Today is the day. March 30. It’s the one I’d been counting, but not counting, down to for nearly nine months. It was the date the IVF doctor gave us as a potential due date, and though it’s not the one our OB officially counted on, it was the one the rest of us were. And, yet, here we are, at March 30, Good Friday. And baby boy has been out in this world for five days already. And we are all so blessed by that fact.

Of course I’m more than happy to not be “waiting” anymore – it had gotten to the point where it felt like he was just never going to come out on his own – and he wasn’t even late, yet (a fact I’d been anticipating, considering my previous two births had certainly taken their sweet time – I was prepared to be pregnant well into April, honestly). And I’m more than happy that it is no longer my job to protect this sweet little life. It was such an honor to care for him, but there is so much joy in knowing his parents have the sole responsibility from here on out. It’s a sweet sigh of relief (but that’s also because I have better use of my lungs these days).

His birth was a first for me – the first time my water breaking was the actual indicator of the process beginning. I’d never had that before and I was grateful for it this time. I’d been concerned, with such a history of Braxton-Hicks and with the way my previous labors had gone, that I wouldn’t recognize “real” contractions until it was almost too late. Or of putting everyone on high alert only to be sent home – false alarm. That was my biggest stressor.

Instead, I awoke at 4am for a regular bathroom break (as happens about every hour when one is so near the end of pregnancy) and noticed my pajamas seemed a little more wet than was warranted or normal. However, without an obvious puddle in our bed or elsewhere, there was still the possibility this wetness wasn’t what we’d assumed (because there would be little more embarrassing than calling in the whole brigade and heading to hospital only to learn you’d somehow wet your pants in the middle of the night . . .). I knew it was recommended to get to the hospital within about an hour of your water breaking, whether contractions had started or not, and they had not, but I also recognized that gave us a little wiggle room to check things out and decide if that’s really what had happened, so I added a few last minute things to my bag (just in case), took care of my hair (just in case), and laid down for a few minutes to see if more liquids would “pool” – and then at 4:45am, right as I was about to stand and see if anything came flowing out (after “pooling”), a strong contraction hit – the kind that motivated me to open my contraction counter app for the first time (typically we’ve been counting contractions for days/weeks before anything “real” happens) and start timing. And when the wave was over, I stood and a new wave of liquids came.

This was no joke. He was coming. We made our phone calls and my husband hopped in the shower while we waited for his sister, our baby-sitter, to arrive. I pulled together last-minute preparations, but they were made difficult by the fact that contractions continued to come. Per the app, they were already at about 4.5 minutes apart and lasting well over a minute – leaving me only 2-3 minutes between surges to actually accomplish things like putting on clothes and shoes and preparing the gifts the kids were going to receive while we were in the hospital (kind of a “Sorry, we’re not home, but look, new books!”). By the time his sister arrived, we were already walking out to the car and contractions were only 2.5 minutes apart – still lasting over a minute each – which left me a little impatient to be where we needed to be, and also facing the reality that this kid was NOT going to wait until his parents had made it to town (as they faced a 3.5 hour drive to the hospital). He was coming, and he was coming fast.

My fastest labor to date had started rather similarly (minus the water breaking, but still with a 4:20 wake-up call) and was finished in 3.5 hours – but that was only because we’d had to wait for the midwives to arrive, so that time included about an hour of trying not to push, because my husband did not want to catch a baby and I didn’t blame him. As we were only five minutes from the hospital, I was not going to have to make myself wait this time.

We arrived at the hospital, entering through the ER door, as is required after hours, and I helped myself to a wheelchair right there in the entryway – I wasn’t even playing, no way I was standing or walking longer than necessary. The nurse at the station quickly assessed the situation, calling for a nurse while calling out questions to me to get things started in the computer. A man in scrubs came out from the ER doors, took over the wheelchair from my husband who resembled a little bit of a pack mule at this point, and rushed us across the hospital to Labor and Delivery, all while I simply breathed and rode the waves of pain.

We made it to Labor and Delivery by 5:15am, where they asked us the requisite questions at the front desk and I did my best to answer through contractions, but it was obvious to the nurse at the computer, as it had been to everyone, this was NOT a false alarm, and as they wheeled me through the hall to the delivery room, there was a great flurry of activity, particularly as I made sure they knew, “He’s coming fast!”

