Deepening: My Story of Becoming a Mother

I believe firmly that I became a mother the moment I conceived. It was August 18th, 2015. Something spoke to me in a clear, calm voice as I was drifting to sleep: “You’re pregnant.” 3 weeks and $50 worth of pregnancy tests later, it was confirmed. Me, a mother. Me, a creator and carrier of life.

Ches and I cried and danced around the kitchen.

The day after my positive test, I took another to be sure, and it was negative. Another — negative. Another — negative. I called my doctor’s office, asking if I ought to come in. Coldly, the nurse on the other end of the line told me it was likely a chemical pregnancy or miscarriage, and that it was pointless to come in for a more formal test.

I told Ches that evening. Something in me on the drive home from wherever we were told me to sing Bethel Church’s “It is Well” all the way home, so I did. I hated it, because it was not well. Through hot tears and gritted teeth I sang, and begged God to make it stick.

I had been so excited when I got that positive test that that day I went out and bought a couple of outfits for baby. I got home the night I found out baby was gone, walked in to my room, saw the clothes and threw them in a grief-stricken rage out the door. My baby was gone. My baby, who was scientifically just a clump of a few hundred cells at that point, was as real to me as anything.

This was the first Deepening; the first of many subsequent events that have deepened my capacity for things like grief and joy and fear and hope by a measure of 3,456 and counting. This first Deepening was in grief.

10 days later, Ches and I were resting on the couch which was too small for us, so we had to rest on each other. His weight on my abdomen, something felt full on the inside. Something told me to check again. I was already the most disappointed I could be, so I figured, why not.

3 positive Dollar Tree pregnancy tests later, and I was laughing wondering why I believed a test that said “negative” over the Voice that said “pregnant.”

I still don’t know whether baby was brought back to life as per my quiet pleas, or if the pregnancy had never been lost to begin with. It doesn’t matter.

We met our baby at an 8 week ultrasound. We saw the dancing of daddy and the long legs of mama. We heard the heart of hope and we breathed deeply.

The second Deepening: in relief.

We rejoiced with family and a few close friends. My days were filled with hope and gratitude; at least, for a few days. Then the vomiting set in, as did the fear. Would I lose this life again? Did I have any control over it? Could I pretend to?

Fear mixed with vomit filled my days for the next 13 weeks. When my pregnancy app said “second trimester,” I breathed a sigh of relief and up-chucked my lunch on my nicest boots (all of the curse words).

One morning I woke up, went downstairs, and looked at Ches blankly. I had forgotten where I was or why I was there. Overwhelmed with confusion, dread set in — that dread that warns me I’m running late to a meeting with Mr. Porcelain Throne. I ran to the bathroom and put up the seat just in time to vomit over, and over, and over. I finally lay on the floor in a cold sweat, covered in tears, and asked Ches to take me to the hospital.

The drive there featured more vomiting. Thankfully I had a glass Pyrex bowl with a lid in the car (let’s not talk about how I forgot about that bowl upon returning home and let’s not talk about how many weeks later I discovered it and finally threw it away). We made it to the doctor, but it turned out to be the wrong location. Puke in doctor’s office bathroom: check.

We made it to the correct facility, I kept vomiting. I was too dehydrated to get an IV easily. One nurse finally thought she got one in my hand, looked away and was talking to someone while I watched my hand swell with fluid as a vein blew out. I half-passed out. Note to nurse friends: please don’t look away when administering an IV PLEASE OH PLEASE.

Finally they got 2 bags of saline in me, told me it was Take-Zophran-or-Die, sent me home with 2 weeks’ worth and a few puke bags, and back home I went to attempt to host Thanksgiving 2 days later (which I did and it was awesome and hooray for Zophran).

The third Deepening: exhaustion.

The months passed by, the nausea still came, but so did the joy of publicly announcing the coming of Baby Allen. The amount of love that people have for us as a couple, and the hope they have for our child was and is overwhelming. Hundreds of people voiced their excitement and support. Mothers from all my circles of friends and family offered advice (and criticism) and baby hand-me-downs. The community of women who are mothers is mostly really, really beautiful.

17 weeks, and baby starts kicking. There is nothing like the thrill of the first kick. This invisible semi-parasite that has been causing me endless sickness is real! There is life in my belly! There are bones in between my intestines! In my body are two brains, two hearts, four lungs. There are feet in my bladder, and they are made of love.

The 20-week-ultrasound revealed that baby had my profile and daddy’s head shape. Never has there been a more perfect spine, or a bouncier little babe. The scans revealed a perfect baby free of any physical defect — more relief. Originally we thought we wouldn’t find out the sex, so we looked away as the nurse said “there it is!”

