My 67-Hour Homebirth Was a Psychedelic Labor of Love
I thought I knew what to expect, but nothing could’ve prepared me for “natural birth.”
I’d read all the books, perfected my low squat, taken epic walks every day, and could write Happy Birthday on my vaginal walls with my Kegel muscles (it’s a thing). For months, I’d peed with the bathroom door wide open, to rid myself of body modesty. My labor was going to be quick — orgasmic even. I would have to hide my smugness when I spoke about it, remember not to brag, try not to judge others (they must not have done enough prenatal yoga!)
I really believed this. So, um… my bad.
A week past my due date and no signs of labor, my husband Charles drove us 40 minutes away to the Sequim Lavender Festival. It was a sunny Saturday, and we first stopped to let our little dog Lupin run around. It was there, at the Sequim dog park, that I felt my first real contraction. I felt it in my back, not even painful, just very noticeable. I giggled and told Charles (and some dog park strangers) but assured him it was probably nothing. Except, then it happened again. And again.
“Should we race home?” Charles asked, giddy, but clearly deferring to me.
