If pregnancy is a marathon, then childbirth is a sprint. I’ve never been any good at sprinting, admittedly. But I have brought three children into the world, and the one thing it’s taught me? Anyone who’s labored to give birth has accomplished no small feat, and rightfully deserves a medal. I don’t care if you went into labor naturally or were induced, delivered vaginally or by C-section, got an epidural or nothing at all—I’m convinced that birthing children in any form takes a supernatural amount of resolve to get to the finish line.

I will say, I’ve been extremely lucky to experience three uncomplicated deliveries. (Jude’s birth was fairly typical, to say the least, and Ayla’s was fast.) Astoundingly, Max’s arrival was somehow even quicker and smoother than his older siblings’—and yet, had you seen me at my most vulnerable, faced with the grueling task of getting him out, you probably wouldn’t be surprised to learn that my inner monologue went a little something like this: Why on Earth would any woman voluntarily put herself through this insufferable torture? Never again. Because no matter how deeply I breathed or how zen my surroundings were, that shit was brutal, and afterwards, I was completely spent. (All you ladies who go for for 12+ hours? My actual heroes.) But I’m getting ahead of myself. Let’s press pause and rewind.

IMPECABLE TIMING

While it would have been nice for the kiddo to arrive when my family was in town, it is a truth universally acknowledged that God’s plan is always better than our own. The Saturday after Scott’s last week of work and my parents’ departure, the two of us packed the car with our hospital bags (just in case), dropped the kids off at Mimi and Papa’s for a sleepover, and swung by our favorite Italian bakery on the way home for an impromptu dinner date.

Between bites of chicken parmesan and chopped salad, we lightheartedly teased how convenient it would be if my water broke in the 20-foot walk from the restaurant to the car so that we could go straight to the hospital and have a baby by midnight. I was only one day short of my July 13 due date, after all, I told the friendly owner of Pietro’s—a mom of FIVE who divulged that all of her labors were super long, hard, and 100% natural. (QUEEN.) She wished me luck and sent us off with a bag of her amazing Italian wedding cookies to share.

Sadly, we made it home without so much as a Braxton Hicks to show for our optimism. This babe was staying put for now, it seemed, and we decided to make the most of our alone time together by cozying on up for a spine-tingling documentary about haunted objects. Despite my low expectations, I grabbed my manual pump for the hundredth time that week to help stimulate labor—a tactic that had worked flawlessly with Ayla. When the credits rolled, I looked down at my phone: It was 7:30 p.m (the night was young!), and an ominous summer storm was brewing outside our living room window. By that point, I was experiencing occasional mild cramping; this was not totally unusual for me, though, so I didn’t take it as a sign of any real progress.

But as fate might have it, my first intense cramp came on right as an explosion of lightning and thunder lit up the red-tinged sky. I was in the middle of my bedtime routine when it happened, and the quiet anticipation that had been simmering for weeks within me began to overflow at the realization that this might actually be the day I’d been waiting for. Would I finally get to meet the sweet human that I’d spent more than a year praying for and nine months growing?

Determined to keep my cool (so as not to jinx it), I toned down my delight and went about my business like normal; but sure enough, another full-belly contraction moved through me not long after. Growing anxious, I couldn’t remain quiet any longer. “Um, are you ready to go to the hospital?” I asked Scott, who was still hanging out in the living room, oblivious to our sudden change of plans. “Wait, right now?!” The look on his face was a mixture of surprise, excitement, and anxiety—perfectly depicting how I felt. Although I tend to doubt my instincts in these sorts of situations, I was positive that what I was feeling was the real deal. We were in for another nighttime birth, which meant I was headed to the hospital in my pajamas and robe. (No shame.)

Driving down Legacy in torrential downpour, I texted my three best friends, who were all serendipitously spending the weekend together in Little Rock to celebrate the baptism of Kristen’s three-month-old son, Nathan. The timing didn’t dawn on me until the following morning, but I don’t think it was just a coincidence that my third baby (Kristen’s godchild) was born on the same day that her third baby became a member of the mystical body of Christ. They’re bonded for life!

ON TO TRIAGE

We pulled up to Baylor Scott & White at 8:15 p.m., just as my contractions were making it difficult to sit still. Scott dropped me off at the door so I didn’t have to run through the rain, and I got us checked in while he parked the car. Although this wasn’t our first rodeo at BS&W Frisco, the second floor was undergoing renovations, and we accidentally wandered into the postpartum unit. After a staff member spotted my full-term bump and graciously escorted us to the L&D wing, another nurse named Rachel greeted us with a warm smile and asked if I was there for a scheduled induction.

