Tomorrow I will focus on Axton, because he turns three years old at 8:53pm, May 17th.

But tonight, I needed this post for myself. Three years ago tonight, I went into labor. Axton obviously wasn’t born until the next evening, but I will always count May 16th as the beginning of my journey into becoming a mom.

I wanted to see how much I could remember from that night, 3 years ago to the day, without re-reading my birth story. I wanted to see which details surfaced to my mind, which stick out to me the most, pushing across the barriers of time and energy long spent since then.

I remember being big. Like, really big.

I remember thinking that afternoon, as the waves of heat grew stronger and lasted longer, that I was going to get to the birthing center that night and be home the next morning in time for breakfast. Like, I seriously thought I needed to pack milk and cereal in my to-go bag because that’s just what I would be craving by the time I POOF popped out a baby.

I remember watching America’s Funniest Home Videos on our tiny, loveseat couch that I could barely fit on, laughing until it hurt too much, and then I’d turn my head and deal with a contraction quietly. I remember even that getting “unbearable” by 9pm, and wanting to just go to bed.

So, I did. I went to bed. But sleep never came.

I remember trying a bath, only to find that my contractions slowed down. So I called the birth center back and told them I’d wait to come in.

I remember arriving at the birth center, only to be told to go back outside and start walking – the last thing in the world I wanted to do after being up all night long.

I remember the breastpumps. Oh, do I ever remember the pumps. And then the birthing ball, the birthing chair, the warm shower that turned cold in evil intervals, making my body pulse and quiver violently. I remember the drip, drip, drip of cold water down my back as Adam carefully combed it out after I begged to get out of the shower (after begging to get in).

I can’t remember the nurse’s name right now, but I remember the way she held my hand as I went through transition on the bed. Her voice telling me to take a deep breath in, and push it all away. I remember the whispered, Thank you, that never made it to my lips.

The wail of someone else’s newborn next door, someone who had arrived after I did. The disappointment in my body for not progressing faster. The anxiety that drenched me, pulsing down to my fingertips, when they told me I was going to be tranferred to the hospital due to meconium in my fluid. The scream in my head that I could not voice out loud, “I’m not going to make it. I cannot bring myself to move off this bed, let alone put me in an ambulance, shuffle me through a hospital, hook me up to monitors…..no, no, no. He’s coming now.”

Nurse Andrea looking me in the eyes, convincing me that I actually could do this, no matter how many times I promised her I simply could not go on anymore, I did not have the strength to push him out.

The taste of juice. So sickly sweet on my tongue.

The burning that only drove me to push harder, dig deeper within me because it meant He is so close. 

He’s out but I can barely open my eyes because I’m so. so. tired.

The nurses telling me he is beautiful, because I can’t say it for myself.

I remember not recognizing him. Not expecting him, who he was and is.

After going through his birth story in my mind, I reread it (if you’re interested, you may also read it on my personal blog. I will warn you, it’s full of lots of body details so don’t click if you can’t handle woman parts and all things related to birth!). I loved being reminded of little details I had forgotten about (“oh yeah! They broke my water! And her name was nurse Laurel. How could I forget Laurel?”). I love that I have this written record to remind myself of the night I became a mom. I love that I have photos to prove to myself that I can do hard things (if you haven’t noticed yet, that’s a theme around here).

The night I became a mom is a night I’ll never forget. As the years pass by and more memories crowd the spaces of my brain, the details will continue to grow fuzzier and perhaps collide with other children’s birth stories, but there are things that will never be erased.

My favorite thing about Axton is that he is my first child! I learned with him and he learned with me, and together we continue to mingle together on this wonderful dance of parenting and childhood. He came to me first because he is patient and resilient, tender and soft-hearted. He is exactly the boy that I needed to make me a mother.