Please Excuse the Placenta in Your Freezer

Author's note:This story was written for a non-CS publication so it is missing the fact that a CS nurse was at both home births, a CS practitioner was on all three cases, and all were hugely helpful!

Birthing a human is messy and intense work — I prefer to do it on a king-sized bed, with free-range access to a stocked refrigerator, and the peace of mind that I won’t be charged $27 for a box of tissues.

I chose delivery at home because of the subtle conveniences; you’re able to shower whenever you want; the bathroom is decorated with art instead of biohazard bags and exam gloves; the shower has a pretty curtain or a door instead of the weird half-wall in an open horse stall.

Maybe all of my preferences revolved around the bathroom.

The beginning

For some ungodly reason labor pains always started at 1:30 in the morning. Once awake, my racing mind would not be slowed. I’d force myself to stay in bed until 4am — at which time I figured if farmers were milking cows and business people were on the horn with China, I could start my day.

I’d spend those daybreak hours craze-cleaning — a strange phenomenon that occurs when women are about to give birth; we have an inexplicable and immediate need to make sure our baseboards are spotless. This mania is coupled with the same Hulk-like strength that enables you to lift a car off your flattened child.

Home births were unlawful in my state so we had to cross a border to escape detection. This hour-long drive required us to drive past the only upside of this major inconvenience — Krispy Kreme.

Once every outlet cover and ceiling fan blade was sanitized, my husband and I would head for the car — typically around 8am.

For our first delivery the fear of stopping was strong, but the magnetic force of the “Hot, Fresh, Now!” sign was stronger.

I was riddled with anxiety and questions. Will we make it to our destination on time? What if my water breaks on the hour-long drive? Do I trust my twenty-four-year-old husband to deliver a baby in our Camry? What if they’re out of glazed?

The apartment

We got lucky each time the meconium hit the fan — our host family was always out of town.

My first home birth was in a friend’s one bedroom apartment. It had a king-sized bed, which swallowed up the rest of the room; a small living room; and a tiny kitchen. The coziness of the home gave my mother-in-law — who was settled on the couch inches from the bedroom door — a front row and surround-sound experience of childbirth.

God only knows what the poor neighbors thought was happening in apartment B.

The attending doctor was a long-standing fixture in the home-birth community — so long, he was in his mid-seventies. He was a gentle giant standing at six foot, five inches, with hands the size of a catcher’s mitts.

We arrived at our cozy spot at 9am Thursday and I began the hours of binge-watching tv, playing gin rummy, and waddling around the puddled parking lot like a very pregnant duck.

I began pushing at 11:30am Friday — an activity that I now know was at least three hours too early. Around 2pm the doc said to my husband, “I don’t know if she’ll be able to do this.”

Ummmm, I can hear you.

I didn’t see an operating room anywhere in that small apartment so I knew I would indeed be doing this.

My daughter was born at 3:19pm and weighed in at 9.4 pounds and 20" long.

When the birth and aftermath were complete, Dr. D tapped out and a midwife stepped in. Though a somewhat awkward woman, she allowed me to sleep all night and did whatever was needed with the baby — I didn’t ask. Everyone was alive in the morning so that was good enough for me.

The next day I chose to ride home on a giant pillow rather than stay cloistered in a tiny apartment without the comforts of my own home.

The hospital

Not all of my children were born at home so I have some ability to compare/contrast. The middle one was born in a hospital and the experience was good, but different.

The weekday nurses didn’t know how to work with a woman who wasn’t pumped full of medication but gratefully my son arrived under the weekend staff’s watch — and they were much more savvy.

With this pregnancy, I craved Pillsbury Toaster Strudel, slathered with Nutella, for the entirety of the nine months. This is likely why my son outweighed his sister at 9.9 pounds.

He was 22" long, but being tall didn’t hide his weight as much as you’d think.

In the hospital I was poked, prodded, checked, disrobed and asked to do a lot of hard things after thirty-one hours of really hard things. When I was able to sleep it was nothing close to my Tempur-pedic mattress.

The major “pro” of having my first male child in the hospital was the ability to have him circumcised right down the hall. This saved me from having to drive across town on fresh stitches to visit a mohel.

The home

Our second home birth was in my best friend’s house on the same bed where she birthed two of her own children. Everyone survived so I figured the juju of that space was on point.

Since this was our third child, we were in no rush to get to the car, the donuts, or the birthing destination. Fool me once…

My right hand woman was a midwife. She was a sweet, granola, tree-hugger type who wore Birkenstocks and had a supply bag that looked like an old quilt. And she was wonderful.

She was the first woman who was in charge of the big show and she knew her stuff. She didn’t show up until an hour before the birth, just after my long and leisurely, hot shower in a lovely bathroom.

Instead of laying for hours on my back she had me get on all fours for the big finale, which mercifully was super quick. Don’t knock it till you try it.

My second son was nicknamed “Slim” right out of the gate because his tiny physique weighed only 8.14 pounds. Poor little emaciated thing. He was also 22" long, which only added to his 90’s waif-look.

For me, labor always occurred in three stages. Hanging out for hours watching tv and playing gin rummy; bearable but unsleepable contractions; and life-altering pain. The stages never wavered but mercifully the length of the whole process did.

While my daughter hijacked thirty-eight hours of my life, her brother took thirty-one, and the baby, twenty.

That’s probably why he’s still my favorite. Jk kids, jk.

Slim and his Mom

I have no idea who cleaned up the apartment or the house, but it wasn’t me. I know that on both occasions the midwives placed the placenta in the owner’s refrigerator and took it home with them they left. What they did with it after that I didn’t ask, and when offered first dibs, I politely declined.

Birthing a baby is hard. Picking where to have the blessed event can seem overwhelming and unknown. But I firmly believe that wherever someone is led to give birth will be right for them — unless it’s in the back of a Camry.

That amazing little bundle will have all it needs each moment regardless of location. It helped me to listen to sound advice from the warriors who went before me and to listen to my own needs/desires for the big day.

Each space had a loving, supportive team and each birth went as smoothly as something that intense can.

And my super chunky babies grew into absolutely beautiful humans.

I mean...look at them!