“Nope, just in active labor!” I chuckled. We made small talk on the way to triage, where she entered my details into the computer and had me sign some paperwork. When I handed her my printed-out birth plan, she read it immediately, nodded her approval, and ensured me that my wishes of a low-intervention birth would be taken seriously. One of the (many) reasons we switched back to Dr. Vu as my OB this pregnancy was because of how accommodating the nurses and staff are at Baylor—and Rachel was no exception. Only 20-something years young, this girl was both incredibly personable and impressively competent for her age, and she made it very clear through her actions that me and baby were her #1 priority. In fact, she rarely left my side the whole evening.

“You are 5 centimeters already,” she determined once I was in a hospital gown and hooked up to the fetal heart rate monitor, “and judging by the intensity of your contractions, I’d say this baby is going to come real soon.” Music to my ears!

I’LL RISE UP

Thankfully, Rachel wasted no time getting us to our own room and giving the OB on call a heads up that I was progressing quickly. (Unfortunately, Dr. Vu was on a flight home from Italy, but would be able to visit us Monday morning.) By then, standing up didn’t feel doable, but laying on my back did not appeal to me either, so I ended up hanging out in the bed on my hands and knees.

In between contractions, which were now occurring much too frequent for my liking, I had Scott dig my phone out of my purse and play some mellow tunes from my Spotify favorites to distract me. Something that helped tremendously with the anticipation of the pain (and the pain itself) was closing my eyes and swaying to the music at rest, and then having Scott squeeze my hips at the top of each contraction—a pro-tip I learned from Kristen, who enlisted her husband to do the same during Nathan’s birth. It really works!

This pattern of hip squeezes followed by temporary relief went on for probably 20 to 30 minutes, and around 9:15 p.m., I mentioned to Rachel that I was feeling a ton of pressure. She checked my cervix again—8 centimeters!—and informed me that it was my bulging bag of waters that was causing that sensation. “Once it breaks, your baby won’t be far behind.” The transition phase is always the toughest, but it’s also extremely motivating for me to know that I’m in the final lap. Dr. Edwards-Key would be there soon, Rachel assured us, and as I continued to slowly move my hips back and forth on all fours, I silently mouthed back-to-back Hail Marys for the Holy Mother’s intercession.

I can’t tell you exactly how long it was before the doc arrived—maybe 15 minutes?—but I do vividly recall how I felt the second she entered the room: like a bowling ball was trying to pass through my pelvic floor. “I need to push,” I pleaded, my torso tightening around itself again. She immediately suited up, and I prepared myself for the finishing kick. My water hadn’t broken yet, but Dr. Edwards-Key only had to lightly touch my cervix before the amniotic sac popped violently all over the lower half of me and the bedsheets. I wasn’t expecting such force, as evidenced by the startled cry that simultaneously escaped my mouth.

Completely unfazed, the rest of the medical team assumed their positions. “Okay, Emily, I’m ready when you are,” Dr. Edwards-Key responded from behind me. “You just do your thing.” Rachel and Scott stood supportively at my sides, and an older nurse readied the baby station. It was only because of that nurse working behind the scenes that I know what song was playing at the time—“Rise Up” by Andra Day—because she commented on how fitting it was for the occasion. I couldn’t agree more.

IT’S A BOY!

We were nearing the end, thank goodness, but I still had a lot of work to do. At the next contraction, I inhaled as much air as possible and began to bear down, noting already the tingling pull of stretched skin. “That’s it, you’re doing great,” encouraged Rachel. “The baby’s crowning. You’re about to feel that ring of fire.” I braced myself for impact and desperately tried not to hold my breath through the burn.

Pushing is the part of labor that intimidates me most, simply because—amidst the physical anguish—I have to mentally come to terms with the fact that there’s no way out but through. Which means sitting (or in this case, kneeling) in the extreme discomfort of my circumstances and consciously choosing to literally push forward. For someone who avoids discomfort at all costs, it’s both a terrifying and empowering exercise of will that strips me down to my core and reveals what I’m made of. It ain’t pretty, but it sure is beautiful.

Once the head was out, releasing the shoulders required another round of herculean effort, adding to my speculation that this would be my biggest baby yet—but the excruciating pressure subsided within seconds as Dr. Edwards-Key caught the wriggling babe below me. I think Scott and I were both somewhat in shock, because neither of us said a word at first. “Is it a boy or girl, Dad?” nudged the older nurse, calling our attention to the elephant in the room. “Oh yeah, it’s a boy!” Scott exclaimed, overjoyed. After a quick wipe-down, someone placed him under me so I could get a good look, and the two features that initially caught my eye were his thick hair and big lips!

