I remember waking that morning feeling anxious and uncomfortable. I pulled out my laptop and sat down for another day of work. COVID had forced schedules to change, and a year into the pandemic, I was still working from home part of the time with the other days spent in the office. Luckily, today was a “work from home” day, so I didn’t have to worry about makeup or any pretense of aesthetic professionalism. I could diaper little bottoms, hand them the tablet, and do my best to avoid having to become referee long enough to accomplish something.
After about nine hours of work, while fending off two gorgeously annoying toddlers, I began to feel exhausted. Every part of my being began aching with a dull pain I could not shake. Luckily, my partner was due home any minute, and I was hoping to get a quick nap and reset my body and my mind. When he walked through the door, I was relieved and unnervingly emotional. I did my best to hide it all—not very well, I am sure.
As the evening wore on, I could not settle my mind or body.
The pains got worse. I teetered on the idea of heading to the ER but decided I would be fine, as so often we moms do. I sent the twins with my fiancé to bed and settled in on the couch, hopeful that sleep would distract me from what I thought was the stomach flu. Boy, was I wrong.
The television hummed with a Bravo reunion show I had been looking forward to watching for some time. I did my best, but I could not focus. My body started tensing in waves of immense agony that seemed to offer no relief or break. I laid there bracing for what I thought was impending death.
What I did not know at the time was I was in active labor and moments away from giving birth to a baby miracle—a miracle that had laid dormant and silent inside of me for over nine months.
Suddenly at about 11:30 p.m., I sat up from my kneeling position and felt the immense need to push. I had not felt this before. I had not given birth in the traditional sense before. The twins were born via C-section in what now seems like a cozy operating room. I began pushing with all of my might, screaming for my partner.
I was convinced I was pushing an organ out of my body and wanted to say goodbye to both it and him, whichever was needed. When I reached down to see if it was a spleen or stomach that was exiting my now naked body, the round head of my miracle was leaving me.
As my love raced into the room, I told him what was happening . . . what had happened. Together, we brought our baby boy into the world. I collapsed on the ground, too exhausted to move. I shook as he covered me with blankets, held our baby, and dialed 911. Words were hard to come by, but the emotionality of the moment was heavy.
Luckily for us, a short ambulance ride later, I was at the hospital cradling an 8-pound baby boy and answering the obligatory questions of how and why.
I did not know. I couldn’t answer how we had not known, but we didn’t. I gained weight but not much. I assumed it was the quarantine 15. My clothing still fit, albeit a little more snuggly. I had not felt him move. I had not felt kicks or punches or movement. He was hidden, safely within my body unbeknownst to me.
Yes, my little miracle baby was born on the living room floor on a cold February day. A blessing. A surprise. A sweet gift from a higher being . . . and I wouldn’t have it any other way.