A birth story.

A sleepless night of tossing and turning, 3:30AM I wake with pains I know can't be false. Drag myself to the bathroom. Everyone said there would never be a doubt in my mind when it's the real thing.  I confidently climb back into bed and curl up behind my husband's warm body. "We are going to have this baby today." Proud to know I was experiencing for the first time what it was like to feel my body go into labour on its own.

We try to fall back asleep, but excitement and contractions keep us awake. I'm back in the bathroom to empty my bladder and relieve the unending pressure. And to apply makeup. My photographer friend is coming to document the birth, and I cannot be caught on camera looking like this.

 I bounce and rock on my yoga ball, dot frankincense on my back and stomach during contractions; have Peter massage my shoulders, knead my back. Then an all-consuming urge to push, as contractions become harder and closer. 

All photos credit: Veloshoot Photography

7AM. I tell Peter it's time to call our midwives letting them know things have begun and progressed, that they should probably head our way. It was a planned home birth, because our twins were born in a hospital.

I collapse over the kitchen table, bearing a contraction all my own while my husband hurriedly answers the questions he's asked. And I crumble. Get the hell off the phone.

He's behind me, raising my arms up and over his neck, swaying my hips side to side. And I'm reminded of the beautiful books I passionately perused the past 9 months. Orgasmic Birth, my ass, I groaned to my husband. He muffled a laugh into my knotty, tangled, bed-head hair. I was trying-- the flower petals, opening and closing. The dripping faucet. The dimly-lit room decorated just as I dreamed. I just couldn't see it.

In through my nose, out through my mouth. "So this is what it feels like to be cursed?"  My husband rubs my face tenderly and smiles. He nods with a slow blink of his eyes. "But you're doing great."

7:45 AM the first midwife arrives, unpacks her things and assesses the situation. She phones a midwife at the clinic up the street from our house. There is no time to wait for the on-call midwife. "I think you'll have a baby before she can get here."

The second midwife arrives and is immediately at my side, coaching my breathing, rubbing my arms, kneading my back. Sebastian and Katharina's adopted grandparents here in Scotland arrive to care for them while I deliver. "Perfect, perfect timing!" Debby whispers as she walks into the bedroom. She dots oils on my head and neck. Whispers prayers through contractions, holds my hands. 

In through my nose. Out through my mouth. Breathe the baby down. It was doing something, I could feel. The pressure. Oh! the pressure. Crippling.

 In through my nose, out through my mouth. No, not hyperventilating. 

Midwife Janet insists pressure will be relieved when my waters break. I lay sideways across our bed and ask her to break them. My eyes are pathetic, and I can feel it. Like an old basset hound.

"No, you don't want me to. They will go. They will go. It will be better." No artificial rupture of water. No unnecessary internal examination. It was all in my birth plan, and I knew it. I couldn't succumb to being the labouring woman that abandons everything she held important in a moment of weakness.

I carry on.

Our friend and photographer arrives.

"I want to get up. That will help, I know it. Help me move. . . The gravity. It will help, the gravity. It will break them." Standing at the foot of the bed, my husband hoists me off the bed. My feet hit the ground, a quick pop!, a warm gush. My legs, the floor and his suede loafers-- bathed in amniotic fluid. I sing passionate praises while everyone laughs and photographs wet shoes and talks about drying the floor. Thank you God. Oh thank you dear Lord! And just like that, the pressure is gone.

Then it's really pushing time. 

A couple more contractions standing, and my midwife suggests laying to help ease the head past my tailbone. The baby crowns, everyone smiles. I ask if there's hair, because these things are important to know during delivery. "Oh yes. Black!" Then her head slips back. Nothing to be seen.

I ask for a mirror to be held so I can watch delivery. As people cheer and encourage, I expect to see an entire head of hair, the tops of ears, maybe even a little nose. "Great progress" was redefined in my mind. I was staring at a half dollar-sized patch of head and black hair. Suddenly I feel tired again. 

And I laugh, "I think it's a biiig head!"

There's time for one calm breath and the next wave of contractions is upon me. I'm determined to make this the last. I expect burning; everyone talks about it. I don't experience Cash's Burning Ring of Fire, but pressure. Oh! the pressure. My midwife tries to encourage, "I promise you, in a moment you won't feel any of that. I promise."

 She crowns, more of that beautiful black hair I prayed for. And more. More. Then her body begins turning, we know because her head is. We all watch in awe as this tiny head is rotating, half in me and half out. 

The pressure is back. A hard push; we have a head. Blue skin, black hair. Cord is wrapped, tight. Midwife whispers, "Let's get her out." Another push, shoulders, more cord wrapped around her arms. And the body follows with ease. 

My eyes are glued to the mirror in front of me. And words fail.

A miracle.

In seconds the midwife has the cord unwrapped from her neck, arms and torso. She's on my chest, and suddenly there's no pain.

And not a care in the world. 

All I feel is my husband's body behind me, his arms around me, and tears rolling down my cheeks. And this baby. Oh, this sweet, sweet miracle. No pricked heel or slapped bottom, my warm body prompts her first cry. Her first cry ever. Her brand new lungs-- they work. Oh, do they work. 

It's not glamorous, but oh, it is! My mascara has run, my foundation is gone. My hair is  knotty and my lips are chapped. My bump is suddenly gone, and so is every problem the world holds. And there, clinging to me, is a fresh little miracle. Brand new, given just to us. 

She nurses, ravenously. There are smiles and tears. My husband is beside himself with awe and joy. His cheek is pressed against mine, and our eyes-- we can't take them off of her. 

We introduce her siblings. They're cautious but excited and have a thousand kisses to share. Friends and midwives trickle out, and then it's just us. Our family of five.

And I'm left to rest and recover in my very own bed. Each night my husband crawls into bed beside me, and I'm not fed microwave haggis. No trips to the NICU, no IVs. No visiting hours, or nurses calling at all hours. And I heal as we see best. I bond with my baby, and my babies, and we enjoy the new life together, all of us. 

We're thankful for all of it.