When Your Birth Plan Doesn’t Go To Plan

Today is, coincidentally, my older son Jack’s fourth birthday. Later on we will eat massive quantities of sushi and cake (amazing combo) and I will reflect on our time together so far, particularly the state I was in four years ago this very day, when the plans I had dreamed up for the arrival of this little person crashed and burned like the Hindenburg. So, dear reader, let’s hop into this time traveling DeLorean and head back to that fateful day in 2012, before I realized that in motherhood, nothing ever really goes to plan.

On the list of pregnant lady must-haves, a birth plan is pretty far up there, right after folic acid and pants without buttons. It’s a great way for a mom-to-be to prepare and envision how she would ideally like to experience the miracle of childbirth. Unfortunately, in my case, the plan for my first foray into that miracle turned out to be more like a birth fantasy. It was the Hogwarts of birth plans: a place that sounds amazing, but will never actually happen in the natural world.

Long before I even thought about trying to get pregnant, I had my birth plan all squared away. I had seen ‘The Business of Being Born,’ I knew what was up. Everything would be as natural as possible: no drugs, no unnecessary interventions. I pictured myself squatting on the floor, the pain barely worse than period cramps, as I gently and easily guided my child into the world. Everyone, including the midwife, would cry and it would probably be the most beautiful birth in the history of time.

When the day came that I actually was pregnant, I set the wheels of my plan in motion. With visions of birthing tubs dancing in my head, I called a birth center that was inside our local hospital to book myself in for my baby’s birth. I was, at the time, about seven and a half minutes pregnant, so the midwife tried not to laugh, took down my name and said she’d see me in four months.

Cut to nine and a half months later. I was nine days overdue and roughly the size of a 1967 Volkswagen Beetle. People stared at me on the street, as though I might detonate at any given moment. I had thus far refused any talk of being induced, until the doctor at my weekly appointment resisted the urge to punch me in the face and informed me that indeed, tomorrow would be the day. I wanted to fight back, but the stress of carrying a kindergartner inside my womb was really getting to me. You win this round, medical industrial complex.

But not so fast! That afternoon I started having what I was pretty sure were contractions! And I was told the next morning I was FINALLY in labor and wouldn’t need to be induced! USA! USA! They sent me on my way to labor in the comfort of my own home, which basically consisted of yelling at my husband and staying up all night to stand in the shower until the hot water ran out, then waiting 20 minutes before climbing right back in.

My husband and I showed up at the birth center at 7am the next morning, ready to be rewarded for my efforts. Our grand prize for this round was… that I was dilated two centimeters. After 36 hours of contractions. I would have hurled myself out of the window at this point, but we were on the first floor.

I begged the midwife, for all that was good and holy, please don’t send me back home. She took pity and began the 45 minute process of filling up the birthing tub, as I waited in anticipation. Once, I get into that warm water, I thought, this excruciating experience will finally end and my real birth will begin. After about twenty-three seconds in the tub, I realized this water was doing absolutely less than nothing and thrashed around like a dying sea lion, screaming ‘It’s not working!!!!’ at the top of my lungs. Oh yes and I was still only at two centimeters.

Finally the midwife gave me a choice: I could stay in the birth center for a couple more hours or transfer to labor and delivery where I’d be given induction drugs and an epidural. Feeling depleted, defeated and like a total failure, I whispered that I wanted to go to labor and delivery and promptly burst into tears.

To make a very long story a little less long, I had a c-section. A dreaded c-section that I was so convinced I wouldn’t have that I hadn’t bothered to learn anything about in all my birth planning. After 12 hours of pitocin, I still didn’t dilate all the way because the baby’s overly giant head was stuck in my pelvis. At 3:14am, Jack was born in a freezing OR, rather than in a comfy birthing suite.

I like to think his birth was just the ultimate preview of the rest of my life as a parent. The more I obsess over what I think should happen, the harder enjoying my life as a mom is. If I just reset and allow things to be what they are, life can be better than I ever imagined. It’s fantastic to have expectations and hopes for my kids’ lives, but I have to remember that they can be okay even if my dreams don’t become their reality.

I’m not saying don’t have a birth plan. I’m just saying, maybe, to think of it more as birth wishes. Birth hopes. Birth goals? Just in case your plan isn’t really a plan but, like Jack’s birth, whatever the opposite of a plan is.

I wish I could talk to that girl who, four years ago today, felt so disappointed and ashamed as she was being prepped for a c-section. I wish I could tell her that in four years, the birth experience she thought she needed won’t matter at all, and she’ll just be so stunningly grateful to go through life with this little boy, and that even though the way he’s entering this world isn’t the beautifully meaningful experience she thought it’d be, seeing his big blue eyes and gorgeous smile every day will mean more to her than she could have ever imagined. So, happy birthday, Jack. Thanks for teaching me, four years ago and every day since, that the best parts of life are the things you can’t plan.