For those of you who don’t know me – my name is Taylor McGovern and I am Jeanette’s oldest and favorite grandchild. I received the absolute honor of speaking about her as we celebrate her life today. I have agonized over what to say today to best sum up the life of my Nana and it may be the hardest thing I’ve ever done. But I’m going to try.
From the day I was born, my grandmother’s love surrounded me like a warm embrace. She was always there when I needed a hug or a shoulder to cry on, also offering the most honest opinions always – whether I wanted to hear them or not. Her love for her family was boundless and taught me the true meaning of unconditional love.
As a child, I remember her as the one who never missed a school play or an awards ceremony. She was always there, sitting in the front row beaming with pride. I knew that I could always count on her to show up for me.
While writing this, I asked my boys what their favorite memories of Nana are. Aiden said the way she spoiled him with secret Klondike bars behind my back. Asher shared that he loved when Nana would swim in the pool with him. And Austen loved that her cookie jar was always fully stocked and ready for our visits.
Her home was a safe haven for our family, the place where we all gathered together. Nana was the center of all of our family’s traditions, from baking cookies to festive gatherings, she taught us lessons not through lectures, but through the love wired in simple, everyday occurrences.
Nana’s love for my grandfather, Howard, was something even the best novelists couldn’t write about and do it justice. Their love for each other was unconditional and became the example for the bare minimum I was willing to accept in my own marriage. Nana poured every bit of strength she had into caring for my grandfather until the day he left this world. My grandmother was the most selfless woman i have ever known.
My Nana was warm and loving but my Nana was also a force to be reckoned with. A true badass, if-you-will. Her unwavering strength was awe-inspiring, both for our family and others who knew her. Suffering setbacks and challenges with grace, she showed us what it meant to be a strong, resilient woman capable of overcoming adversity. Her ability to push through difficult times while providing undying guidance and love to her family sets a legacy that will always be remembered. If I can become half of the strong, resilient, badass woman that my grandmother was, I will consider that to be one of my greatest successes.
My grandmother was a constant source of support and guidance in my life. She taught me the importance of being resilient and to never give up on my dreams, no matter how difficult the journey might be. I remember her telling me stories of how she overcame obstacles, and the advice she offered always seemed to be precisely what I needed to hear in that moment.
To the world, she may have been one woman, but to me, she was the center of my world. In hard times, she was my stability; in moments of joy and celebration, she was the fireworks. My Nana lived her life with a rare kind of generosity—the kind that never runs out and expects nothing in return. It’s a generosity that has taught me more about kindness and giving than any book ever could.
As I stand here today, I am grateful for the time I had with my Nana, but it feels impossible to imagine moving forward into a world without her. I know that her spirit and memory will live on in her children and grandchildren.
To my sweet, irreplaceable Nana, your absence leaves a void no one else can fill. Thank you for being my rock, my guiding star, and the warm embrace I could always count on. I will carry the lessons and love you have gifted me throughout my life, and I promise to honor your memory by cherishing our family and remembering the values you instilled in us.
In our hearts and stories, you will live on forever.
On behalf of my heart, our family, and anyone who has had the privilege of knowing you—I thank you, I celebrate you, and I promise to carry your love and lessons forward.
Tonight, my oldest child walked into my bedroom after I got out of the shower. He nonchalantly told me he was glad that he heard me singing in there again. He told me he’s missed it. I asked him what he meant and he said, “I always know you’re really happy when you play music and sing so loud.”
Gut check.
I didn’t even realize I stopped. I mean, I knew that the extra effort to connect the speaker and pick a few songs hasn’t felt necessary lately. Mostly because I usually hold my exhausted body up by leaning against the shower wall at 10pm just long enough to wash my hair and ass before crawling into bed for a few hours of restless sleep.
I really can’t remember the last time I sang in there.
I have spent the last few years, specifically the last year, consumed by deconstructing every single thing I’ve ever known to be true. My religion. My sexuality. My relationships. I’ve always done what I thought was expected of me and then I ended up having to fix the brokenness that came in the aftermath of not meeting those expectations.
