Seeing the plus sign on the home pregnancy test was a complete shock. My husband and I always talked about having kids and dreamed of a big family, but I didn’t expect it to happen so soon. We thought we’d enjoy a few carefree years of just being married before starting a family.
I guess my instincts were right, because I decided to take the test on a whim. Instantly realizing I was pregnant, I started worrying about all the potential dangers my baby could face. I questioned everything from the chemicals in my hand soap to the radiation from my laptop. I even poured out my Dr. Pepper, convinced it was off-limits, though I was probably just making myself feel queasy.
I couldn’t wait to tell my husband but was also nervous about how he’d react. I had a long drive home and plenty of time to plan my announcement and think about the next nine months. Those four hours flew by, filled with thoughts and excitement. I was so eager to share the news but concerned about every little thing, even if my seatbelt could somehow harm the baby.
Once home, the plan was to head out to a local bar famous for up-and-coming songwriters. A friend was performing, and I spent dinner debating the perfect time to spill the news. The bar’s smoky atmosphere and rowdy tunes weren’t helping my queasiness, and finding the right moment seemed impossible.
When we got back home, while getting ready for bed, my husband noticed I was quiet. Remembering my earlier speculations about pregnancy, he asked, “Do you still think you might be pregnant?” That was my cue. “No,” I said, “I am pregnant!”
His face transformed with a mix of fear, excitement, and the weight of new responsibility. Once it sunk in, we sat down, held hands, and started talking about everything we’d need to prepare for, from picking a name to finding a doctor. I hadn’t even thought about looking for a dentist, let alone a gynecologist.
That night, he fell asleep with his hand on my tiny three-week pregnant belly.
The next day, we told our families, and the news was met with surprise and joy. My husband’s brothers were especially excited since they’d been dropping hints about becoming uncles. Later, a 20-week ultrasound revealed we were having a boy, causing even more excitement among the brothers. A little more testosterone in the mix, I thought!
I was so occupied with wrapping up my journalism degree that I barely thought about the upcoming birth until I was seven months along. That was when I thought it’d be a good idea to research childbirth, thinking I needed a plan. Turned out, Googling “birth” was not comforting at all. Those vivid and close-up images of childbirth left me feeling uneasy about the whole ordeal.
I stumbled upon the concept of a birth plan and was suddenly faced with decisions I didn’t even know existed. What exactly was a PKU screening? Did I want my baby to have a vitamin K shot or a Hep B shot? What about pain relief? My mom and mother-in-law had managed natural births, so I felt I needed to prove myself and opted for no medication, reassured after reading about the risks of pain meds.
Then came learning about relaxation for handling labor pain. Breathing techniques, meditation, massages—it all sounded great, but I realized I didn’t quite know how to breathe “correctly” during labor. I decided we needed Lamaze classes, to my husband’s dismay, and signed us up immediately.
The following week, we started Lamaze class, where my husband reluctantly tagged along. We introduced ourselves, learned about the birth process, and practiced breathing exercises until we were nearly dizzy. I thought it’d prepare us, but by the end, I still felt like I had no clue what to expect.
Everywhere I went, I shared my plan for a natural birth and received a mix of admiration and shock. And it seemed like everyone else wanted to share their birth stories with me. By my due date, I had heard tales of episiotomies, unusually long or short labors, and every imaginable scenario.
I had a perfect labor vision in mind: start labor on my due date, have it done a few hours later, and just bask in joy. Reality wasn’t so kind. My doctor said I was two centimeters dilated in the weeks leading up to my due date and arranged for an induction just in case. Of course, baby decided not to show up on time, and as the day passed, I grew irritable, made worse by pregnancy hormones.
That night, after a small argument with my husband, I felt restless and ended up hardcore cleaning the kitchen. I scrubbed everything as a way to distract myself from the worry of the induction. At 2:03 a.m., just as I was going to bed, I felt a pop and a gush of liquid. My water had broken!
The apartment became a whirlwind of activity. We called the doctor and rushed to the hospital. The medical checks and constant questions were overwhelming, especially when the nurse brought out a huge swab to confirm my water had broken. I mean, what else could it be?
Eventually, I was hooked up to an IV, though I wasn’t happy with that since my birth plan specifically didn’t include it. As we walked the hospital halls to speed up labor, contractions became more intense, and my attempts at Lamaze breathing went out the window.
By the time I reached eight centimeters, I was exhausted and sorely tempted by an epidural, especially when the nurse mentioned the possibility of a c-section if labor didn’t progress after my water broke. I surrendered to the epidural, and once relief set in, my husband got some rest, while his mom arrived to help us advocate against further interventions.
Finally, it was time to push, but I couldn’t feel much, and was stuck on my back, far from the flexible positions I’d envisioned. As things progressed, suddenly the room filled with staff, and the doctor decided I needed an episiotomy. Our baby, whom I affectionately called Bambino, entered the world, screaming but healthy.
Holding Bambino for the first time was indescribable, a complete mix of love and protectiveness. Passing him to my husband to hold was just as emotional and touching. As Bambino fed, the reality and beauty of our new life sank in.
As the day ended, my in-laws arrived, over the moon for their first grandchild, and celebrated with greasy pizza that had never tasted so good. Despite the imperfections in my birth experience, I cherished this new journey and threw myself into motherhood.
The months flew by, and I immersed myself in every precious moment with Bambino, honing culinary skills for my Italian husband along the way. When Bambino was 11 months old, I felt that familiar hunch and took another pregnancy test. To our surprise, our family was about to grow again!
