I read somewhere once that “September is the new January.” Simple. Cute. So trite. Then I saw it again right before Labor Day weekend. Funny how sometimes you get hit by something at the right place-right time.
I know I’m late to the party on this concept. Historically, I have spent so much time grasping at the last rays of summer that I never saw, or allowed myself to see, the possibility of using “back-to-school” as a time to reframe, reset, refresh, reboot. Instead of planning, I would be lamenting. Or hiding. You see, my birthday falls right in there, (it was last week, actually) and I usually get all weird and introspective and try to hide behind a chair so no one looks at me or talks about it.
But, like I’ve been saying. Not this time around. Nope. Why??? Oh, I think you know why. Because: WE. SHOW. UP.
Hi. I see you there. You’ve been scouring Google looking for all the “right answers” on whether or not you should go for a VBAC. And, like me, if you’re even considering a vaginal birth after C-section, you’re probably a bit traumatized by the way your previous birth experience turned out. I never intended to have that C-section. I wasn’t trying to be a hero or anything, I just expected to have a vaginal delivery. I’d psyched myself up for it. I took the class. I had a plan.
But, as you probably know now: the first rule of birth plans is that THERE IS NO FREAKING BIRTH PLAN!
So, when I presented with sky-high blood pressure at 37 weeks, I was induced on the spot. Soon after, the epidural was administered and I labored pretty uneventfully for nearly two days. Finally, I surrendered to the C-section and out came a very underdone baby who weighed in at less than six pounds. After enduring a traumatic stay in the NICU and a heartbreaking breastfeeding experience with an unbelievably sleepy baby, when I got pregnant with my second child, I was determined to give him every advantage I could. This is my story (with all the gory details). Maybe it will help you decide if a VBAC is for you. Ulitmately, you are the only one who can make that decision.
Picture it: Beaumont, Texas. 1999.
Adrian and I are standing in line in a local 50-year-old bakery and we see a little two-year-old girl dawdling around her mother’s feet. We always admire little girls and smile warmly at each other because we wholly believe that one day we’ll have one of our own. (Ongoing debate.)
Suddenly, the little girl takes a tumble. She trips over her own two feet and lands squarely on her bottom. She scans the room for her mother’s eyes and, when she catches them, her mother holds her gaze steadily.