Friday, July 7th, began like any other day—except for the semi-consistent contractions that gently woke me. I knew they were contractions, but they were sporadic. I didn’t want to get my hopes up, though Ryan was budding with excitement. I stayed cautious.
By 10 a.m., I decided to take an Epsom salt bath to see if the contractions would fade, but they persisted. Since this felt like early labor, I chose to conserve my energy, organizing a few things and staying relaxed.
By noon, doubt began to creep in. My previous labor had been precipitous, and I expected this one to follow suit. Feeling discouraged, I started wondering if the baby might not be in the best position. I tried the Miles Circuit and messaged one of my body workers, asking if she could see me that day.
Hours passed, and by 5 p.m., I got a reply. She offered me two options: come immediately—braving Dallas traffic—or wait until 7 p.m. We chose 7 p.m., piling the whole family into the minivan (heaven forbid I have a contraction while driving!).
At her office, she found that my baby was asynclitic, as she had been three weeks earlier. She released the surrounding ligaments, helping the baby engage in the pelvis, and suddenly, my contractions felt lighter yet more productive. It’s hard to describe, but I could feel the difference.
Following her instructions, I sat at a 45-degree angle with my legs spread to help the baby keep descending. Ryan pulled the third-row seat up, and I rode home in the back, contractions steadily coming and going.
We grabbed a salmon bowl for me for dinner, I showered, and then I went straight to bed. But as I lay there, still pregnant and contracting, disappointment washed over me.
When Ryan got out of the shower around 10:30 p.m., he found me in tears. “I can’t be pregnant anymore!” I sobbed. “I’m so tired.” It had been a long six weeks, unknowingly battling mold toxicity from our bathroom. I was utterly drained.
After I let it all out and Ryan comforted me, everything changed. The contractions shifted—they held a new intensity, each wave demanding my full focus and breath. I embraced each one, riding the rhythm, until the breaks grew shorter and the waves grew stronger.
Ryan timed my contractions, and when things felt on and poppin, he called my midwife, Bethany. She and her team arrived just after midnight.
“I’m exhausted,” I told her. “This is intense. I don’t know how women handle precipitous births!”
She smiled knowingly. “Sydney, you *are* having a precipitous birth.”
Even though this was my third labor, each experience had been so different. I decided to focus and trust my body.
In the midst of it all, my eldest two woke up. Ryan and I had agreed beforehand that they could stay unless they got upset. They sat quietly in the rocking chair, watching as I moaned through each contraction.
By 2:50 a.m., I was transitioning to pushing. Relief washed over me with each push, knowing I was getting closer to meeting my baby girl.
And then, it hit. The hip pain.
With my first labor, I’d pushed for three hours with excruciating hip pain, feeling as if my muscles were being torn from the bone. It didn’t happen with my second, my “butter birth.” But here it was again, rearing its ugly head.
Panic took over. Gasping for air, tensing up, and clinging to the bassinet, I wondered how I’d find the strength to endure this pain again.
Of course, Ryan and Bethany noticed the shift in my energy. They soothed and encouraged me, bringing me back to focus. Through their words and my desperate prayers, I found the strength to push forward.
On my knees, leaning back into the arms of my husband, I gave one final push. Ryan held me steady as Bethany caught our sweet baby girl. As I looked up in relief, I saw my eldest two by my side, witnessing the moment their sister entered the world.
Joy and gratitude overwhelmed me. I had accomplished my third home birth, surrounded by the people I love and trust most. I’ll never take that for granted.
Baby K // July 8 // 3:34am // 21.25in