Those expectations were bullshit. Glennon Doyle said, “when a woman finally learns that pleasing the world is impossible, she becomes free to learn how to please herself.” And when I read those words, it was like a switch flipped. I stopped caring about making everyone else happy and focused on my own happiness.
I decided just to stop giving a fuck about what people expect from me.
In the last month, I “came out” on social media and immediately felt the effects. I worked at a preschool in a church that preaches loving people where they are, but sends pastors to “come alongside you” while you try to pray your gay away. I quit my job there, even though it meant having to leave kids and their families who have become like my own. The next morning I woke up with this overwhelming sense of relief that I wasn’t expecting but that simultaneously brought contentment and broke my heart.
I felt free to finally be authentically myself for the first time in my entire life.
And you know what? The God that I believe in created me to be this person and still loves me unconditionally.
Just a year ago, some of the words spoken to me in the last month would have absolutely broken me. Instead, I’ve found so much happiness.
So basically, what I’m saying is that Glennon was right. Don’t be afraid to do the hard things. Quit the job. Date the human that makes you happy. Be authentically yourself. Choose the joy.
You were never much more than a bandaid I was using to cover the hurt from my marriage imploding. I think you knew that. I was broken. Broken really isn’t a word strong enough to describe me in those months. Crushed, hurting, shattered, devastated, furious. Broken. You knew that too. And you used it to get close to me. I can see that clearly now.
So from the moment the pregnancy test turned positive, I knew I would be raising my baby alone. People assured me you would step up once you knew, but I was confident you would not. And I was right.
The day I told you I was pregnant, your response was to tell me “we can go dutch on the abortion.” There are very few people that know that until now. That moment solidified what I already knew.
I tried to keep you informed. I shared the first ultrasound with you. You asked me to stop talking about it, as if that would make it go away. Finally, around seven weeks into my pregnancy, you made a threat to hurt yourself if I remained pregnant. You told me it would “ruin your life.” You said that you may as well just end your life because it was over anyway. That was the last time I spoke to you. You never reached out to see if he was a he or a she. You never asked me his birthday. I don’t even know if you know his full name.
I spent the last year equally leaning on God and being angry with Him. Why would He think I’m equipped to handle this alone? Why would He bring a child into this situation? WHY? But this little boy that I didn’t know I needed, along with his brothers, helped me heal my broken heart. God used them to help me become whole again. He used him to help me put those shattered pieces back together. He provided.
He is six months old now. He is the most beautiful little boy. There are moments when I see you in him, but I mostly see his brothers. And me. Sometimes I wonder if you think about the baby you’ve never met. He crawls everywhere and gets into things he shouldn’t at his brothers’ encouragement. He’s eating real food and learns more about this world he lives in every day.
And he is loved. So much. And so wanted. You were the mistake. He is not.
I used to sing in the shower. Obnoxiously. Like, cow dying-from-labor-mixed-with-squealing-pig obnoxiously. Whether I was happy or sad. Whether I was angry or indifferent. Whether I had something to look forward to or it was just another Tuesday.
I stopped singing in the shower.
That was probably the first sign that I ignored when depression took over my life. The first of many. I stopped writing. I lost myself. I lost my happiness. I lost the first year (plus some) of my child’s life. I lost my motivation. I lost my joy. I lost me.
I struggled to nurse. I struggled to sleep even when he would. I cried. All.The.Time. Over nothing. I went through the stages but I lived in denial. This was not happening to me again. And it definitely wasn’t WORSE than last time.
It started with the constant tears. Soon after, the feelings of inadequacy began. I felt like I wasn’t worthy of being a mother to these two beautiful little humans. I convinced myself that my family would be better off without me and often caught myself daydreaming about what would happen if I just ran my car into a ditch one day. I hated myself. I sank into this darkness that I just couldn’t escape. It took every ounce of willpower in my body to get out of the bed most days. Taking a shower became a chore. I felt like I couldn’t do anything right. The anxiety kicked in and with it, rage. I felt like I could be standing directly beside someone, screaming at the top of my lungs but no one could hear my screams. And this infuriated me. I over analyzed every detail of every thing, and anxiety attacks became a part of my daily routine.
