The Strength of a Mother {and a Birth Story}

I was waiting for it to be time.

I was lying in bed trying to catch some sleep, getting the distinct impression I would not be getting any sleep that night.

In the middle of a contraction, my body quaked and I downright felt my water burst within me. In fact, it so startled me and jerked inside me that I thought I might be opening my eyes to behold my heavenly home.

I called my sister to come for the kids, I told my husband it was time. It’s time as in I am SURE and this baby is coming SOON. We loaded up and sped off to the hospital.

It was back labor; the baby’s head was posterior. Not sunnyside, but against my tailbone. And in case this isn't obvious: yes, it hurt. A lot.

When we arrived at the hospital, they skipped triage and put me straight into the birthing room. I don’t think they felt the need to question whether this was active labor. I certainly didn’t.

I labored and contracted in the bed while it took 3 different nurses and 1 anesthesiologist to insert a saline lock into veins that wanted to run away from them. My arms still bare the poke-marks and bruises.

I kept begging to get off the bed, asking the nurses to hurry up. I just knew I needed to move the baby off my back. I labored for two hours, on the bed, kneeling against the bed, sitting and holding my husband, kneeling over the top of the bed. I struggled to stay on top of the pain, on top of the contractions. When I told my mom I just couldn’t do it anymore, the pain was just too much, she smiled and said, “This is it. You’re in transition. It’s almost over.”

I wailed, “No I’m not! The contractions aren’t close enough together!” I think she might have laughed to herself. (Perhaps it should be mentioned in Jed’s transitional labor, the contractions were on top of each other and I never had more than seconds to catch my breath.)

And then I could feel it, the heaviness, the bearing down.

When it came time to push, all the excitement of discovering boy or girl melted away into a puddle of panic.

It was that moment where I was face to face with my greatest fear. The one that’s haunted me this entire pregnancy: Could good things really happen to me? It had lingered in the back of my mind, even brought about nightmares, that at some point something would go horribly wrong. I felt I just couldn’t face it.

When they told me to push, I cried out, “I can’t!” I wasted a few contractions fighting the urge to push. And when they assured me I really could, through ripping pain and hot tears, I exclaimed, “No, I really, really can.not.do.this! I can’t!”

 And the thing is, no matter how weak I felt in that moment, no matter how much I thought I really just couldn’t, the only way out was through.

Along with my husband, my mom and mother-in-law were my support team.

And the thing is, sometimes I feel like I’m a weak person. I am sitting here in all my postpartum glory a little bit ashamed as I weep over everything, have anxiety plaguing me as my pregnancy hormones leave my body, as I need so much help with everything (that back labor I mentioned, it kind of put my back out).

I had told my husband a few days back that maybe I just can’t handle very much. Maybe I am just a weaker person. Stunned, he looked at me and said, “Amanda, you’re the strongest person I know.”

And maybe we do that as women. Take our births that don’t go as planned and wear it as shame. The last minute decisions to get that epidural when we meant to go all natural; the unplanned caesarian that maybe feels a bit like you are less because you gave birth differently; the Pitocin that was needed to start a labor that never wanted to start; the milk that never came in or dried up too early. The postpartum hormonal crash that leaves us feeling not quite human, maybe struggling to bond with the baby we so wanted, or just feeling completely overwhelmed by life and change and new love.

We chalk it up to weakness. We feel ashamed. And maybe we miss the part where the only way out was through… and we, mommas, we’ve walked through.

And no matter how you went through, you carried life into the world.

And there’s something about sentence that needs to linger in the air:  

You’ve    carried    life    into    this    world.

The instant they pull that baby from your body, something of heaven touches earth. Within you life was formed, and through you life was carried.

And momma, no matter where you are sitting right now, be it struggling to come through a season of loss or knee-deep in laundry and dish piles or worried about whether you are doing it all wrong with the baby who still won’t sleep through the night.

Whatever kind of sudden or enduring life-storm you are sitting in the middle of, whatever the changing season…

This I know, you might need to lean on your friends and your family and your husband… and you definitely need to lean on your Savior. But you will make it through.

The big siblings singing "A Swimming Shark" to baby

Okay. And now I am so thrilled to introduce you to Samuel. His name means “God has heard” and it is through tears (which seem to come very frequently these days) that I get to proclaim the miracle that God heard my cries and saw the longing in my heart. He heard my kids’ prayers and my husband’s. And I do believe and am praying that God will hear the voice of this boy as he grows. Though we walked through a season of loss and sorrow, our bundle of joy arrived early one Sunday morning. (And isn't that a bit poetic?)

Little Samuel is healthy and has the sweetest countenance. We are in love. And in awe.

(Psalm 30:5b)

I’d love to hear your birth stories in the comments. And if you dealt with the postpartum hormonal crash. Help all us mommas know we all do this a little different and a little bit the same and that it’s all covered by His Grace?

By Grace,

Amanda Conquers

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