"Let your bending in the archer's hand be for gladness"

I have been rewatching The Wonder Years. It is one of my top five favorite shows of all time.  Today I watched the episode called "The Wedding" (S:5, E:22) in which the older sister, Karen, gets married.  I have cried every time I have seen that episode, but in the emotion explosion due to my baby turning one, I really cried.  I have always loved the poem that Karen's mom reads and so I looked up. It is powerful, spot on, and so wonderful I wanted to share it here. Enjoy.

Happy Birthday, Beans.

It is nearly the baby's first birthday and I still haven't written her birth story. 

My girl was born a week after her due date.  I was dilated (to a 5!), fully effaced, and sitting at home not in labor.  My doctor decided to induce me on the 18th of January.  On January 17th, my boys and I ate ice cream and stayed up late to savor the last few moments of "just the three of us".  I was not sad, but I felt something strong about it all. 

We arrived at the hospital at 6:00 AM, ready to get the show on the road, but until I did the paperwork, got put in a room, robed up, and ready, it was nearly 10:00.  My doctor came in and broke my water in an effort to jump start labor without drugs.  For one glorious hour I had great contractions that were gentle rising and bearable in a variety of positions.  I also had a sort of elation that I was going to experience birth as is intended to be.  But alas.  It stalled.

At 12:30 I was put on a Pitocin drip and thus began the familiar rapid and intense contractions that silenced the conversation my husband and I had been sharing, limited my movements to sitting still on the bed, and sucked me deep inside myself and simultaneously outside myself all at once.  Lost in a swirl of waves, the repetition of the word "open" in my mind, and nothing but my husbands hand to ground me, I was suddenly and intensely jolted into my surroundings. Push time.  It had been less than two hours on the Pitocin, but I knew this feeling.  The nurse doubting my rapid progress, checked me and called for the doctor.  He arrived and I got to work.  I knew this work.  I had done it before.  This time I remembered the cues of how I should position myself.  Unlike the time before in its quiet, I let myself be loud.  Never screaming as that wasn't the response I needed.  But loud.  Powerful.  I felt my face curl into an awful grimace, but I allowed it. I did work.  In a few short minutes, I birthed my baby into the world.  I looked down to see that this child I had been carrying was a girl.  My girl.  And as I reached for her, I felt something I never expected to feel.  Fullness. Contentment.  Satisfaction.  Completion.  As she lay crying (and I was crying, too) and wriggling on my chest I felt us begin the transition of being two separate selves-this girl that I had just met and yet always known, and me as a single individual with only one heart inside me.  I felt my soul make the same commitment it made once before-a guarantee to stay connected to this soul for the rest of my life.

The next months were exhausting, hard, and rather dark.  The delay of this birth story is due partly to busyness and partly due to only recently feeling brave enough to recall those early days.  Postpartum anxiety took a deep hold on me.  I was home alone with kids too early.  My grandma died.  My body was weak.  My daughter couldn't feed right.  My son was angry, sad, and confused.  And I was terrified.

Was terrified.  It is important to note that I was terrified.  And even more  important to note that I am no longer terrified.  I am amazed.  Amazed that we made it out the other side ok.  Amazed at the joyous bond between my kids as siblings.  Amazed at the way I love my husband on a new level.  Amazed at the baby girl who has become talkative, active, playful, and funny.  Amazed at the boy who has become a helper, caring, curious, and kind.  Amazed at the way our family still keeps me feeling full. Content.  Satisfied. Complete.