Note: The memory of my daughter’s birth is one I hold close to my heart. I want to acknowledge that no two people have the exact same experience with pregnancy, birth, postpartum, and growing a family. I feel so grateful and fortunate to be able to share a story that’s special to me. This experience taught me the value of self-care and I truly believe our culture would greatly benefit if self-care was more deeply embedded in our values. We are all worthy.
Lastly, I would like to extend my deepest gratitude to Deafhood Yoga for their prenatal yoga classes; to Amanda Katz, our interpreter who also took photos at the birth center; and to Austin Area Birthing Center where I delivered Ramona.
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A heavy, handmade quilt cocooning you and me, snug and safe.
That’s what it feels like when I think of when you were born.
If I could bottle up this period of time, it’d be a jar of wonderful, warm aromas… A mother’s blessing with powerful women sitting in a circle by a tree on a gorgeous evening. A warm living room filled with your dad’s co-workers who threw a lovely baby shower for us. My own mother, your Memaw, here in the flesh, cooking meals and massaging my swollen feet. Your three-year-old brother cradling you inside my ballooned belly in the chilly mornings just before getting on the school bus. Your dad’s gentle smile, encouraging me to nap.
And oh, nap I did. Blankets and pillows, books and reality TV. Feeling your little body move against my stomach. Those days were a soft, fluffy cloud.
The morning of your due date, I waddled into a grocery store (without a mask, can you imagine? What a time.) and voted in the Texas primaries. Afterwards, I had my due date appointment and the midwife asked if I wanted a membrane sweep, which triggered labor for your brother, but I declined. I had a feeling you were as ready as I was. Afterwards, I got a massage which was absolutely. of. another. world. I got home and took my last nap as a pregnant woman.
That night, your dad and I held each other close as we drifted off to sleep, and as I was thinking, “Today was the best day ever,” dull throbs were beginning to seize my stomach.
It didn’t surprise me when I was awoken by your contractions. It was only midnight and I thought we’d have a long night ahead of us, so I stayed in bed for as long as I could, alternating between timing the contractions and typing notes about Idris’ routine for Memaw. An hour passed and sure enough, the contractions were coming every five minutes, each lasting one minute long. It was time.
I got out of bed to take a shower. It was beginning to become more painful. Quickly, I got dressed and gently tapped your dad’s shoulder. His eyes flicked open and he knew. We just smiled at each other for a moment and got moving. I woke up Memaw and she immediately got excited. Just then, a contraction began and I had to sit down to breathe as Memaw held me. I hurriedly said good-bye and got in the car with your dad. It occurred to me that the next time we came home we would be bringing back a sibling for Idris. I was elated.
The birthing room felt familiar and safe. It was the exact same room where I gave birth to Idris. This time, instead of feeling like I was out of my body with the pain, I felt lucid, in control. Our midwife asked if I wanted to get in the birthing tub, but I wasn’t sure what I needed at the moment. She said something which, though I can’t remember what it was now, made me decide to go for it.
Your dad and I were back in the same tub where I labored for hours with your brother. Just a couple of veterans sitting in the tub, hanging out. It was almost bizarre how casual it felt. Our interpreter even made a comment about how it looked like we were on vacation, with me in a bikini and your dad in a retro, video game-themed swimming trunks, chatting in between contractions.
The contractions were a familiar sensation. What felt like the most intense pain of my life three years ago now felt like an earthquake that I could tame. When one began building up, I would lean my head back and gather my breath. Inhaling as deeply as I could, I sent my breath rumbling towards the source of energy that you were creating, my little human. It was a battle between my breath and the contraction, and I filled myself up with all of my might. And then I exhaled the contraction out.
When the pain dissolved, I opened my eyes and picked up the conversation with your dad, and sometimes with our interpreter. It was a scenario I never imagined would be possible, yet it felt alright. I kept saying to your dad, “I never knew birth could be like this.”
I wasn’t in the tub for long before I told your dad that I thought I was ready to push. He looked at me skeptically and said, “You sure? I think you have a long way to go, baby..” He was thinking of my 11-hour labor with Idris. We were only three hours into laboring with you at this point, but I shook my head. I knew you were ready to come out.
We moved to the bed and I couldn’t resist pushing. My body had to push. I don’t remember it hurting, only the deep desire to push you out. Slowly, but surely, you made your passage through my canal and into my arms. My little Ramona Calliope. There you were.
In the wee hours of that morning, there was another woman giving birth in the same center. We stayed in bed for hours, waiting for our midwife to return to discharge us. We were ready to be home, where your brother was waiting.
When we arrived home, you met your brother for the first time, or rather, your brother met you. You were asleep the whole time, and you spent the majority of the next week like that— mostly cocooned in my arms. I look back at this time and I remember how in the newborn days it felt like there was an invisible string tethering you to me. Sometimes you would be asleep and you’d involuntarily burst into a grin whenever I looked at you, as if you knew I was looking at you somehow. Sometimes you and your brother would wake up from your naps at the exact same time. Your magnetic field intertwined with ours fluidly. It felt so right that you were there with us. We were on a cloud, floating.
It takes me aback when I think of the staggering contrast between the soaring highs of around the time of your birth and the plummeting lows of the year that was to follow, as the Covid-19 pandemic was just around the corner. Looking back, I’m so grateful for that time of relaxation and contentment; it carried me through what was the most challenging time of my life.
You, my sweet Ramona Calliope, were the one constant that only continued to bloom throughout the past year. You kept growing even when it felt like the world had come to a standstill. And now, we’ve just celebrated your first birthday as a unit, with you being the final puzzle piece that holds us together.
The week you were born, you had jaundice. I would take you outside for sunlight and we’d walk to a nearby tree, the one with shockingly pink flowers that had recently blossomed.
Yesterday, those same pink flowers greeted us once again. “It’s going to be okay,” it felt like they were saying. “Spring has sprung once again.”
pacmanlace 