Pregnancy with my daughter was nothing like it had been with my son. With him, I was practically glowing, barely sick, ravenous all the time, and gaining weight like I was storing up for winter. With her? I was queasy every day, barely up ten pounds, and constantly stressed.
John had been deployed during my son's birth. But this time, he was home. Involved. Present, even if imperfectly.
The night before she was born, I was having what I thought were just Braxton Hicks contractions. Nothing too dramatic, just a steady rhythm. We'd gone to visit one of John's friends and his wife at the hospital. They'd just had a baby girl.
While we were there, her parents smiled politely and asked, "So when are you due?"
"Yesterday," I said with a straight face.
They laughed like I was joking.
"I'm actually having contractions every four minutes," I added. "We're just gonna walk down to labor and delivery after this."
Cue the looks. Like I'd just said I was casually planning to pop out a baby between lunch and a Target run.
So we headed to the birthing center. They hooked me up, monitored everything, watched the screen for an hour.
Nothing.
No progress. No pain. No drama. Just… contractions and vibes.
So they sent us home. Said to come back if things got real.
At 2 a.m., they got real.
My water broke, more of a whoosh this time, compared to the slow leak I had with my son.
So off we went to have our daughter.
They checked me in again, got me settled, and hooked me up to all the machines. I laid back, feeling calm. No pain. No pressure. Just tired.
I fell asleep.
And John? He curled up next to me and held me while I slept.
It's probably the best memory I have of him, the day she was born. Just quiet. Still. Human.
At 7 a.m., the nurse came in with the Pitocin. Aka: the Devil's cocktail of contraction-inducing torment.
It started out fine...
Forty-five minutes. That's how long I lasted in the Pitocin-fueled trenches of labor hell before I cracked.
I sobbed. Ugly cried. Couldn't breathe.
John held me, steady and calm in the chaos. "Get the epidural," he whispered. "It doesn't make you weak."
So I did.
They came in with the blessed needle. I curled up into John on the bed, clutching him like a lifeline while they numbed my back. Between the lidocaine and whatever magic cream they used, it wasn't bad at all. But I still cried through every contraction, every three minutes like clockwork.
Then the epidural kicked in.
And let me tell you, miraculous.
I could still feel my toes. I was delighted.
"Look! I can wiggle them!"
I proudly showed off my toe-wiggling skills to John like I'd just discovered a new party trick.
The nurse came in and I told her I needed a catheter. I could feel it. She raised an eyebrow. "You really think so?"
She checked.
"Oh yeah, you really do."
I felt smug. "I was a nurse aide for a while," I told her, launching into a full TED Talk about everything I knew medically while she worked. She humored me. Probably gave me a mental gold star for being both informative and numbed from the waist down.
Then a new nurse came in, introduced herself, and told me her job was to "stretch" me.
Stretch. Me.
Yep, that's a thing.
And suddenly, something clicked.
That moment during my son's birth. The one that felt wrong, invasive, unexplained?
This was what he was trying to do. Without consent. Without care.
This time, though?
10/10. Highly recommend if you've got an epidural.
Didn't feel a thing. No tearing, no episiotomy, nothing but controlled progress and sweet, sweet numbness.
For the first time in labor, I felt calm. Safe. And kind of like myself again.
The nurse came back in to check on me.
I smiled and casually informed her, "She's crowning."
She blinked. "I was just in here 30 minutes ago. You were at an 8."
I nodded. "Right. I'm ready."
She gave me that polite, skeptical look nurses give when you're definitely not ready.
Then she looked.
"Oh, oh! There's a head. Yep. Okay. Uh… the doctor will be here shortly."
I shrugged. "No rush." And I meant it. I was chill. Floating on epidural magic and pure anticipation.
Marie and Jane walked in right after, and I greeted them with a big grin.
"Hey! Welcome. She's crowning. We're just waiting on the doctor."
They stared at me like I was hosting a brunch, not giving birth.
It was such a vibe shift from the first time around. With my son, I'd been all screams, curses, and trauma. Marie still brings it up. "You were feral, girl." This time? Peaceful. Happy. Smiling through contractions like I was on a talk show.
They gave me a mirror, which I'd always wanted. I'm that person who watches shots, blood draws, you name it. Why wouldn't I want to see something this monumental?
I'd spent years watching my life from the sidelines. This time, I wanted front row.
The doctor strolled in like it was just another Tuesday, suited up, and pulled on gloves. Everyone moved into position.
I pushed once, head.
They cleared her airway.
One more push and there she was at 9am.
My girl.
My sweet, perfect girl.
The moment she was born, they handed her straight to me.
Immediate skin-to-skin.
She was warm and perfect and mine. I held her to my chest, and everything else faded. The room. The nurses. The beeping machines. It all went quiet.
She latched right away, like she already knew me.
Like she'd been waiting for this, too.
I looked down at her, this tiny miracle with the softest cheeks and the poutiest little lips, and thought, You're here. You're really here.
John sat beside me, quiet, almost reverent.
When I placed her in his arms, something shifted.
For a moment, he was someone else. Softer. Still. He held her like she was sacred. Like she might float away if he didn't anchor her with love.
I wanted to believe it was permanent. That maybe this version of him could last.
He cried.
He whispered to her over and over again, "My girl. My girl."
He had always wanted a daughter.
And there she was, his.
Ours.
She was beautiful. Not in the way people say all babies are beautiful, but actually, truly pretty. Round face. Rosebud lips. A softness to her features that made you want to protect her instantly.
In that moment, it felt like everything stopped. Like the chaos of the past and the fear of the future didn't matter.
Just me. Him. And this impossibly lovely little human we made.
My daughter.
My girl, Lina.