Yet, through feeling all of these things, I still felt completely numb.
I became such an angry person. I was angry with myself for sucking as a mom. I was angry at my friends and family for not seeing how I was so clearly inwardly screaming for help. I was pissed when I would open up only to have someone tell me to keep my feelings to myself, for fear of seeming “crazy.” I was furious when someone told me to just “be happy” like it was that easy. I saw nothing but red when someone would tell me to just get over it.
One day, the rage got the best of me and I essentially collapsed on the living room floor, bewildered by my own levels of anger. I finally asked for help.
To the mom who is still knee or even neck deep in this mess, it will come back. It being the joy, the giddiness, and the confidence in being you. It WILL come back. Happiness will seep back in, slowly, and with it pieces of what makes you, you.
You will get there. Soon you will feel human again. You’ll laugh without forcing it to hide the sadness. You’ll smile, not because you’re hiding the pain, but because you have joy. This season is just that, a season. And it is going to pass.
I still battle daily with my anxiety. I have to convince myself to leave the house with my kids. I have to pep talk myself into going to work. Anything beyond the basics? I still pass most of the time while I navigate my way through the rest of this phase. But tonight? Tonight, I sang in the shower.Joyfully, and obnoxiously.
I have a few confessions to make about the photos you see on my facebook feed.
In this picture, you see two happy, smiling little boys. What you don’t see is my Husband, not home, because he’s busy working his tail off to provide for our family. You don’t see me on the other side of the camera, running on fumes and counting the minutes until bedtime so that I can do something as simple as pee without someone crying for me. You don’t see that Aiden was showing his stubborn streak and was fighting every request I had of him, all night long. You don’t see that Asher hadn’t napped all day, and this photo was snapped in the thirty seconds of contentedness he experienced while snuggled up to his favorite person.In this photo, you see my babes staring into each others faces, seemingly overwhelmed with love. You don’t see that Aiden is only wearing underwear, because I had given up the fight to get him to keep on any other clothing. And you don’t see that two seconds later, Asher nailed him in the eye with a finger. In this one, you see a happy, relaxed baby. What you don’t see is the pile of laundry to the left of the frame that I STILL haven’t finished sorting through days later. I’ve pretty much accepted that I won’t get caught up on laundry until all of my children have moved out. In this photo, you see my squish gumming the heck out of a pickle. And loving it. What you don’t see is the loud, screaming, and embarrassing meltdown that followed moments later because he was overtired. In this picture, you see my overachieving 5.5 month old pulling himself up on the leg of my yoga pants. What you don’t see is that I’m wearing yoga pants because I still can’t button my pre-baby shorts, and they are showing no signs of fitting comfortably before this summer ends. You don’t see how much pressure I put on myself to lose the baby weight, and how upset I get when the scale doesn’t budge. In this one, you see my ham of a five-year-old, grinning from ear-to-ear. You also see the pile of books I’ll never have time to finish reading on the end table. What you don’t see is the aforementioned pile of laundry to his right, the thin layer of dust on the bookshelf behind him, and the reward chart in the background that still says “June.”
I’m never trying to be something I’m not when I post these pictures to social media. I put our happiest moments on social media to show our friends, family, and acquaintances, and accidentally, it paints a picture about our lives that just isn’t true.
I’m not a perfect housekeeper. My house appears cleaner because I’m good at keeping the toys, and the laundry, and the books, and the mess out of the shot. (Did I mention the toys?)
I’m not a perfect wife. My Husband almost always comes home in one of the two craziest hours of the day. First thing in the morning when I’m trying to get Aiden to school, or during the pre-bedtime witching hour full of baths and books and everyone pulling me in 20 different directions. He usually becomes the focus of my frustration and I snap at him and then I feel like the worst wife because it’s not his fault I’m so frustrated. Luckily, he usually sees that frustration and gives me some grace, but that doesn’t mean he deserves it.
