And yes, he’s a him. We got confirmation on that a couple months ago.
Except right now, at the beginning of this labor process, I can’t believe I agreed to a natural birth at home. My water breaks just after dusk, and an hour later the midwife arrives. By then, according to Mom, I’m already dilated to six centimeters. The baby is coming and fast. Fast will be good, because it means this pressure on my back and this pain extending from under my ribcage and down between my thighs will be over soon.
All I want is Tate beside me right now, sitting or pacing or holding my hand somewhere here in Mom’s sitting room, which is where we chose to perform the delivery. It has comfortable lighting, a dimmer switch to make it much darker if needed, neutral colored walls, lots of room to spread out, and it’s closest to the only full bathroom on the main floor of the house.
Where’s Tate, anyway? I text him just as the contractions started and he replied right away that he was dropping everything to be here.
And Christ, why on earth did I agree to two extra pairs of eyes on me during this delivery? Cindy insisted on being here as she’s helped at so many births, and just as she promised, she went ahead and brought over Dean Roman’s older sister, Debbie, also a doula, just in case she needed help.
“Oh God!” Another contraction hits me. I got up to use the bathroom to pee for the fourth time in two hours and am returning to my spot on the mammoth sized day bed on one side of the sitting room. This one is more powerful than the last, and I cling on to the wooden frame of the French doors for dear life. “Where’s Tate? This baby’s not waiting!”
Cindy rushes up to my side and helps me into the room. “He’ll be here soon. Hold your horses.” She helps me back to sit, but I can’t do that. Everything hurts now—sitting, standing, walking. I even try kneeling on the daybed with my arms hanging over the decorative metal side. Dammit, I need drugs, not deep breathing.
“Can you call him for me? At this rate, I’ll be fully dilated in less than an hour.”
Debbie walks in. “Go ahead, Cindy. I’ll help her.”
Cindy finds her phone and sends him a text.
“No, no, no, Cindy…ow…I need to speak to him. Call him, please.”
“Can’t do that, toots.”
“What? Why not. Shit!” Another contraction crashes through my womb. I think I’ll double over and the baby will drop right out. Sweat starts beading on my forehead, and this oversized t-shirt I’m wearing doesn’t feel oversized anymore. It rides up my stomach and making me mad as hell.
Debbie passes me a hot compress to ease the discomfort. “Breathe, honey. You need to breathe.”
“I can’t breathe right now. I want Tate!”
“Calm your childbearing ass down,” Cindy calls out from the doorway. “Tate can’t answer the phone when he’s on his bike rushing to get here as fast as he can. Okay, sweet cheeks? He wouldn’t be able to hear you with the air rushing past him. Listen to Debbie and breathe.”
“Mom!” I scream out.
My mother runs in from the direction of the kitchen with a large container holding more hot compresses. “Yes, honey. I’m here.”
“Pass me my phone, please Mom. I want to call Tate.”
Cindy brings her own phone over and swipes it. “Jesus, girl. Here you go. Hit send and see for your stubborn self.”
I turn my head for some privacy and phone Tate. It goes through to voicemail, so I leave a message. “Tate, honey. It’s Molly, and guess what’s happening, sweetie?” A strong contraction hits me and I scream out, “The baby’s coming and you’re not fucking here!” When it subsides, I’m so weak, I wrap up the call with a quick, “Now please get here before I have to kill you, darling.”
Without hanging up, I pass the phone back to Cindy.
Less than three hours later, I’m fully dilated and ready to be put out of my misery. The contractions are coming on hot and heavy, my water broke ages ago, the baby will be here any second, and I have no energy left for breathing or pushing or even to brush my soaking wet hair out of my face or behind my ear.
Tate charges into the room. I can kiss him right here and now. He’s a sight to see too. Over the past few months, he’s given himself a self-imposed makeover, replacing his blue hard-to-maintain Mohawk for a low naturally light brown brush cut. He wears a dark polo shirt and slacks to his security gigs, and as usual, that black laptop bag slings over his shoulders. Seeing him like this right now, he almost seems like a different man compared to the one I get frisky with most of the time, but I love it. And Jesus Christ, another contraction is gearing up, and I need his hand right now.