I couldn’t wait more than 48 hours, because I tended toward instant gratification more than most humans, so Ches and I decided that I would find out and he wouldn’t I called my doctor from the laundry room of the house where I nannied. “Do you have a guess?” the nurse said. “I know it’s a girl” I said, remembering that same voice that told me I was pregnant telling me it was withCamille a few months prior to this moment. “You’re right!”

A few days later, we were registering at Target for our baby shower, and I couldn’t keep it from Ches any longer. I picked out a navy blue dress, because I knew blue would be her color, and held it up in the bottle aisle of Target. We danced and cried and laughed in that aisle, and now it is Holy. Sacred space now, that few square feet of tile and shelves; sacred because of love and life and new creation.

Just as that aisle was made sacred, I realized that so was I. I always was, but something about carrying and creating life brought me a respect for and regard for my body that has not left me and never will. Me, my body, Holy and sacred.

The fourth Deepening: in appreciation.

Week 30, I decided to switch from traditional pre-natal care to Andaluz Waterbirth Center and midwife care. It was a little more expensive and a little scary to switch so late in the game, but it was the best decision I ever made.

The choice to do this naturally was in the pursuit of better character. This isn’t necessary or important to everyone, and every birth is beautiful and hard and noble and valuable. For me, though, this choice wasn’t as much about the benefits for my baby as it was about personal growth. I knew that I, Maddi, would be a better person and mother for experiencing the highest highs and lowest lows possible in natural birth. Something in me always wimps out in the face of challenge. I like shortcuts, I like to escape. I set my mind to something, and then I usually quit. I want those parts of me to die. So I killed them through natural childbirth.

It was scary to CHOOSE to have arguably the most painful experience known to humanity when I knew I could choose otherwise. It was scary to know that in those moments of pain and agony, I would have no one to blame. I like when I can pretend that my pain is someone else’s fault; I like being able to defer responsibility and blame Another reason I chose natural childbirth. No more blaming people. No more denying my own power to choose. Yikes.

Deepening number 5: in courage.

36 weeks, and I went on maternity leave. Convinced Camille would come at 37 or 38 weeks, despite the council from my midwives, I prepared. Her room was finished, her clothes washed and folded and re-folded. Diaper bag and hospital bag packed.

39 weeks, and I was wildly uncomfortable. Angry. Tired. I slept upwards of 16 hours per day, and part of me thinks it was less out of necessity and more out of boredom and desperation to pass the time.

40 weeks, false labor.

41 weeks, not even a tiny bit dilated. I had donuts for lunch.

41 weeks and one day, at 4 am, I woke up with labor pains that got longer, stronger, and closer together until 12:30 pm. Then they went away. I had Chic-Fil-A for lunch.

Dinner that night, the contractions came back. We left Ches’ parents’ house and went home, refusing to get excited. She was obviously never going to come. I was obviously going to have false labor every week for the rest of my natural life.

9 pm, real contractions. I took a Benadryl and settled in to sleep, as per my midwife’s directions.

Longer, stronger, closer together. No sleep to be had.

I texted my family and let them know what was going on, that I thought it was real. And that it hurt. My siblings suggested, half-jokingly, that now might be a good occasion to try weed. Ain’t nobody got time.

In 3 hours my contractions went from 10 minutes apart to 2 minutes apart and suddenly we were frantically calling the midwife saying we were coming in and she’d better fill the tub. We waited 20 minutes after that call, while Ches got everything loaded up and I took the hottest shower possible and likely woke the neighbors with myriad animal-like sounds I didn’t know I was capable of.

The drive to the hospital only took 12 minutes, or 6 contractions. It was as awful as they say. We still weren’t letting ourselves get excited, so we drove mostly in silence (except for the animal sounds).

The birth center and staff welcomed us around 1 am, helped us settle in, and left us alone to labor together for about an hour. It’s hard to explain contractions, but the best I can come up with is that it feels like someone’s tied a giant lasso around your insides and attached it to a semi-truck that accelerates from 0–60 in a few seconds, drives for a minute, and then dead stops. Fun. Silly me thought that I was in the worst of it by about 3 am, when I could tell it was time to push.

Excitedly we warmed the tub, I asked Ches to get the camera ready, and pushing began.

We didn’t turn on the camera, thank God.

Push, scream, growl, breathe, change positions. This went on for 3 hours, and nothing happened.

Turns out I had a cervical lip, which basically means a chunk of my cervix hadn’t dilated. I was told to resist pushing until I dilated. Sure. Keep the semi from pulling you. Easy.

