It feels surreal that three whole months have already flown by since our little Skylar joined our family. Honestly, I had forgotten just how challenging postpartum can be. There was the beautiful miracle of a drug-free delivery, followed by my body realizing what had just happened a few days later. Add to that a severe case of thrush, night sweats, and a few weeks of hormonal tears. Yet, despite all of it, I find myself once again completely smitten with those tiny newborn snuggles, and his little smile still has the power to mesmerize me endlessly.
The thing about having multiple births is that each one brings its own unique story. With my first, the unexpected early induction due to preeclampsia led to the arrival of my oldest child, who filled me with joy despite the chaos. For my second, I hoped for a completely different experience than what my daughter and I went through, so we aimed for "normal," which we achieved in a matter of hours, even with some hiccups along the way. And while "normal" might be subjective when it comes to childbirth, I've learned that every birth story is distinct and magical in its own way. So, naturally, Skylar's story is entirely his own.
Let me take you back a bit. It was a Friday night, and we had plans to go out with friends, but my body had other ideas. Over the past couple of weeks, I'd been experiencing sporadic contractions—nothing too alarming. But that night, these contractions felt stronger, more frequent, and unpredictable. They were coming every hour or so, and I decided to stay home, craving the comfort of cuddling with my two older kids. As it turns out, it was my last night as a mother of two.
Saturday morning, around 6 a.m., I woke up with my phone in hand, the screen lighting up the labor tracker app I'd been using. Sleep was scarce that night, except for brief respites between contractions. I'd drift off, wake with each wave of pain, press the "start" button, and then fall back asleep until the next contraction eased. "I think we might be heading to the hospital today," I mentioned casually to my husband as he stirred. I didn't want to get overly excited only to end up disappointed, so I decided to take a shower, hoping it might help relax me. Wrong move. By the time I finished, my contractions were averaging thirty minutes apart. My water hadn't broken yet, and they weren't frequent enough to call the doctor, so we started packing the car slowly. Oh, and I even took my 37-week maternity photo! The last one was taken during contractions—literally. By the time the camera clicked, they were less than eight minutes apart, and the fiery pain shooting from my lower back was unbearable. A final contraction sent me retching in the bathroom, and I must have looked like some wild animal gasping out, "We need to leave NOW."
Driving the short mile to the hospital felt endless. Chris helped me shuffle across the parking lot, and I seriously thought I couldn't make it. Contractions were coming in waves now, and every movement amplified the pain. At one point, I wanted to collapse onto the pavement, convinced that moving was impossible. But each step was proof of how resilient mothers are. Knowing I needed to get to a safe place to deliver pushed me forward.
Inside, I tried to maintain a calm demeanor while internally panicking. The receptionist asked for my ID and registration details, oblivious to the intensity of the situation. I breathed deeply, trying to convey urgency without freaking out. Finally, they got me checked in. It was 8:22 a.m.
In the bathroom, I heard the question, "Do you know if she'll want an epidural?" My husband had prepared to say no, but hearing it triggered a visceral response in me. "Yes!" I shouted through the door. I wanted to feel as much of the process as possible, but this time, the fiery pressure was overwhelming. Learning I was dilated to six gave me hope that there would be enough time.
From triage to delivery, my wheelchair rolled into the room where my journey as a mother of two would end and begin anew. Breathing through each contraction, I gripped Chris's hand tightly, focusing on the moment. The room transformed when I felt the pressure. "I feel THE pressure," I told my nurse. Her eyes widened, and the room buzzed with activity. Lights came on, my legs were elevated, and nurses scrambled to call a doctor. Words failed me, and suddenly I had to push.
The doctor entered, gloves in hand, and instructed me to stop breathing and push. On that command, I felt my beautiful baby boy arrive. It was 8:42 a.m., twenty minutes since we walked through the hospital doors. I’m so glad I didn’t give in to the urge to collapse outside.
Holding him for the first time, my heart overflowed with love. His eyes met mine, and the world quieted. Nurses and machines faded into the background as we bonded. That first cry was heaven, and his checkup confirmed he was okay. Six pounds, four ounces of pure perfection nestled in my arms.
Aliyah embraced her role as big sister effortlessly, and Brayden adored his new brother. Technology allowed my parents to see their grandson almost instantly. Later, a nurse brought cookies, and we celebrated Skylar's "birthday" with songs and smiles.
As a mother of three, my hands are full, but my heart is fuller. Each birth brings its own story, its own magic.
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