Gus' birth story

Have you ever felt a twinge of annoyance when someone uses the phrase "I just knew"? It sounds so easy and breezy; a reasonable and logical choice that clicks into place like a combination lock that just needed spinning a few more times. I've never thought I was much of a "just-know"-er, being instead the type who cycles, octopus-like, through one "on the other hand" after another. But I've reluctantly come to the conclusion that there are times when no explanatory phrase is quite right—times when no matter what you say, it sounds prescriptive or narrow or inadequate or clichéd—and at those times, "I just knew" is an attempt to sidestep that inadequacy for a casual audience. I've seen how "just knowing" can be shorthand for something much bigger—for much more than intellectual clarity—for light, for vision, for awakening and connection; for sacrifice and submission and opportunity. It's a way of admitting that no matter how carefully you search for words, they don't encapsulate experience. And it's an indication that there is more—so much more "in heaven and earth, Horatio, than is dreamt of in your philosophy."

At the same time, there's room for an entire world of the unknown within that phrase. So now I say it too, in all simplicity, letting whole oceans of meaning rest underneath. You can ask Sam and me a thousand times if we're "done" with kids, what our plans are, when's the next one coming—and we will deflect you every time with "oh, well, we just take them one at a time"—and every time it will be completely true. But yet…there are flashes of light in the darkness. And in one of those flashes, whether it was to right a wrong, or fulfill a promise, or accept an invitation—we saw another baby, and somehow, we just knew.

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I am a little ashamed to admit it, but when we found out we were expecting the baby in December, my first thoughts (and many subsequent ones) had to do with how terribly inconvenient it would be. December! I had already had a December baby (Malachi), and delightful as that young man is, neither he nor I would describe his birthdays as blissfully calm. Why couldn't it have been November? Or January? Both perfectly lovely months to be born in, and not shared with other children or major holidays!

However, we pressed forward. I play the piano for the children's choir my kids sing in, and of course, December is their busiest month, so I considered bowing out of that commitment. But in the end, with the support of the directors and my cousin (who plays for the other half of the choir and was willing to substitute for me if needed), I went ahead and kept my position. Still, as the holiday season crept closer, I couldn't help feeling terribly nervous about all the many ways things could go wrong. What if I went into labor while driving the children all around the valley for performances and rehearsals and classes and events? What if I went into labor while Sam was giving a final? Or right before one of our concerts? Or DURING one of our concerts? And oh, what if it was like last time—so sudden and fast—and what if Cathy didn't make it to the birth again? I could hardly bear to face that possibility.

To take my mind off worrying, I tried to be prepared. I did Christmas shopping and wrapping earlier than I ever had. We let everyone know we wouldn't be coming to the usual holiday parties. I got the Christmas program for our church congregation ready with several weeks to spare. It will be great to have December cleared for the baby! I told myself. It will be one of those Christmases full of simple joys, like Laura Ingalls' when she got an orange and a peppermint stick and a tin cup. I let myself be consumed by getting everything done. I was determined! I would finish everything that could possibly be finished, and then there would be a blissful space of NOTHING, and into that NOTHING the baby could come.

December blew in on a flurry of contradictions—hoping baby would come, feeling completely unready for baby to come, alternately exhausted and frantic. I wrapped presents and chauffeured children and ran errands and laid up huge supplies of groceries. Seb got home from his cross-country team trip to California. Sam had his last day of classes. The children and I got through our first choir concert, and then our second, and people kept saying to me "You're still here!" while I shrugged apologetically.

My to-do list shrank with the dwindling daylight, but I didn't feel calmer. Around Malachi's birthday I had an especially bad few days. I felt tired and empty and discouraged, and I couldn't figure out exactly why. I had really finished everything that NEEDED to be finished. I had worked so hard to clear space for the baby. Where was the magical feeling of relief and readiness I had expected?

On an early-morning run I felt the answer: "You've cleared the space, but you haven't filled it with anything." I knew immediately it was true—there had been nothing intentional about my use of time now that all the pressing needs had been taken care of. I felt a strong urge toward more preparation for the baby's birth—not just to get everything else out of the way, but to fill up our house and my spirit with light so that the baby, that creature of spirit and heaven, would feel at home with us.

It helped immensely to have a sense of purpose. I made of list of things I felt impressed to DO (not merely “get done”) and I filled my time with them. Reading, writing, listening, pondering. I was still nervous and tired, but I felt hopeful too, and increasingly ready for what was to come.