I’m not a perfect mom. My kids are loved. SO loved. Overwhelmingly and unconditionally loved. But sometimes, before bedtime hits, I am just so ready for them to go to sleep, and for a moment of peace and quiet that I find myself counting away the minutes. Aiden’s whiny voice grates my nerves and Asher’s clinginess, instead of feeling like a special bond between us, starts to feel like I really wish he would be a little more independent sooner rather than later. Then they’re finally asleep and I sit in the quiet and try and decide what the heck is wrong with me because I start to miss them. I think about how quickly this season of our lives is passing, and my heart aches for more time.
My photos often portray me as having it all together, but I’m human. I’m exhausted, I’m behind on almost every household chore with zero sign of being caught up anytime soon, and I make it through each day with a little bit of coffee and a whole lot of Jesus. But where there is so much chaos and exhaustion, there is also so much love and so much happiness. It’s a beautiful mess. And I wouldn’t change a thing.
Tomorrow is your first day of kindergarten. I don’t plan to sleep much tonight. My head is so full of all my dreams and wishes for you. It feels like I have been counting down to this day forever, yet I still can’t believe it’s already here. What I wouldn’t give for just one more year before I have to share you with the rest of the world.
Earlier tonight you told me that you were nervous, and that you couldn’t go in without me. I felt such guilt-ridden joy to know that even now, you still need me. I promised you that I would hold your hand, walk alongside you, and stay there as long as you want me to.
I’ve spent the last five years protecting you, keeping you in this little safe bubble where I’m sure that no one can hurt your feelings or break your heart. You are so excited about this new adventure, so unafraid. But your Mommy is terrified. I haven’t let you see me shed a single tear, but I think you sense it anyway.
On the other hand, Mommy is so incredibly excited to watch you come home every day with that joy in your eyes that always appears when you learn something new. You’re so eager to learn, and so curious about everything. You are going to thrive in kindergarten, Aiden.
I want you to know that I am so proud of the little boy you have grown into. You have become an amazing big brother. A tenderhearted, inquisitive, and an independent little man. You can bring a smile to anyone’s face, and constantly keep us laughing with your silly jokes that only make sense to you. I am so thankful that God chose me to be your Mommy.
All day long tomorrow, I’ll be worrying, praying, and thinking about nothing other than how you’re doing. If you’re making friends. If someone has hurt your feelings. I’ll hope that you will remember all of the manners that I have drilled into your head over the last five years. Say please and thank you. Yes or no ma’am. These simple little things will go such a long way in your life. But, I know I don’t even have to worry, because I know you will be fine. You’re going to make some awesome friends, you’re going to learn some amazing things, and you are going to kick kindergarten’s behind.
Aiden, my hope for you is that you will always be happy. I want you to be eager to meet new people and to learn new things, not just today as you start kindergarten, but always and forever. I am so incredibly proud of you, Bubba. I love you to the moon and back, times infinity.
You know how in the movies, after the woman gives birth, and everyone is smiley and happy and joyous all the time? Yeah? I get it. Ideally, that’s how it should be. Everyone is happy. Everyone is smiling. Spouses don’t fight. Babies don’t cry. Older kids don’t get jealous.
Sometimes it’s not.
Sometimes, the baby cries nonstop for no reason. Sometimes, the spouses are at their wit’s end with exhaustion and take it out on each other. Sometimes, smiling takes too much of the ounce of energy you have left that day, and it’s not worth it to waste it. Sometimes, the older children turn into little jerks thanks to jealousy stemming from no longer being the center of attention.
Sometimes it sucks.
Please don’t get me wrong. I love both of my boys more than anything. I thank God everyday that I get to be their Mommy. I would not change a single thing.