While the neonatal nurse took his newborn measurements, I managed to maneuver myself sideways into a sitting position (with Rachel’s assistance) so the doctor could catch the placenta and clean me up. She also inspected the area: I had one superficial tear that didn’t require stitches (phew!), but I was losing a lot of blood. As an extra precaution, I was given oral Cytotec on top of a second round of intravenous Pitocin to stimulate uterine contractions and prevent hemorrhaging. “This was my first hands-and-knees delivery in years,” I heard Dr. Edwards-Key tell Rachel before she left, which made me both a tad self-conscious and also kind of proud. Gotta keep those doctors on their toes!

Everyone knows that labor sucks, but one thing they don’t warn you about when you’re pregnant is how rough the afterpains are—and apparently they get worse with each consecutive birth. These cramps help the uterus shrink back to its normal size, and they snuck up on me continuously throughout my entire 48-stay in the hospital. *Wince*

MR. MAX

Our baby boy was born at 9:47 p.m., weighing in at a little over eight pounds! When the nurse placed him in my arms, I had to do a double-take: The resemblance to his big brother was uncanny. I could’ve sworn I was reliving my first moments with Jude—who also happened to be born on the 12th day (of November) at nine-something in the evening. Some déjà vu, y’all! A month and a half later, he still reminds me of a plumper version of my firstborn.

*Jude with his eyelashes (left), and Max with his lips (right).*

Naming our second son was easy. Max had been on our short list since 2019 because of St. Maximilian Kolbe, a Polish priest who sacrificed his life for another prisoner at the Auschwitz death camp in 1941. (Not gonna lie, I also love that he shares his name with the main character in Hocus Pocus. Ha.) For the longest time, I was set on Monroe as a middle name for either gender in honor of my late cousin Amanda, who was obsessed with Marilyn Monroe. Scott wasn’t in love with it, though, so we eventually pivoted. Gabriel was a more recent development, after I discovered that both Jude and Ayla have ties to the Archangels: Jude’s middle name is Michael (the protector against evil), and their feast day is celebrated on Ayla’s birthday. In the Bible, St. Gabriel is the divine messenger that tells Mary she will bear the Savior of the world. Could there be a cooler namesake? Plus, I really like the sound of it.

Despite the periodic cramping and frequent nightly check-ins, our weekend in postpartum recovery was as peaceful as it could’ve been with our little bundle of joy. We took slow walks up and down the hall, watched a few action movies, got peed on several different times (those boys, though!), and ordered “room service” like we were vacationing at a 5-star hotel. Weirdly enough, I look forward to the food at Baylor—from the bacon and egg breakfast tacos to their infamous celebratory steak + seafood dinner, we’ve never been served a mediocre meal. Shout out to the talented chefs, who almost make me want to have another baby just for the dining experience.

PARTY OF FIVE

The most rewarding part, of course, was when Jude and Ayla met Max for the first time. Ayla was born in the aftermath of Covid, when visitors were not encouraged, so having Mimi and Papa bring the kids to the hospital was a special treat for all of us. I think both siblings had their hearts set on a girl in the final month of my pregnancy, but they quickly warmed up to the idea of a baby brother when they laid eyes on the precious Max. Jude, especially, couldn’t stop beaming at his mini-me—and he hasn’t let up since.

By Monday, we were eager to get Max home and reunite with the rest of our family, but we were waiting on Dr. Vu to perform his circumcision. Luckily, she was able to prioritize it first thing. According to the pediatrician, he didn’t make a peep during the actual procedure—but screamed at the top of his lungs when they took his clothes off. The kid’s a trooper, except when he’s cold. 🤣

Having three munchkins five and under is an adjustment (we’re outnumbered!), but Max has been our calm in the chaos these last six weeks, and we all adore him beyond his wildest dreams. Even before he was born, I knew our family wouldn’t be complete without its fifth tiny member.

The journey of childbirth demands everything from a woman (much like motherhood itself). And at the pinnacle, it’s tempting to question if the end result is really worth the physical and psychological turmoil of labor. Needless to say, it always is. My little guy’s entrance into this world brought me to the edge of my breaking point. It required me to surrender my ego, my expectations, and my comfort, and to completely relinquish control.

But the truth is: For Max, I’ll do it a thousand times again.