An hour and a half later, the pain was so much worse, the hemmerhoids (i literally cannot spell this word and I am just going to leave it, because spelling it right doesn’t make it less gross) were just ridiculous, and the exhaustion set in. Lots of crying and begging for a way out and many declarations that I couldn’t do it later, I reached the lowest point. As my midwife Megan graciously but firmly explained that I had no options for relief, the worst contraction yet hit and I, trying not to push, put my face close to the water and strongly considered going under and breathing in.

I got out of the tub.

On the bed I laid on my side, still riddled with seizure-like shaking that I’d had since I got there, Ches laying beside me — constant and present as ever. I haven’t mentioned him in labor until now because to be honest, save about 2 moments, he could’ve been Michael Jackson back from the dead and I straight up would not have noticed. I pushed, and either slept or passed out in between contractions. I completely left my body. There was only flesh and blood and poop (you guys, so. much. poop.) and pain. There was no will, there were no thoughts, there was no prayer. Only that primal, physical work of bringing a life into the light.

Finally, I was ready to be done. I knew that squatting was the only way to get her out, but up until that point I had avoided it like the plague for butt related reasons. My midwife convinced me to get on the birth stool. When my hands clenched the cold metal poles, I decided then that I wouldn’t be getting up until she was out. Tearing be damned, breathing be damned, everything be damned. I was pushing until she was in my arms and that was that. I barely breathed between contractions, and I didn’t wait for them to come to push.

I’m still amazed I didn’t blow out all the blood vessels in my face, or wake the neighbors in the adjacent building. Her water finally broke, which provided an enormous amount of relief — until I looked down. Green, putrid fluid poured onto the pad beneath me. Panic set in. Get this baby out. The fear of what her having been breathing meconium for God knows how long had done to her set in and motivated me even more to get her out. With the water broken, I could finally feel where her head was in my body. I knew she only needed to come down a few more inches. I looked at my midwives and husband, and with a rebel yell said, “I CAN DO THIS!” They told me to feel her head, but my hands were just about glued to the grips of the stool and I didn’t want to waste any more time. I decided she would come out on that push, so I pushed for what felt like 2 minutes without breathing.

That girl shot out like a bullet as my body basically exploded like an atomic bomb (hyperbole, hello, but still). Oni, one of the midwives, dove forward and barely saved her from hitting the floor. Camille Grace, covered in blood and poop and fluid, was handed to Ches. I looked at Ches, who was laughing and crying and probably saying something I don’t remember, and he looked in my eyes with such pride and relief.

Before we were officially dating, Ches took me to the Prom. I wouldn’t look in his eyes as we were dancing, I’m still not sure why. Afraid, I guess, of being too close. Afraid of kissing him without thinking. Afraid, mostly, of being vulnerable.

I wish I would’ve known then the beauty of looking in his eyes; of being fully alive and fully honest with him. There is no vulnerability like that which comes after a night of ugly, raw crying and screaming, and pooping (this is not the last mention of poop in this post, believe it or not) repeatedly almost literally in his face. But somehow there is nothing more beautiful. I’m so sad I was so afraid, at 17, of that moment. Looking at each other as he handed me the fruit of our 10-month labor; rather, the fruit of the deep and constant love and friendship and romance that we have shared, was and will always be the best and most sacred moment of my life.

Cold, grey, wet, and limp, my baby set in my arms low on my abdomen. Her cord was short and I couldn’t lift her to see her face, and she took a good 15 seconds to make a movement or a sound. Finally, she screamed a beautiful wet, gurgly scream — like someone who has been pulled from the ocean after a storm. It was a roar, really, and it tied with the sound of her first heartbeat for best-sound-in-the-world.

That relief soon turned back to chaos and the midwives shoved a needle in my thigh, laid me back on the bed and said I was bleeding a lot. The next hour was a mixture of amazement and disappointment as I held my girl, saw her face, kissed my husband and rode the incomparable high of adrenaline and whatever other hormones make the hours post-birth so incredible. At one point, I even looked at Ches and said “that wasn’t so bad!” I take it back, for the record.

I hadn’t ever considered anything other than getting her out, holding her, and drifting in to bliss for the rest of the day. Didn’t consider that I would do a lot of damage to my Southern region, damage that would take 1.5 hours of stitches and snips to repair. Traumatized by recent events down there, the thought of having three people, a spotlight and needles anywhere near that general vicinity anytime in the next 3 years was more than I could take. I was so overwhelmed that I had to hand Camille off to Ches despite my deep longing to hold her, and just let the next hour and half happen as I bit my tongue and tried not to pay attention to the fear or the pain.

They finally declared the job done. Hooray! Now I can just lay here for the rest of my life and keep my legs shut forever while I kiss my baby, I thought.