I appreciate that every person on that ward took me seriously and I’m fairly certain every nurse on duty was in that room with us, handling paperwork, calling the doctor, trying to find antibiotics (because I was, unfortunately, positive for Group B Strep – which required us trying to protect the baby, but it did not appear there would be time), starting IV’s (THAT was a process . . .), and getting the room overall ready for delivery (something I get the feeling they typically have more time to do). I was asked if I’d had hopes for an epidural, something I hadn’t fully decided on, but it appeared little man had decided for me. They still offered to try to call it in, but I knew there was no point – he was coming and we just needed to get ‘er done.

I’ll admit, they seemed a little surprised by my no-nonsense attitude. “Has she done it without an epidural before?” Yep – twice. At home. We’ve got this. Let’s go.

At first check, I was “only” 8cm. Obviously that was a good thing, but I just heard that I still had to work out two more centimeters before I could start pushing this guy out.

Meanwhile, there’s paperwork that needs to be signed in the very short intervals between contractions, there’s an IV that’s STILL not finding its way in. There’s bloodwork they’re still waiting for a lab tech to complete.

A few contractions later, they checked again. “You’re almost there.”

Not there, yet?! UGH.

A few more contractions. And then I announced, “I’m ready to push. I’m NOT even kidding!”

“Ok!” So they pulled out the leg supports, checked one more time – yep, we’re good to go.

And that IV was STILL not in (after six attempts, in six locations). And the lab tech had only just arrived, so after a couple contractions of pushing, I was told to ride out at least one so they could finish with that IV and the lab work could be completed. I had needles going into two different arms and a contraction surging through, for which I needed to be as still as possible, because, needles. Not the best moment.

But then that was done. And despite my insistence that I didn’t know how to push (because, seriously, I had not done this in a hospital bed in about 8 years – I think I was a little rusty, but mostly just scared of the pain), I was encouraged to keep going (of course, because there’s one way out of this situation). I don’t know how many more I pushed through, but before I knew it, the doctor was declaring, “I have a head. His nose and mouth are out. We just need you to take a breath and push a little more.”

And I did. And it was done.

6:19am. One hour after arriving at the hospital. Only 1.5 hours since contractions started. And he was out.

It could not have gone more smoothly. It was a whirlwind, but I’ll take that over a marathon.

His lungs were healthy and he was not happy about all that work, so my husband called up his parents, put it on speaker phone and announced, “Somone wants to say hello!” And all of us in the room could hear the tears on the other side of the phone as his parents laughed in awe at the sound of their long-awaited little boy, letting out his first cries of life, with all 9lb9oz of him.

His parents were still two hours away, so, unfortunately, when he was ready for skin-to-skin time, his momma wasn’t the one who was able to be there for him. Even though it wasn’t the plan, because I’d been nervous about instincts and bonding and hormones, I said I’d do whatever the baby needed. So they put a little hat on him, cleaned him up and snuggled him next to me.

And it was a sweet moment. Looking into this face that had been inside of me for so long and seeing the reward for all that work. Holding him and knowing it was real. He was here and his parents were coming.

And that felt right – that we were both waiting for them. Because as sweet as he was, we didn’t belong together. He’s always belonged to them and there wasn’t any part of me, not even those hormones, that felt any differently.

And when they arrived, as the nurse gave him his first official bath, preparing him for his meeting with those precious parents who had waited so long for him, there were tears galore.

What I’ll always remember is that when they walked in the room, they saw him on the table where the nurse was diapering him and they glanced in at him quickly, took in the sight of him, with many tears, and then, as the nurse was busy with him, they hurried over to me – to give me a hug of gratitude, be sure I was ok, kiss me on the head, and then, assured that I was fine and doing well, they turned back to him.

They dressed his tiny body for the first time and then picked him up in their arms.

It was the moment we had all been waiting for.

The one that kept me going in those final weeks of discomfort and that I knew would be my motivation through delivery (though I had little time to worry about any motivation other than ending the pain and contractions).

After so many years of hoping and praying and doctors’ appointments and pain and loss, here was the physical manifestation of all they’d been dreaming of – their little boy. In their arms.

And it was amazing.

And worth it all.