital birth. You lost control of your contractions. My mind colored in all kinds of reasons why I still wasn't good enough to be a strong birthing woman. I felt like a fake.
As time passes, little flickers of pride allow themselves to exist deep inside me. In the most random of moments, I will think to myself, "I pushed my baby out of my vagina. I really did that." I try to remember more of the moments that made me feel strong. Pushing on my own. Working hard for something and achieving it. Not being afraid of my big baby coming out. I don't know if I feel more like a "real woman" but I feel proud when I get to tell people that I pushed my baby out. It's an ordinary thing that's done every single minute, but it feels extraordinary when it used to be impossible for you.
So a year later and my little vba2c baby is about to turn one. From the outside he is your average gorgeous one year old. I am your average tired and busy mom. But I have one extra little thread of experience that binds with the rest of me to make me stronger.
I researched, studied and prepared for the birth I wanted.
I suffered through tremendous pain, and persevered when everything in me wanted to quit.
I pushed a human being out of my vagina and he took his first breath because I grew him strong and healthy.
For his birthday, and my "birth day" anniversary, I think I'll go ahead and give myself a little high five for doing something awesome.