When Aiden was about 4-5 months old, he didn’t sleep. He started having awful reflux issues that caused him to violently puke 90% of what he ate at each feeding. I was basically caring for him on my own, exhausted, frustrated, and to top it all off, I was in a horrible relationship with an apathetic partner. I constantly felt like I wasn’t good enough. That Aiden wouldn’t love me. That I wasn’t cut out to be a Mommy.
I started eating my feelings and I cried myself to sleep more often than not. I remember thinking, ‘how could something so little, that I love so much, make me so miserable.’
It wasn’t until just before Aiden turned six months old that I realized that I needed to talk to someone. Things were super rough. My ex and I fought endlessly and I felt isolated and overwhelmed 100% of the time.
I was diagnosed with postpartum depression.
Fast forward four years. I’m older and more prepared/less overwhelmed over the needs of an infant. Asher is here and about two months old. Aiden’s almost five and ready to start school. Hubs is working in a different city during the week. Our marriage is great, but we rarely have time together. He’s not home, not because he doesn’t want to be here, but because he’s working his bum off to provide for our family. Totally different dynamic.
But I started feeling those first signs of PPD again almost as soon as the last visiting relative walked out the front door. Crying over nothing. Overwhelmed. Insecure. Started eating my feelings. [I swear I’m the only person in the world who gains more weight AFTER having a baby than she does while pregnant.] Getting frustrated when Drew would come home and mess with our routine on the weekends. Getting even more frustrated when he would leave for work again when the weekend ended.
I began feeling inadequate. Like I wasn’t good enough to be these boys’ mommy. Like I wasn’t good enough to be a decent wife to Drew. Overwhelmed by the neverending dishes and laundry and feedings and laundry and cleaning and did I mention laundry? I tried to hide it from Drew for weeks, thinking that he already had enough on his plate and shouldn’t be worried about me.
A couple of weeks ago, he came home to find me completely disheveled, unshowered and still in my PJs with my hair and face a hot mess, crying, and holding Asher as he nursed. Asher had a long day with no sleep the night before, and Aiden is in this phase right now where he wants to challenge everything I say to him. I’m tired. I’m frustrated. I’m overwhelmed. I looked up and word vomited, “I have PPD again.” at him. He said, ” I know, let’s get you taken care of.”
Turns out, he already suspected I was struggling. I assume he didn’t know how to approach me about it, in case he was wrong and I was actually just crazy. We talked about making sure I had some time to myself more often, and working through it together.
So now, my boys are at home having some QT with Daddy while I sit in this Starbucks and reach out to any other moms who might be struggling with the same.
To the mom who feels overwhelmed, it gets easier.
To the mom who feels inadequate, you are enough.
To the mom who hasn’t showered in 3 or more days, your kids don’t care if you stink.
To the mom who swears she’s failing her kids, I’m willing to bet their world revolves around you.
To the mom who thinks she can’t keep up, the housework will wait. babies don’t keep.
To the mom who doesn’t want to admit she’s struggling, asking for help doesn’t mean you’ve failed. It means you’re strong enough to know when you can’t do it alone.
To the mom who believes she can’t handle being a mom AND a wife, let your Husband love you.
To the mom who feels isolated, you are not alone.
To the mom who knows she sucks at being a mom, don’t let your brain tell you a lie that your heart knows isn’t true.
The day of my due date, I was so over being pregnant. I was uncomfortable, tired, in a lot of pain from endless pelvic pressure, and I was just ready to hold him. My nerves over whether my VBAC attempt would be successful or not were getting the best of me, and I was almost ready to just schedule a repeat cesarean.
The week prior, I spent the afternoon in L&D thinking that my water was leaking (it wasn’t) and after being checked, I was ecstatic to learn I was just over a centimeter dilated and about 50% effaced. For someone whose body did NOTHING on it’s own the first time around, this was beyond exciting. Drew and I decided that we would be induced if I didn’t go into labor by 41 weeks, and scheduled the induction while still remaining hopeful that my body would work on it’s own.Fast forward to my due date. Not a single painful contraction or cramp, no more potentially leaking fluid, Asher seemed comfy in there. I went to my 40 week check up fully prepared to hear that my cervix had just closed back up. Imagine my surprise to learn that I was actually at two centimeters and 75% effaced.
