For those who’ve followed the blog for a while, you know my history with miscarriage and secondary infertility.

Husband and I began trying for another child when our first was about 10 months old. We were able to get pregnant quite easily, but I could never get over that magic first trimester hump.

Finally, after trying and trying and trying and trying some more, we did it! My pregnancy was hell. But this little one was so wanted, I tried to focus on how long it’d taken us to get here and just enjoy the process.

We hadn’t told anyone our due date (March 30, btw) so as not to have pressure questions asking about arrival towards the date.

Fast forward to April 6, and I’d been a weepy, waddling mess for the last week, constantly telling anyone who’d listen how much I didn’t want to be pregnant anymore. As much as I wanted to trust my body to go into labour on its own, I still wasn’t 100% in my faith that it would happen. And I was a week late already. (I had D at 41+6).

That morning hubs and I went for breakfast alone while D was at preschool. It was nice to have some time to ourselves. We even had enough time for some grown-up fun before we had to pick D up — they say it’s a great way to get labour going, so why not!

Well, later that afternoon we took D to swimming lessons. I couldn’t get comfortable sitting on the benches, the baby just felt SO low and I was having some pain on and off. Switching positions didn’t help. I wasn’t sure at this point if it was real contractions (I’d had Braxton hicks for weeks) or just gas. (Don’t laugh. It’s hard to tell!)  I tried my best to ignore things.

The pain continued on and off every 15-20 minutes or so. Once we got home and got D to bed, Luc and I decided to have a movie night, complete with a cheese board, candy, and a some wine. I ran to the grocery store to get provisions, and while making my way through the store I had to stop and breathe through the pains as they were getting more frequent and intense. I still wasn’t convinced it was show time, since we had about 3 false alarms with D. I didn’t want to get my hopes up.

I enjoyed half a glass of white, along with some tasty cheeses and a rom-com with my main squeeze. The pains were coming still more frequently and intensely, and hubs and I joked that tonight might just really be the night. He decided to go to bed after the movie to get a little bit of sleep just in case this was the real deal. I decided to sleep out on the couch so I could easily get to the washroom (I was only peeing about every 10 seconds or so by this point).

Sometime around 1am I went to the washroom and had a lot of mucous when I wiped. I know even when you lose your mucous plug it can still be a bit before true labour, so STILL, I wasn’t getting my hopes up. But the contractions kept coming. I couldn’t lay down. I couldn’t get comfortable. I couldn’t ignore things anymore. When I had still more mucous, I decided that this was really go time and I began tidying the house enough that the midwives would have space when they arrived, and wouldn’t think us too big of pigs.

Not long after, I decided I should start timing my contractions because it felt like they were coming pretty frequently and lasting quite a while. My contractions were 3-4 minutes apart, lasting 60-90 seconds and I had only timed them for about half an hour before deciding to call the midwife. Since this was my second baby, I was supposed to page the midwife when my contractions were 1 minute long, 5 minutes apart, for an hour or more. WHOOPS. It was now 3am.

I kept visualizing the contractions like waves in the ocean. Breathing in with each surge and breathing out after the peak. I totally thought I had this. 

The midwife arrived at 4am, which promptly woke little D. Hubs slept for a little bit longer, but not much. I hadn’t told him it was go time as I wanted him to have as much rest as possible before having to support me, since I had no idea how long my labour would be. He was surprised to see the midwives there already.

I’ll keep this part quick and to the point. Though it felt anything but in the moment. If you want more details, let’s get coffee and talk about it. 😉

I laboured on and off in the tub, on the toilet, over the birth ball. Sweet little D was the best doula-in-training ever. He brought me cool cloths, poured water on my belly during contractions, and kept the overall mood light. He was so brave and calm and completely unfazed by the process, even when I got really, REALLY vocal during transition.

At one point, we thought baby would be close given my contractions, but labour stalled out for a little. The midwife kept pushing to break my water to keep things going. I declined for about 4 hours until the pain was so much I just couldn’t take it anymore and all I could think of was getting this baby out. It was about 1130 or so now.

I began begging everyone to take me to the hospital. I thought I was dying. I went full into transition, throwing up from both ends. (WHOA). No one knew how they would get me there since I physically could not get up off of my knees. I thought that my pelvis was going to split in two. I totally thought I no longer had this. 

Finally, my body took over and began pushing. The second midwife arrived. I began actively pushing. It took about an hour of pushing, and baby was out and placed on its former home. 12:58pm. I think I was in shock, because I just wanted it taken off of me. The midwives kept encouraging me to hold baby but I was like “hell no, not right now.” D excitedly told me how he had seen the baby come out and “I’m so proud of you, mama,” and then Luc took him to our neighbours for a bit.

Baby had good apgars but wasn’t crying and so the midwives moved it [I was pretty sure it was a boy as they moved him over and I saw a pair of little testicles in the air. I finally asked and was confirmed we had another son!] over for a bit of oxygen. That seemed to do the trick.

The one midwife took care of my placenta and lady business (a second-degree tear) while hubs did skin to skin with the now-named Charles. The little man weighed in at 9 pounds 12 ounces — yes, really! An unmedicated home VBAC! Our little one was finally here, but it wasn’t as without-a-hitch as we thought.