It was a cool morning in October, and I was expecting to do another home birth with my sixth baby. I hadn’t found out the sex, and I was waiting in anticipation to see if my only daughter would finally get a sister.
As I awoke to some persistent back pain, I knew almost immediately that I was in labor. Since my labors were usually 8-10 hours, I was expecting a full day of laboring ahead.
After an hour of hard contractions, I reluctantly called my midwife, stressing that it would probably be another eight hours or so, and that there was no rush.
Within the hour, my contractions had intensified. I couldn’t see the light at the end of the tunnel, so I broke. “I am so over home birth!” I exclaimed to my husband in between a grueling contraction.
Not wanting to give into my plea, my husband encouraged me that I could do it, but I really wasn’t in the mood. I insisted that we go to the hospital—immediately. My husband (not really knowing what to do) leisurely started waking up our five children (it was only 6:30 in the morning), as I busily tried to pack for the hospital between contractions.
I gave up in my attempt when I started dry-heaving. It was then, in that moment, that I realized that I was in transition, and we didn’t have a minute to spare.
My husband began frantically putting my sleepy, pajama-wearing children into the car, and all I could do was crouch on the floor in our mini-van and pray, “God, please don’t let this baby be born in the car!”
The kids were dazed and confused as to what was happening. “Dad, why is mom on the ground?” and “Why is mommy not wearing her seatbelt?” were the questions my bewildered children were asking—all while the windows were fogging up and my husband couldn’t seem to remember which road to take to the hospital.
Finally, we made the two mile journey to the hospital, and within a few minutes, a nurse came out to get me with a wheelchair, while my husband stayed with the little ones in the car. The time was 7:05 a.m.
As the woman slowly began asking me questions about who my doctor was and what insurance I had, all I could vociferate was, “LADY, GET ME A ROOM … NOW!” Not really sure if it was my first baby or not, she moseyed along to the elevator and hesitantly told the other nurses that, “I thought I was in labor.”
As I over-heard the other nurses discussing where to put me, all I could blurt out was, “I am in transition! Get me to a room, now!” At last, a (brilliant!) nurse inquired, “Is this your first baby!” “My SIXTH!” I shot back. Immediately, I was whisked to a birthing room, and as they were assisting me to the bed, my water broke.
As soon as they put me on the bed, I pushed once, and my second princess, Selah Faith, hastily made her arrival at 7:11 a.m.
My daughter had her sister, and I had gotten my room!
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