WHAT.
Again, that may not seem like a big deal to some, but to someone who barely even progressed WITH drugs before, it’s a big freakin deal.
My midwife offered to do a membrane sweep (it hurts. a lot.) to try and get things moving. She told me Asher was head down and low, and she had a feeling we’d have a baby by the weekend.Drew was at the firehouse and Aiden was with me so we went to get some dinner before going to my small group meeting that evening. I noticed I was beginning to feel a bit crampy, but nothing major. We arrived at the small group meeting, and I was having what I assumed were contractions. They weren’t super painful. Just irritating and hindered my ability to focus.
Halfway into the meeting, my contractions became a little more intense. I sent Drew a text telling him I was going to head home, let my co-leader know that I felt like I needed to leave, and left. My husband had my fathers-in-law come pick up Aiden just in case (I never in a million years imagined I wouldn’t see him again until we brought his brother home!), and after a hot shower, we climbed into bed to try and rest in between contractions.
Bad idea.
I could not get comfortable. The contractions stayed about eight minutes apart the entire night. They weren’t unbearable, but made it impossible to sleep. I don’t know how many times I got up in my sleepy stupor to pee or to pace around the room willing them to get closer/more intense. They didn’t.
Drew woke up, and asked if I thought he should go to work or not. At that point, my contractions were more intense, but further apart. I reluctantly told him to go, but to keep his phone close. The idea of having a quiet house to labor in sounded amazing at that moment. He left, and I waddled out to our living room with some breakfast, a timer, and my birth ball.I spent the entire day moving back and forth from the ball to the couch. I was exhausted, and the ball made my contractions pick up, but as soon as I would lay down they would essentially stop. I don’t think I ever really believed that this was it, and that I was actually in REAL labor. Finally, in the afternoon, I lost my plug and was hopeful that it meant I was making some progress.
Drew got home shortly after, and we decided to go get some dinner and walk around, hoping it would make things progress a little faster. The contractions picked up the instant I sat in the car. Gracious. I struggled to make it through dinner at Jason’s Deli, picking at my food between contractions. (Which were now down to 6 minutes apart.) After dinner, we went and walked around Target. I braced myself against the buggy while walking through each contraction. My contractions stayed around 5-6 minutes apart, but were getting more intense by the minute.
[At some point, I called the midwife, whom I remember told me to wait until they were a little closer together. I also remember temporarily hating that midwife. I do not, however, remember exactly when I called her.]
We left Target and headed home, and I hated this ride even more than the first. We arrived home around 8pm, and I laid on the bed to try and get a few hour’s rest. As soon as I hit the pillow, my contractions became unbearable.
Around 10ish, I got up and told Drew that I thought we should go to the hospital soon. I was losing more and more of my plug, my contractions were 4-5 minutes apart and lasting about a minute. Our hospital was 30+ minutes away, so I wanted to go. Even if it meant waddling through my contractions around the hospital.
I called the midwife to tell her we were coming, and texted my mom to let her know she needed to head to our hospital. We gathered up everything and got into the car.Longest drive of my life.
At one point, my contractions were down to three minutes apart and I seriously thought I would give birth in the car. I don’t think I’ve ever witnessed my Hubs speeding more than five over until that night.
We finally arrived at UNC Women’s Hospital. I think it was close to or around 11 by that point. Drew drove up to the curb, jumped out of the car, and ran over to help me. We walked inside and he let the guard know that he would come back to move the car after he got me up to L&D. My contractions were still coming steadily at 3-4 minutes apart, and multiple times we had to just stop walking and Drew would literally hold my body up when I couldn’t. We were checked in and triaged. I was only at 4cm, so the midwife said I could be admitted if I wanted. I chose to be admitted and receive some pain meds to attempt to get some rest. We were quickly put into a room, my IV was placed and the monitors were put on my belly. The first sign of a potential uterine rupture in VBACs is the baby going into distress, so I chose to do continuous fetal monitoring. I wanted my VBAC desperately, but I wanted a healthy, safe baby more.The on call OB came in to have me sign the “just in case” forms for an emergency cesarean. I had yet to get any kind of pain meds or anything, and I was still contracting every 4 minutes or so. She proceeded to tell me that I would most likely end up with an emergency cesarean because my VBAC chances weren’t very great.
