One Sunday Afternoon

The story of the day we met our son

For the last few weeks of my pregnancy with my Henry, every time I climbed out of bed, I would take a few moments to stand there, waiting to see if my water would break. That’s how it happened with Kit…in the middle of the night, as I was climbing back in bed, I felt a pop and a gush of water, and eighteen hours later, she was on my chest. My doctor had told me that often, our bodies do the same thing the second time around. And so I prayed that was true…prayed for a wise and patient doctor and kind, compassionate nurses, prayed for an empty interstate and safety around our car, prayed for both my and my baby’s bodies to be strong and prepared and ready, prayed for my baby girl, for bravery and joy and for those who would take care of her while we were gone, and selfishly, I prayed my water would break and I wouldn’t feel a contraction until we arrived at the hospital.

The weekend Henry was born, with every moment, we were getting closer and closer to our schedule induction, something I couldn’t hardly bear to think about. The emotional turmoil I was preparing my mind for, knowing when would be my last morning just me and Kit, putting her to bed and then sneaking off to the hospital for our late night check-in…I just couldn’t do it. And so I prayed harder.

This entire pregnancy, I was convinced I was further along than the doctors said, convinced I wouldn’t go full term anyways. That Saturday, I just felt it in my bones, felt his nearness. My stomach looked like a deflated basketball, so very low, Price and I could hardly believe it. I stood that night in Kit’s mirror as Price bathed her, and I pressed on the top of my stomach, already empty. That was the only sign I’d ever had with Kit, feeling as if a bowling ball was between my legs the day before she was born.

On Sunday morning, I asked Price to go wake baby girl up. I could hear her giggle on the monitor as he opened the door, the squeal of him opening her heavy curtains, clicking on her lamp for the day. When she saw me in bed, she smiled and nestled her head on Price’s shoulder, teased. Then we all curled back up in the sheets, turning on Teletubbies as our bedroom filled with the sun.

As I laid there, I felt baby boy kicking, thought about this week, the weight of this morning, the last like this before there were four of us. And then, I felt an odd twinge of pressure. And just like when I felt my water break with Kit, for a few minutes afterwards, I felt this desire to remain still and not say a word, remain in this life I know now, before the reality sets in that it’s time to leave it all. Annie and Kit at the foot of the bed, Kit’s hands mindlessly running through Annie’s hair. Price, the very best father, beside me. My stomach round and tight, my baby safe and mine inside. Maybe ten or so minutes later, Price began to get ready to go mow the yard before the sky burned blue. Kit was ready for breakfast, pushing our old door that hardly closes open and letting Annie run out with her. And the moment I stood up, I knew.

I told Price I was going to just wait a few minutes to make sure, as I gathered my things to curl my hair last minute. Kit stayed with me, a cold bottle of milk at her side, interested in the open suitcase, completely unaware her life was about to change. I called my mom and told her she might not need to get ready for church, to which she laughed and agreed to come over at 10:00. And then there I was, putting my hair in rollers, my heart beating faster and faster as my mind realized what would happen that day. I was going to meet my baby boy.

On the drive, I kept thinking how thoughtful the Lord is, that I’d been praying for the very same labor, and here I was, holding Price’s hand with a towel in my seat, calm and on our way to get our baby. My contractions started to hurt only as we took the exit to the hospital, pulling into the very first parking spot by the front door.

We were taken to a room in triage, where a nurse met us and checked to see if my water had in fact broken and then to see if I was dilated. And as a shock to us, we were already five centimeters. We kept saying to one another, “Boy’s just ready to meet us!” Nervous smiles, shivering chins, adrenaline and confidence and nerves all rolled into one. The nurse laughed and asked if I wanted an epidural, said we would order one immediately so I didn’t get too far along to get it. And then she loaded me up in a wheelchair and pushed us through the double doors, around the hallways until we arrived in the very same room our baby girl was born in, just sixteen months before.

The nurse we had until Henry was born was an answered prayer, an answered prayer who told me stories of her daughter as she put the IV in so I wouldn’t think about what was happening, covered it up with a towel so I didn’t have to see, who let me lay my head on her shoulder as they inserted the epidural, who let me prick my own finger for my blood sugar readings and brought me an orange popsicle as I dwindled, covered me in blankets fresh out of the warmer, who made me feel cared for and calm the entire day.

We made it to our room around noon, and by 2:30 or so, we were using the peanut ball, the magic finishing touch that brought me both my babies. The doctor, calm and kind, came and sat in the room with us at a quarter to four, as my stomach twisted in knots watching our nurse roll in the table with all their tools, lace up the doctor’s gown, start talking me through how to push.

And somehow, only nine minutes later, he was here, a little baby with a head full of hair, curled up on my chest, as sweet as could possibly be. He looked just like his sister from the very moment we saw him, to us at least. Because how could he not? There we were, the parents of a daughter and a son, consumed with love for the both of them, in awe of the miracle both of them are. We will only ever see them in everything we’ll ever love from here on out.

Thanks be to God.