Twelve years ago I gave birth to my first child. I called my mom at the first signs of sustained contractions. It was nine days before my due date and my mom had been planning to make the 8-hour drive up the coast when the time grew nearer. But at that phone call, she immediately packed her bags and started making her way up the 5 Freeway.
I finished some emails, took a bath, threw up and woke my husband. We sat on the couch, timing the contractions. He laid his hand on my belly and felt it harden. In the car I thought I was in the worst pain I’d ever experienced. The only memory that came close was of kidney stones I’d had in high school. We had to stop for gas. Then we had to drive an extra 20 minutes to a neighboring county where the labor and delivery units weren’t already at capacity. Apparently I picked a popular night to give birth.
Twelve years later, my memory of the hospital admissions process is a bit of a blur. I remember a trainee nurse who made several uncomfortable attempts with the speculum before calling a more senior coworker to check my dilation. It was one centimeter. I was surprised — surely those contractions had opened my womb more than one tiny centimeter. They admitted me anyway because the contractions were now coming in quick succession, and advised me to walk and rest. (Rest, hah!)
I don’t know what time my mom arrived, but I know I was relieved. I’m sure my husband was as well. I felt as if she could make it all OK. She’d know what to do. We’d done several loops of the hospital corridors. I’d sat on the birthing ball, moved to the floor, then to the bed. I’d had my vitals taken several times and seen nurses come on and off shifts. I’d breathed deep and shallow and sat on the toilet. I was becoming increasingly desperate.
The pain I had thought was the worst in the car only got worse with each passing minute. Twenty hours of minutes passed. That’s 1,200 minutes. I must have been exhausted, but I didn’t feel exhausted. I felt like I wanted to jump out of my skin and run. I wanted it to stop.
I took refuge in the shower. The warm water on my skin distracted and soothed me. I must have spent hours there. I sat and knelt and laid on the shower floor. I groaned and cried. And then, I couldn’t take it anymore. I’d wanted a natural birth, but I was done. I could not do this. The pain was unbearable. At last check, I was only 6 centimeters. I’d probably have hours still to go. I sobbed this all out to my mom and husband.
I begged them to call the anesthesiologist, even though I had decided earlier to forgo an epidural. They both told me what I had instructed them to say: no. They did seem sorry to say it. They also suspected it was probably too late. I tried to bargain like a child who just wants to hold the candy after being instructed not to eat it: I just want him in the room.
Then, resigned, completely done, I said definitively: “I. Can’t. Do. This.” And this is when my mom gifted me the piece of encouragement I now recite to myself time and time again: “Honey, you already are doing it.” And I was doing it. It wasn’t fun or easy, but I was doing it. I started pushing and my daughter was born within minutes after that conversation.
This lesson has returned to me time and again on my motherhood journey.
That first year when my daughter rarely slept more than three continuous hours, I once again said, “I can’t do this.” And I meant it.
Honey, you already are doing it.
When my daughter became a toddler and wouldn’t stop screaming at the mall that one day and I had to literally wrestle her out to the car.
Honey, you already are doing it.
When my second child was diagnosed with a mental illness.
Honey, you are already doing it.
When my kids seem to hate each other and I wonder if I am really cut out for this job.
Honey, you are already doing it.
I’ve thought about that first parenting lesson at these and so many other moments.
Parenting is not easy. There are moments that are not fun or even really bearable, but we do it. We have no choice but to do it. This doesn’t mean we don’t ask for help or rest. It means we continue to show up and do our best even when it feels like our darkest moment, when we feel like we have nothing left to offer.
And so I offer it to you now no matter where you are on your journey: Honey, you are already doing it.
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