This infuriated me. I signed the papers as quickly as I could manage so she would get the heck out.
She finally left, and the next hour or so was a blur as my walking epidural was administered. The anesthesiologist was phenomenal. I highly recommend the walking epidural. I could still move and feel my legs, and also the tightness and pressure of each contraction, but with barely any pain whatsoever. It took rolling from side to side a few times but eventually it took all over.
Then the waiting game started. I was told to “rest.” Ha. Eventually, my parents arrived and helped entertain me. Hubs and my Daddy snoozed while my Mom and I chatted endlessly about nothing. I think she sensed how scared I was and knew I just needed to be distracted.
Around 5ish(?) I started feeling like I was peeing myself every time I shifted positions. I thought maybe my water had broken, but it wasn’t constant so I wasn’t sure. Shortly after, I felt this strange gushing feeling. It still didn’t feel like my water had broken, but I knew it was something unusual so I made my poor momma check. She looked only to discover that my bag of waters was bulging in a way that was comparable to a water balloon. So. Freaking. Bizarre.
I called the nurse, who called my midwife. She came in to check me, and as soon as she touched my “water balloon,” my water gushed out. I was also completely dilated. I didn’t feel the urge to push just yet so she had me sit up in my bed with my legs in the butterfly position so I could “labor down.” I sat like this for an hour or so. Somewhere in that time frame, my amazing doula, Lesa Williams, arrived. (If you’re in the NC Triangle area and having a baby any time soon, you should check her out by clicking here.)
Around 7am, nurses and midwives started trickling into my room. The baby nurse came in to set up the warmer, and I think that is when I finally had the ‘holy crap, this is actually happening’ moment. The nurse asked if I was feeling any pressure yet, (I definitely was) and if I wanted to do a few “practice pushes.”
FYI, the term “practice pushes” is stupid. They’re real pushes. There’s nothing “practice” about them.
I did a few, and more nurses and my midwife came in, as well as an OB med student. At some point in labor, you stop caring about who walks into your business, don’t worry.Around 7:45 or so, I started the real thing. Shortly after 8, my epidural wore off. I pushed like a madwoman. I was so freaking determined and I was so freaking exhausted. Drew was still holding me up, physically by helping me lift my head and chest to bear down, and emotionally because he knew I was terrified. He really was my rock. My doula stood next to him with a nurse or two next to her. A sea of midwifes and nurses floated around behind them, and my Momma stood next to me and my Daddy stood above my head, armed with a cool washcloth for my forehead. They both wanted so badly to be present for Asher’s birth, since they weren’t allowed in the OR for Aiden’s.
The midwife insisted at one point that if I looked at what I was doing in the mirror, it would help me have stronger pushes.
I did not want the mirror.
Nope.
And it didn’t help.
So they put the mirror away, and I started making more progress. Everyone started telling me that they could see him coming and that he had a full head of hair.
And then my Husband asked if he had time to go pee. Yep. Baby’s head is coming out, Husband has to pee. A nurse told him that he had better hurry, and he went. I could’ve killed him. Asher began descending more, and I yelled (the only time I yelled..FYI) for Drew to get back out, and now. He finally did, and I was relieved.
I pushed a few more times, and he started crowning. By then, my epidural was non-existent and the ring of fire is a real thing, people.
There was barely any time between contractions anymore, only just enough to catch my breath. The midwife looked up at me and said, “this one is it, push.” I looked at Drew, waited for the contraction to start, and pushed with all my might.
And at 8:45am, after just over a hour of pushing, he was out.
Another push and the rest of him was out too.
