Warning: birth story ahead.

Our third baby turned 2 this week. And it’s bringing back all the feels. Especially the ones about how it’s taken two whole years to not feel a bit shaken from his entrance. After having two natural births, I felt like I knew what I was getting myself into. But it’s true that no two births are the same. And laboring with Charlie was very different than it was with my girls.

Two years ago the midwives almost didn’t make it in time. So in between contractions that were two minutes apart, I prepped Adam on what do in case the baby arrived before they did.

Two years ago I reached the end of my rope and then some. My midwife told me I had to push harder, and with a death stare, I non-verbally told her where she could take that advice. [hint: a place of eternal fire] I screamed at God, “YOU have to do this because I can’t.”

And then just like that, in less than 3 hours, my terribly average body gave birth to all 10 lbs 6 ounces of him in our home. With no complications.

It was a miracle.

Childbirth is a miracle.

I live in an area where nearly everyone is terrified of birth and/or resentful of it. I rarely feel safe talking about how beautiful it is. I certainly don’t admit that I’m thankful for it and feel empowered by it. I’m usually afraid I will offend someone or hurt their feelings.

Birth is such a tender topic.  Naturally so, because it involves one of the most spiritual and intimate experiences we have in life.

And somehow, somewhere we have lost that truth.

But it’s holy. So I think that’s what I’ll call it.

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