Malachi's birthday passed. Then Santa Lucia day. When Cathy came for a prenatal visit, we gave her some Lucia buns and she raised her eyebrows at my renewed energy. "I think you're going to get through your dress rehearsal tonight and your last concert on Sunday," she said. "And then your body will relax and baby can come."

But that very same night, after the choir rehearsal, I felt contractions starting—regular ones. As we drove home from Provo I timed them quietly, and they continued as Sam and I dropped the kids off and then drove up to Salt Lake for a late-night date. We ate potstickers and egg foo yung and listened to our waitress in the almost-empty restaurant, telling us stories about her own Christmas baby, and we enjoyed the feeling of apart-ness that comes when you know labor is beginning, the anticipation and secret excitement for us alone.

When we got home, the kids were in bed and we went to bed too. I tried to sleep, but the contractions were too persistent and after the usual soul-searching about whether or not this was really for real, I texted Cathy, then woke Sam and asked for a priesthood blessing. 

Though I've had many such blessings, I am always amazed at the sheer directness of the comfort they bring—as if a channel has opened and God's love can pour down in unbroken streams. Sam blessed me that "you and those who attend you will know exactly what to do in the moment it's needed." He also said that the way the birth would proceed was known "in every detail" to Heavenly Father, that I was in His hands, and that as events unfolded, the Savior would be "standing next to me" and I would know I was not alone.

Afterwords Sam and I looked at each other a little bemused. Something about the language of the blessing had been unexpected. "I know that sounded like I was talking about something going wrong," Sam said. "But that's not what I felt. Just assurance and comfort."

I was comforted, and sure nothing would go wrong. The surges weren't too urgent yet and I was SO relieved. There was going to be time! Time to fill the birth pool. Time for Cathy to arrive. Sam was home. I'd had my blessing and it was all working out, after all my worry. I just kept basking in that relief. It had all worked out! Baby could come!

When Cathy and Christine (the most amazing mother-daughter midwife team) arrived sometime after three a.m., the contractions hadn't intensified, though I was pacing around and wanting to be alone. The midwives stayed downstairs and dozed on the couch while I rocked on the glider stool and walked around and around the room. After awhile I got out some blankets for them and we talked quietly in the darkness. Eventually Sam laid down in our bed and fell back asleep. Everything was so silent and the lights of the Christmas tree made the surrounding rooms glow.

By six I had to admit to myself that the labor had slowed. Surges were only coming every now and then, and I was tired. “Sleep,” Cathy said, tucking the blanket around me as she slipped out. “We’ll call you later.”

I slept, disappointed but too tired to dwell on it. The day was dawning on a blissfully quiet Saturday, at least, and nothing pressing was on the schedule. In the afternoon, Sam and I went for a long, cold walk around the lake—there were washes of pale sunshine spilling down between clouds—and then I sat down at the piano and played through book after book of Christmas songs. It had been on my list of “good things to fill this space with” and it felt restorative. There was a chance I’d have to play a musical number in church the next day, so I practiced for that too.

I was determined not to let myself get melancholy with the interminable waiting. Saturday night, for a chance of scenery, I went with Sam to BYU while he gave his last Final. And I went to church the next day even though I was tempted not to (but didn't have to play the musical number, thank heavens). We had bean dip for dinner and then bustled around gathering up music and robes, leaving right on time for the choir concert, an hour away. Although I’d been fully prepared to miss this one, I was feeling quite happy that I wouldn’t have to, as it is always my favorite concert of the year. And sure enough, it was a beautiful evening. The acoustics in the hall made the children sound like angels, and I slipped into that magical zone where I could see and feel and create the music all at once, like my vision had expanded and time had slowed down.

We were all happy on the way home, as one is after a good performance—the little ones drowsing in back of the van, and the big boys leaning up to talk; everyone laughing at Ziggy’s funny turns of phrase, and listening to stories from Seb’s recent cross-country trip. As we passed Point of the Mountain it started snowing, and soon the snow was covering the road and filling our headlight beams with huge white flakes. Traffic slowed as the roads got slipperier, and instinctively Sam took the alternate route home; the way that avoids the steepest hill.

At home, once the choir robes were put away and the kids finally settled in bed, I sat by the Christmas tree and stared out the window at the rapidly-accumulating snow. Low in my belly, I could feel contractions starting in distinct double-waves, and with them was a sort of certainty creeping in around the edges of my thoughts. I didn’t want to think about it. The contractions had just started. They could easily slow down and die out again.

