Eleven years ago, I was preparing to have my last baby. Even though I had two prior c-sections with my older children, I planned a homebirth with a midwife. I wanted a peaceful, naturally experience that allowed me the opportunity to provide the baby and me with minimal interference. My first birth was entirely medical in nature, and I hated it. My second birth was a failed attempt to go natural, but I made it all the way to transition before needing to make the call for a repeat c-section. This time would be different, I vowed. I researched, I studied, I prayed, and I ate fewer carbs.
While the birth story has long since been published, the lasting impact has continued to influence my life and my relationship with my last baby. He and I share a bond strikingly different between me and his elder brother. Even though my daughter and I have a close bond on a mother-daughter level, the bond I share with my last baby feels quite different. Is it because I held him first? Is it because I pulled him out of my own will and effort? Is it because we had almost no separation after birth? I truly cannot say for certain, but I know deep down I made the perfect decision for his entrance into the world.
These days, I don’t think much about VBACs, home births, or c-sections. I only vaguely recall the anger and frustration I faced during my childbearing years. These days, it’s all about Minecraft, Pokemon, legos, and YouTubers. It’s all about the wildly spirited child who helped prove his mother’s pelvis wasn’t defective. It’s all about watching these babies grow into their own unique individuals who amaze me daily with their antics and words.
