You were born on a Sunday

Today you are a year and 16 days old.

I suspect I'm going to start aging rapidly now that you are a part of my world. A year has gone by in a flash. I have no doubt that 5 will be over in a few short sighs and few long nights. And so, before time dims the sharp memories of the brightest day of my life, I would like to gift you your birth story.

I think that I was typical of women who long yearn for motherhood.

I had visions of the pregnancy I would enjoy and plans for the birth I hoped to achieve. You know that many of those plans were put paid to, but I will share more with you regardless.

My pregnancy was going to be spent in light, industrious preparation for your arrival.

I would be surrounded by love.

I would eat cupcakes off of my perfectly tight, soccer ball bump.

I would dress in denim dungarees, with a red bow in my hair while I painted your nursery.

I would be draped like a Grecian Goddess and be made to change baby doll nappies at a shower in the weeks leading up to your arrival.

I envisioned birthing you at home. In my own bed. (There is an old hippie who lives somewhere beneath my Botox and highlights.)

Otherwise, my back up plan was to deliver you at the same hospital I had been born in. Delivered under the care of the beloved gynecologist I had built a relationship with for over 6 years.

After a lifetime of careful planning and pedantic order, you were conceived in impulsive love. You took us by surprise (which apparently is your thing!) and had us throwing out the rule book from day one.

And so, it was good bye to the gyne. We packed up our home and filled a couple of suitcases and got onto an airplane, so that your daddy could watch you grow.

Feel you kick. Hold you on your birth day.

I got lucky with the soccer ball belly.

But there was no time to paint a nursery.

There were certainly no denim dungarees in the desert!

There was no baby shower.

Just, and most importantly, two parents waiting and committed to immersing you in love and family.

There were Saturday mornings watching videos that detailed your growth as we reached another week in the journey of pregnancy.

There were two people, changing their lives and their lifestyles to create a world just for you.

By now you know that we spent 4 weeks in hospital before you were born. If there was any gift in that time, it was that it gave my doctor time to truly know me and what I wanted.

I had a deep desire to birth you with as little medical assistance as possible. One day, you might feel that you would prefer to deliver your babies via C-section. Or, vaginally, with pain management of your choosing. Or, perhaps you would prefer not to be a mother at all. I celebrate all the ways that we get to be women today.

I spent my pregnancy pouring as much positive energy as I could into the belief that I could experience a medication free, vaginal birth. I read and meditated on the vision of working with my body through labor. I declared my intentions out loud as daily affirmations.

I was warned throughout the wait that my doctor and the hospital I was in had an alarmingly high C-section rate. So much so, that 2 weeks before your birth I was panicked and investigated asking for a hospital transfer. However, exhaustion and my insistence on remaining positive was a steady anchor through the turbulence. Each time I saw my doctor I would ask the same question: "Is there any reason, today, that I will not be able to deliver vaginally?" Each time he would answer with: "We must decide on the day Celest-ay" I never left feeling assured. If anything, I suspiciously thought: he's not willing to commit. He's buying himself the space to do a C-section.

I'm glad I'm writing this to you today and not a year ago.

I feel like I can now look back more clearly and appreciate what happened.

After induction, I longed for my doctor from back home. I labored for 34 hours with you. When our doctor showed up, he was in a white linen suit! I can honestly recall thinking: WTF?! He even told me, in his spotless weekend wear, not to scream as I was bearing down in the final stages!

In the early days, postpartum I wondered how I might have done had I transferred. What would my experience have been had I stayed in Cape Town?

In retrospect, I am able to recall so many beautiful moments and admit that I wouldn't actually change a thing.

Like: Your father was an amazing birth partner. Steady, at a time when he too was experiencing a life altering moment.

Funny, when I needed the mood lightened.

Comforting, when I felt fearful.

Then: I begged for a C-section at hour 30. Literally begged. I was tired.

I had barely slept in a day and a half.

I had eaten little more than a handful of chips and only drank tiny sips of water.

My back felt like it was breaking and after 30 powerful hours of standing in my fire, I was ready to find an alternative solution. I felt satisfied that I had persevered and pushed my body to its limit. Nobody could away the experience I had had in trying.

The doctor looked me square in the eye and said: "No." I broke down properly then.

I was so defeated. He came up beside me and told me firmly, but gently: "Celest-ay, this is not what you want. You told me this for 4 weeks. No C-section. You will thank me."

And, I do thank him. After negotiating down and asking for an epidural that never came, and aside from the induction and your early delivery, I achieved the birth that I had wanted.

Reading this, you might mistake me for a woman who frowns upon other birthing methods. I really don't. Also, the passage of time has given me the perspective to truly appreciate that as long as the outcome is a healthy baby and mom, there really is no ideal over another. That said, in a pregnancy fraught with stumbling blocks that felt designed to rob me of any sense of control, mentally I needed to birth you as I did. To regain a sense of empowerment at a time when I needed to be reminded of my primal strength.

After a labor filled with laughter, tears and almost 2 days of exhausting waiting, you were born. 17h37 on 22 October 2017. No matter who we are today, let me assure you... You were born to two very present parents. You were received by us both in so much love. We were in awe of you and immediately committed to your perfect protection. My love for you is never ending. I know that this is also true for your father.

"The Buddhists say if you meet someone and your heart pounds, your hands shake, your knees go weak, that's not the one. When you meet your soul mate you will feel calm."

Indeed, you are my soulmate, Emma. The calm that descended on me once you were born is almost indescribable. You were lifted from between my legs and placed onto me while your dad marveled at you and found the focus needed to cut your umbilical cord. You spent just a minute on my chest before you were whisked away. I memorized you quietly in that minute. I was silent. There were no tears. There was no laughter. You and I were just quietly looking at each other. I noticed the blood, like droplets of oil on water as it ran down your tiny, still waxy newborn button nose. I saw your tiny fingers with your not quite complete, preemie nails. I remember thinking; It's you. You were the one who's been living in me. I remember the bloody imprint you left on my chest when you were lifted away and not wanting to wash it off for as long as possible. I remember the doctor saying to me: "Are you okay, Celest-ay. Are you happy? You're very quiet." And answering very matter of factually: "I am incredibly happy!"

Our beautiful newborn. Still swollen from birth and angry red preemie skin.

Born at 34 weeks, you were taken from me and moved quickly to the NICU. Your father went with you and this picture is the first one he sent me once you were in there. I sent it to everyone I could while I wolfed down a fillet steak dinner. I looked at it for hours until I could get to you. I stared at it while I expressed your first milk to help my supply.

Emma, you have been the greatest surprise of my life. You came into this world, insistently. I often wonder if that will be a theme for your life. I can't wait to see who you become. The beautiful reality is, that parents and their children are truly just people who meet and grow together. Who love and learn together. The day I met you was the single most important day of my life. I bet your daddy will agree. 22 October 2017. The most beautiful day by far.

All my love, Mommy. Xo