Sam went to bed, and I tried, but couldn’t sleep. I was up after 15 minutes, pacing around, trying to decide what to do. If labor was really happening, time was of the essence, of course. But I didn’t want to make Cathy come spend the night for no reason again. I bundled up and went out for a midnight walk in the snow so I could pray. The wind was blowing hard, and the flakes were cold against my cheeks. I walked around the temple, listening to the scrape of snowplows far-off down the hill, and looking back now and then to see my boot-prints leaving a lonely, impermanent trail behind me. All that relief I'd felt at the onset of labor a few nights ago, those grateful thoughts about how now my midwives were here and I had nothing left to worry about, seemed to swirl out of my head and blow away with the stinging snow.

The certainty was blaring in my head now, and in the howl of the wind I faced it: The baby was coming tonight. And with this storm, Cathy wasn’t going to make it in time. I kept trying to convince myself that maybe I was wrong. But it was one of those moments where I truly “just knew.” And with the knowledge, in some way I didn't quite understand, came a surprising infusion of peace. "You're in My hands."

Uncertainty gone, I tromped home, unwrapped myself, and texted Cathy, telling her to please drive carefully. It was just past midnight. In good weather she’d be forty-five minutes away. All of her supplies were already at my house from my earlier labor, so she just had to get dressed and get Christine and come. Later I learned that Cathy's husband, looking out at the storm, had pulled on his clothes and warmed up his truck. “I don’t want you out in this alone. I’ll drive you,” he'd told her, and that kindness warmed my heart even hours later as she told me about it.

As I'd come inside, I'd noticed our Christmas luminarias out on the porch, unlit, and now I went back out in the cold to switch on the little candles inside each one. I knew it was silly, but I felt a strange compulsion to surround our house with that warm and inviting glow of light—as if it would light the path home for our baby.

After awhile I woke Sam, and in whispers we worked together to fill the birthing pool and prepare the bed. Cathy texted updates on her location and asked if I wanted her to call someone to be with us till she arrived. I knew instantly I didn't want anyone else, but was that irresponsible? I still had a tiny knot of fear inside that made me want to keep pretending she'd make it in time after all. But I pushed it aside and texted back, “Could you talk Sam through it on the phone if it came to that?”

"Yes.
If birth is imminent, get out of the pool. It will be easier for Sam if you’re on your bed, on your back."


Across the dark room, I looked at Sam adjusting the hoses for the pool, and I felt a sudden rush of so much love and safety. There was no one else I wanted; nothing else I needed. I remembered the words of the blessing he’d given me and again felt the certainty come that he and I would be on our own for this birth—and yet we would not be alone. When he looked over at me I took a deep breath and asked him if he’d be okay delivering the baby. He didn't even hesitate. “Of course,” he said. “I’m ready. Stay in the pool if you’re more comfortable. I know what to do.”

From that point things get hazy in my mind, with moments here and there etched dark against the blur. Sam woke Daisy and Junie, who had begged all week to be notified the minute we knew baby was coming. When he had to go downstairs to check that the doors were unlocked and carry up more hot water, Sam must have seen the worry in my eyes, and he called Daisy in to help me through the next few surges. I was shaking pretty badly by then, and he showed her how to use her own weight against my shoulders, holding my head and neck so they wouldn’t jerk back and forth as my body trembled. Her warm little hands felt good against my cold skin.

When Sam returned to his post beside me, the girls were still longing to do something to help, so Sam sent them out to shovel the driveway and a path to the door. I forced myself to drink a few sips of water and then collapsed back gratefully into the warm pool. That priesthood blessing two nights before had said I’d know what to do, and I did, without any conscious thought—different motions than I’d sought in previous labors: rocking back and forth in the water, turning, rocking, and turning again as I felt the baby maneuver slowly lower inside me. Even overlaid with the intensity and uncertainty that always comes in Transition, each next step felt inevitable and exactly right, as if I were under the unerring direction of some invisible midwife. And through it all Sam was there, just as sure—hands on my back or shoulders, responding to those same unseen cues and moving with me without having to be told how or when. His voice was like a tether in the storm of sensation, tying me to the present when I threatened to go spiraling off into fear, speaking softly and calmly, telling me I was wonderful and amazing and strong.



I was humming, and then yelling, hearing the edge of panic in my own cries and trying to force myself to keep the sounds low and long. I heard the girls racing inside and upstairs, and I heard Cathy’s steady voice saying something through the phone, and Sam telling us, “I feel the baby getting close.” But it was hard—really hard, and I was calling out to Father and Mother for strength, and Sam said later that that was the first moment he felt any fear; the first moment his prayers for us changed from hopeful to desperate.