It took a second for him to make a sound, but then he started crying and it was the most amazing sound I ever heard. I reached down and pulled him onto my chest. He immediately looked up at me, and I cried. I was so overwhelmed with love and joy that I couldn’t even really speak. The pain was gone, the exhaustion was gone, and it was the moment that I had spent the previous nine months praying for. We had delayed cord clamping, and then the placenta came out without any issues. He latched on and stayed there while I received a few stitches. He only left my arms for a few moments while he was weighed and measured. All 8lbs, 8oz and 20 inches of him were absolutely perfect. Drew picked him up from the warmer and I watched as his Daddy fell completely in love instantly and shed a tear or two as well.
This birth experience was exactly what I needed to heal from the trauma of my first one. While Aiden’s birth was beautiful in it’s own way, Asher’s was everything I could have asked for and more. The healing processes were night and day different. Ash was born Friday morning, and I was up and going to the bathroom unassisted by Friday afternoon. I took a solo shower Saturday morning. There was no obnoxious swelling, minimal pain, and I was back to “normal” within a few weeks.
PS, in case you wondered, my midwife forwarded my delivery notes to the OB who told me I couldn’t do it.We’re now finally beginning to settle into life as a family of four, and you can follow our daily adventures by clicking here. 🙂
My child says some of the most ridiculous things. I often post them on facebook, but have been saving some of the best to share at once. Here are my favorites from this week:
Aiden: I wish I had my own special room to fart in.
Me: Can you spell your name?
Aiden: Didn’t you name me? Shouldn’t you know how to spell it better than anyone?
Aiden: Is it going to hurt when Asher comes out of your belly?
Me: probably a little bit
Aiden: Can I watch? I’ll give you medicine and a band aid so it won’t hurt anymore.
Aiden: Why does everyone always treat me like a dog?
Me: Who treats you like a dog?
Aiden: PawPaw.
Aiden: Sometimes I get mad when I’m building things.
Me: You get that from Dad. It’s a crazy man thing.
Aiden: It’s because girls and mommies make us that way.
Aiden: Do I have to worry about you when you go to the hospital?
Me: No, you just have to trust that God will take care of me.
As my pregnancy is coming to an end, I’m reminded daily of details that I clearly blocked from my memory. Maybe for good reason. Pregnancy is a beautiful, messy experience.
You may not LOOK pregnant right away, but you will FEEL like you look pregnant right away. I was so bloated that I was convinced EVERYONE knew I was knocked up weeks before we made it public.
from pinterest.com
Morning sickness doesn’t happen in the morning.All day errrrrrryday.
The exhaustion is overwhelming.Especially if you already have one child or more.
from pinterest.com
Finding out the gender of your womb-dweller is ridiculously exciting.Enough said.
People will think they have a right to touch your belly. Even if they’ve never seen you before that moment, ever. It’s okay to smack them.
You can be the tiniest pregnant woman ever, and you’ll still be asked if it’s twins. I like to respond with, “…I’m not pregnant.” The shock is so worth it.
from pinterest.com
A cold in the late second trimester or early third trimester is horrible.Cough, sneeze, contraction, pee, repeat.
Everyone will have an opinion about how that baby is DEFINITELY COMING EARLY.He more than likely won’t.
A breech baby after thirty weeks is painful.Feet. In. Your. Cervix. And sometimes crazy yoga poses will flip them.
from pinterest.com
Around 37 weeks, people you see daily will start asking you “isn’t it about time?” EVERY. SINGLE. DAY.It’s about 22 hours closer to that time than the last time you asked me.
You will get up to pee more times a night than you would get up to feed a newborn.But at least you’ll be prepared to be exhausted.
You will get to a point where the pain of labor no longer intimidates you (that much) because you just want him out.I may or may not be at this point.
from pinterest.com
Numbers one through twelve will be 100% worth it once that bundle of squishiness is snuggled up to your chest.And I can’t wait.
Coming Soon: Things I Forgot About Postpartum (Assuming it ever gets here.)
taylor leigh mcgovern 