Labor has stages the same way that the earth has geological epochs visible in the fossil record or cities have neighborhoods. When you are firmly and deeply in the center of a rich vein of Chesapecten Scallops, you know what epoch you are dealing with. A rich vein of hardware stores and bars with reasonably priced and extensive draft beer menus makes it clear that you are in Andersonville. But in labor, the fossil record and in neighborhoods, things get fuzzy around the edges.
Transition is the period between active labor and pushing, but many women have the urge to push during transition, and some women don't have any urge to push during pushing; and yet, humans are somehow successfully born every day.
L isn't sure she should be pushing yet. Mid-wife is absolutely sure L should be pushing. I am staying out of it.
I should point out that this is right around seven and a half hours of labor. If this was a union shop, L would be entitled to a thirty minute lunch and two 15 minute breaks. So far, there has been no epidural, no narcotics, and, shockingly enough, no IV drip. This is the labor we wanted, and L is holding up her end of the deal in spades. Pushing, though. Pushing is turning out to be a bit of a sticky wicket. I think part of it is that there is no way for anyone who is not pushing out a baby to empathize with someone who is. I can mop L's forehead, I can hold her legs back, I can whisper encouragements in her ear, but I cannot in any way relate to what she is going through.
L pushes, L falls back exhausted. L pushes, L falls back exhausted. L pushes, L falls back exhausted. I think about the path we took to get here. At home, there is a nursery. There is a special seat in the car to safely transport an infant. I have spent so much time with the baby's stuff that I started to think of myself as a parent, but as L pushes, and I start to see the crown of M's head I realize how little I could have possibly prepared for this moment.
Unfortunately, L is losing steam.
"This isn't working."
"No honey, it is. I can see his head. He has hair and everything."
"It doesn't feel like it's working."
"Can we get a mirror?"
And that is how L got the last bit of energy to push out a baby with no interventions. When she sees M's head it becomes real to her that this is the hour we will meet our son.
And so, she pushes.
I see the mid-wife putting on a sterile robe and hair net.
"The mid-wife is putting on her baby catching outfit. We must be close."
And then, it happens. At this point we've watched enough birthing videos to know what's about to happen, but it still shocks me. The split second after the widest part of M's head comes into the room, the rest of him tumbles out into the mid-wife's arms. It's shocking to see such a gradual and lengthy process end in this one ungraceful and sudden spurt of activity.
And up in the air, from his improbably tiny body comes a giant arc of urine. And from his sunken chest comes a mighty scream.
And the mid-wife looks over at the pediatric team who is planning to take our baby away and cut his cord and put him under a lamp, and she says "This is a healthy baby, right guys? He wouldn't sound like that if he had meconium in his lungs."
And they pack up, and they leave.
M is on L's chest. His cord is connected. This is what we wanted. The placenta pushes all the good fetal blood he needs into his tiny body to make it strong, and then, knowing its job is done, detaches itself. I cut the cord. M cries, L cries, I cry.
M's crying changes. He's confused and sad. He has never felt discomfort before. The feel of air on his skin is new and uncomfortable. I pick him up, and hold him tight. I start the song that I sang to him through his mother's skin.
I sing about Ziggy Stardust and the Spiders from Mars. I rhetorically ask if we should crush his sweet hands. I reassure him that Ziggy plays guitar. He cuddles in closer and closes his eyes.
I realize that none of us has eaten in eight hours.
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