And then came that last push—Sam reached down and felt something tucked up next to the baby’s head, probably a hand, but before he could worry about it, he was catching a handful of wet, slippery baby—So slippery, I could hardly even hold onto him! he said afterwards—and I was crying with my throat all raw and aching, and Sam was saying “It’s a boy! He’s a boy!” and Cathy and Christine’s voices were yelling “You did it!” out of the phone.

Sam handed me that new, warm baby and I maneuvered myself around the umbilical cord to lean back against the side of the pool, crying and laughing and saying “I can’t believe we did it!” and "Look at his HAIR!" to anyone who might be listening. Sam was hugging us and the girls were leaning precariously into the tub to get better looks at their new baby brother.

I stepped out of myself then, just for a moment, to see us there: the glow of the bedroom lamp and the Christmas tree radiating their brave warmth against the storm outside; the rise and hush of laughter; and a little family, all alone in that bubble of light, quiet and unnoticed and of consequence to nearly no one, but crowded under archways of love and joy and angel-song all the same, like a tiny bright echo of that Holy Night and that Holy Family who was of consequence to all the world.

And then I was back in the water, aching and euphoric, looking into the eyes of this brand-new person and holding his hands as if I could never let go.

When the midwives arrived some time later, we tried to figure out exactly what time the baby had been born and realized none of us had the slightest idea. Cathy was checking her call history when Daisy piped up “Two-twenty-two!” We all looked at her and she shrugged. “I knew we’d want to know, so I checked my watch when he came out,” she said, matter-of-factly.

Sam woke up the rest of the children then, and though the teenagers merely mumbled inarticulate congratulations before rolling over and going back to sleep, the others came galloping in with sleepy eyes and hushed voices. Ziggy was mostly interested in the “water boat” I was sitting in, but not so excited about the strange little wet fish I was holding, and Cathy held him while he expressed his dubiousness about the whole matter. Christine, meanwhile, quietly moved around in the background, cleaning things up and magically putting the birth mess to rights again.

Ziggy's face is the best

I got shaky, as one does after labor, and then progressively shakier, and after several minutes assuring everyone that I wasn’t cold, I gathered enough strength to get into bed and under some blankets, where I realized that I WAS cold. And hungry! It was blissful to sit still and get warm with the baby wrapped up next to my skin, and when Sam brought me some toasted English muffins with peanut butter, they were the best things I’d ever eaten.

I cried a little when I had to hand the baby away—our first time ever being apart from each other in his whole mortal existence! But Daisy was thrilled to have the job of holding him while I took a shower, and then the children gathered around with great interest and helpfulness to watch Cathy do his newborn exam.

They helped her trim off the umbilical cord and comforted the baby when he cried his tiny mewing cries. Midwife-Daisy held the clipboard and made notes on a chart as Cathy told her what to write.

I stayed at arms length, close enough to take pictures and touch his soft little cheeks and head whenever I missed him too much.

When it was time to weigh him, Sam did the honors. He was big—9 pounds 4 ounces! His fingers were long and his toes were long and of course, we thought he was perfect in every way!

By the time morning came, the snow had stopped falling, and Cathy and Christine were able to head home. I wanted to sleep for a hundred years.

You would like to know about that giraffe in the background, wouldn't you. Well. Maybe another time.

Malachi was so delighted with his baby brother. He felt a particular kinship with him—due to their 5-days-apart December birthdays, combined with the fact that this baby (like Malachi) is the third brother in a row. And the baby LOOKED like Baby Malachi—those squishy cheeks!

Sunrise--a few days later

(This bed is getting pretty crowded, compared to days of yore.)

We talked about what the baby's name should be. But it was a long, drawn-out process full of many, many opinions (so many opinions! How did the children ever get the idea they were allowed to have opinions about such a thing?) and we didn't finalize it for over a week. So all of these pictures were just of "sweet-pea" and "snuggums" and "babykins". My mom brought him a blanket she'd made; red-backed and covered with winter birds, and he looked so peaceful sleeping in it. I think I marvelled most at his beautiful head of hair! Not that I haven't adored the little bald heads of all my other babies. But this hair…

It's taken me a long time to write this birth story; come to think of it, pretty much everything takes me a long time these days. And yet in a moment, quicker than the time it took to write it, our world shook and stretched and broke and re-formed again around this tiny bundle of skin and bone and light. He's here now; he's ours now. We even have glimpses of a new normal ahead. But I've walked this path before, and with the benefit of that hindsight I wish so much I could catch and freeze this certainty about him, a certainty I know will falter and flee again and again as he grows up and our hearts grow and break with him. I wish I could make my future self take hold of the vision I hold so close to my heart now: that this boy is a being of power and promise and love.

I just know it.