“Ok, now go pee on the toilet.”

Uh, no thanks. I am so good. All done. Maddi is done with doing the things.

“Pee or get catheterized, my dear!”

TO THE TOILET WE GO. Except, woops, my legs refuse to work.

My sweet midwife Mindy who is significantly tinier than me grabbed me under the arms and somehow got me to the bathroom, and set me down on the toilet. It’s the strangest feeling, having your actual body and muscles full of fear and trauma. My brain said “come on, you pee 50 times a day, just do it” and my body said “hey LISTEN lady, we in the Vagina Department HAVE DONE OUR JOB TODAY AND IT IS 5 O’CLOCK SOMEWHERE.”

Eventually I peed, hooray, rinsed off, double hooray (the smell of birth is horrible and awful), and got back in bed.

The sixth Deepening, for which I have no label.

Thus ensued the best 24 hours of my life, next to my wedding day. Camille met the family, Ches took a terribly short and much deserved nap, we took five million photos. We got lots of yummy food, many loving touches and words, and directions for the next day or so. Camille and I took an herbal bath together, which was magically special and I’m so sad it won’t ever be re-lived (except for that I like to think Heaven is getting to go back and re-live all the best moments of your life as many times as you want and never tiring of them). Camille girl didn’t give me the customary sleep-tonight-I’ll-nurse-tomorrow, so we stayed up looking at each other all night. I had been awake for 54 hours before I slept, but I hardly noticed.

We came home, we had friends over every day for a week, and we watched our girl get showered in love. Ches and I spent our morning sitting in bed and crying for joy, laughing at everything Camille did and congratulating her for pooping. Those first 10 days at home were pure magic.

The seventh Deepening: in rest.

Around day 10, the crying and screaming set in, and they have remained. This is all I will say about this.

The eighth Deepening: in patience.

She smiles every morning and much of the day, even when she is screaming. She sleeps well for a couple of hours at a time at night, eats 12–20 times a day, is 12 pounds now, and has something funny in her eye that we need to get checked out. She doesn’t whimper, doesn’t whine. If she is upset, she is wildly upset. If she is moved from a comfortable position, it is the actual end of the world. She prefers that Ches and I be uncomfortable. Hold her while sitting? Please. It’s some sort of sad phenomenon that Ches and I have stayed relatively chubby considering the amount of standing, rocking, bouncing, spinning, and walking that we do. The world is sometimes cruel.

She is so close to laughing I can taste it and I think it will be even better than Christmas.

The ninth Deepening: in strength.

Ches is the absolute best Dad. He isn’t a babysitter. He doesn’t treat her like an alien. He is ALL IN. We go 50/50 on everything. I always have water. I get a 30 minute break to work out the moment he gets home. He never grows tired of doing the hard work of parenting. He is absolutely delighted to change her and feed her and talk to her and care for her. He is thrilled to take her for an hour in the morning so that I get one hour of sweat-free sleep on more than 6 inches of mattress. He tells her, “You’re so pretty!….and smart, and strong, and kind, and brave.” He tells me that I am beautiful and amazing, but most often he looks at me and says, “you are such a badass.” Precious.

After 7 years of growing up together, you get real close. Sometimes on our walks we talk about the hell we will raise in our retirement home one day, if we are so lucky to make it there together, and we just count our lucky stars that we belong to each other.

I remember thinking having a newborn might cause us to grow apart. Not so. I think the key is remembering that you’re on the same side. Trying to make life easier for the other instead of for yourself (which he is much better at than I). More than anything, I am so grateful for the years of friendship we shared before being married. There is a trust, and a knowing, and a loving that run so much deeper than any challenge we have faced yet, and in my optimism and devout hope, believe will run deeper than anything we face in the future.

The tenth Deepening: in partnership.

Deeper, fuller, more raw is my capacity to experience and feel life. Carrying Camille and birthing her and raising her have done for my character all that I had hoped. They have done for our marriage more than I had imagined. There is no way to know how Camille feels about the whole thing. She seems pretty cool with it all, minus the crying, so I’m going with it.

I am deeply proud of myself. I am deeply proud of the marriage that Ches and I have worked so hard and been so intentional about building. I am so proud of my daughter, who smiles and poops and burps and screams better than any baby in the history of mankind.

I am deeply grateful for my life, my family, my friends, my midwives, and my God. As disillusioned with Christianity as I have been for the last few years, this process has pushed me toward the very few things that I am sure are true. God is love. Love is the goal. Family is the most important. Everyone ought to belong to each other. Giving birth just sucks. Making life rocks. That is all.

The eleventh Deepening: in love.