Celia Florence was due seven days before my birthday.
When I asked you on Instagram, thirty-three percent of you thought it would be cute to share a birthday with your baby, but I disagree.
Partially, because I prefer to have a whole day (or week or month, whatever) to be celebrated myself, but also because I don't want to be sitting in a hospital bed, eating nothing, with an IV jabbed in the side of my right wrist (I'm a "tricky stick") on my birthday. When I looked at the on-call schedule for the week, the one doctor who I really disliked was working on her due date. We've never had an elective (non-medical) induction, but I spoke to my favorite doctor, and we set the date based on who was working the surrounding days. Then, once the date was set, I thought it was rather a cute date itself: February 11th, 2022. 2.11.22
At 4 a.m., with a Grandmother sleeping on the couch and our bags packed, we called Labor & Delivery and were met with a British nurse's unideal answer, "There are no hospital beds for now. Carry on your day as normal, and we'll call you if something changes." The day rolled on with no phone call, as we unpacked nature cabinet boxes in our sunroom, and soon we were sitting down as a family to lunch.
The night before, we had been reading with the girls the parable Jesus speaks in Luke 11:5-10, where the friend comes asking for something and won't stop knocking until his need is met. At lunch time we reviewed that story, asking God in prayer (again) for a hospital bed, soon. After lunch (even though they had said they would call us), I called them. I was met with the same response.
We were still at the dining room table with our three daughters, the remnants of a plate of veggies and seafood cooked in butter in front of me, ten minutes later when my phone rang. We could come if we ate something and came soon. Asking, seeking, knocking, and an answer to prayer, to share with our girls.
We brushed our teeth, dropped a van full of babies with my in-laws, and checked in to the hospital.
On Wednesday, I had been 3 cm at the OBGYN, and now, it was Friday afternoon. By the time they got the Pitocin started, it was 4:30 p.m., and I wondered if she'd join us before midnight. I went straight for the epidural (I don't like to feel labor), and after a couple of hours, they said I was 4 cm (7 p.m.) and the doctor broke my water.
I drank a lot of cranberry juice mixed with ginger ale, had a bowl of broth, and read a little bit (Magnolia Magazine and Habits of the Household) while my body did the work. As 11 p.m. neared, I felt the switch in my body, where the urge to push and the obligation to keep her inside until the doctor arrives clash hard. I rang for the nurses, and they came to check me.
The nurse checked me and said something like, "You're the same, honey. 4 cm. Let's try a new position."
I'm not sure what I said out loud, but I know that I shook my head a lot and got across this general message. No. Literally about to have this baby. She's going to come out soon, whether you're ready to catch her or not. It's time.
The other nurse said, "Let me confirm." and then, "Oh, no. She's complete. It's time."
The doctor was called, and Celia Florence came. One push, maybe two, but she came easily and gently.
The next day, our favorite doctor helped us get our ducks in a row to be ready to head home at the earliest allowed time. A little after midnight (now barely Sunday), we loaded Celia into Matt's truck and made the seven minute drive home to our own beds. In the morning, we made introductions to our other ladies, Felicity playing the kind big sister instead of the jealous one, something we'd been praying specifically for this pregnancy.
A house full of God-given-gifts. Welcome to the world, Celia Florence. We've always wanted you.
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