October 29, 2024 — At Home, In the Water
For days, my body whispered.
Waves would rise, only to soften again.
A slow dance between patience and possibility, prodromal labor reminding me she was close, but not quite ready to cross over.
I was 41 weeks exactly, sitting in the liminal space between waiting and surrender.
The day before had been my grandma’s birthday.
The day she arrived, my mom’s.
I’d been quietly hoping she’d choose her own day, one that belonged only to her.
But Rosie, in her own joyful way, decided otherwise.
She came when she was ready, turning a day I had tried tiptoeing around into one I’ll forever celebrate.
It felt like her first little act of defiance, or maybe her first gift:
a reminder that joy has a way of rewriting stories,
and that sometimes, the timing we resist ends up being the most beautiful of all.
The Quiet Before
I woke before dawn with cramps that felt familiar but uncertain. The kind that had come and gone for weeks.
I went to the bathroom and tried to settle back into bed, half wondering if this was it or another round of waiting.
But the waves kept coming, soft and steady.
They reminded me of something my midwife from our first birth had once said:
“Don’t look for labor. Wait until it gently taps you on the shoulder and says, I’m here.”
That morning, it did.
I stepped into the shower, letting the warmth wash over me.
The contractions were still gentle but gaining rhythm, the kind that make you tilt your head and wonder if things are really starting.
By the time I stepped out, they had began to deepen; more intensity in the waves, even as they spread further apart.
I woke Rob, and told him that today was probably the day.
He smiled, calm as ever, and did what he always does when it’s baby day- he turned on my favorite movie, Pretty Woman.
It’s become our little labor tradition, a quiet comfort playing softly in the background as the story of each baby’s arrival begins.
Rob called Shari, our midwife, to let her know it was time. Soon she and the rest of our birth team: Donna, our assistant midwife, Monet, our birth photographer and doula, and Jamin, our sibling doula, began making their way through the early morning dark.
By 5:15 a.m., the house was quietly alive with gentle movement; midwives unpacking supplies, whispering to one another, moving softly so as not to wake the kids.
Our three little ones were still tucked in their beds, and even Millie, our sweet dog, understood the sacred stillness of the morning- she too had been here before.
She stayed calm and watchful- our little dog doula.
The space felt magical.
Rob had strung soft twinkle lights across the ceiling, and tiny lights glowed beneath the surface of the birth pool, casting warmth around the room.
The walls were adorned with love, hand-painted affirmations I’d made in the final weeks, and special artwork the kids had created just for this day.
Everywhere I looked, there were little reminders of beauty, of joy, of how deeply surrounded by love and care we were.
The air was hushed, the light low and golden.
Even as my labor grew stronger, the house stayed wrapped in peace.
It felt almost secret- this quiet unfolding, this powerful work happening while the world around us slept.
Even when I began to vocalize near the end, the children kept dreaming, unaware that just down the hall, their baby sister was about to be born.
They didn’t stir until a little after 7- about 15 minutes after Rosie made her way earthside.
Into the Water
“Come get into the pool,” Shari said,
“the water is going to feel delicious.”
And she was right.
My first water birth, after years of imagining it.
The warmth wrapped around me- not removing the intensity, but holding it, softening its edges, giving me something sacred to lean into.
I labored on my knees, leaning over the side of the tub, holding onto Rob- my anchor on the other side; his steady presence is what grounds me.
Just knowing he’s near- his voice, his breath, his hands- keeps me tethered when everything else feels vast and wild.
Behind me, Shari and Donna moved quietly, steady and intuitive, their presence like a calm current guiding the room.
Monet close by, documenting each quiet wave of the story unfolding before us.
As the surges intensified, I found myself in that familiar place- the moment that comes in every birth when I think, I can’t do this.
And then, the remembering.
That the only way out is through.
So I let go- of control, of expectation, of fear- and let my body do what it was made to do.
Everything sharpened and softened at once- the sounds of water moving, the soft glow of twinkle lights, Rob’s steady breathing, the opening, the surrender.
And then, in a moment both equally fierce and gentle, she slipped into the world, into the water, into my arms.
6:55 a.m.
8 pounds, 10 ounces of sunrise and surrender.
She was so peaceful when she emerged, her eyes open and calm as I brought her to my chest with Shari’s help.
She didn’t cry right away- she just looked at me, quiet and knowing, taking her time to arrive.
After a few moments, Shari and Donna gently gave her a few breaths to help her fully transition earthside.
Then she let out a soft, sweet cry- the kind that feels like music, and settled right back into calm.
We’d always loved the name Rose and had planned to use it if our third baby had been a girl.
But when we met her, we wanted something that felt a little different- something familiar yet fresh, old-fashioned yet timeless.
Rosemary felt like all of that: grounded, gentle, and new to us, but with deep roots.
Our two older girls share the middle name Marie, a family name, but this time, we wanted something that was entirely hers.
Something that reflected new beginnings.
Luna felt like the perfect fit- like a new moon, a new season, a new energy.
Born just before Halloween, at the opposite time of year from our April babies, her name felt like balance- light in the dark, a new season woven into the rhythm of our family.
The Golden Hour
I had some lingering fear surrounding my placenta detaching; I’d struggled with that in previous births.
I asked Donna to be very proactive about hemorrhage and we planned a shot of Pitocin in my leg right after Rosie was born, which we did and everything went perfectly.
My placenta released beautifully, and peace settled in my soul.
We moved carefully to the bed- Rosie still attached to her placenta- and sank into the softness of the morning. Shari and Donna tucked me in so lovingly, layering blankets and care.
They checked my uterus several times, each touch loving but confident- continually assuring me that all was well.
Fear from previous trauma sometimes peeks its head up even when everything is perfectly fine.
They reminded me how to check it myself, invited me into that knowing, and reassured me again and again that my bleeding was minimal, that I was safe, that there was no other shoe waiting to drop.
Their presence was grounding- the kind of midwifery care that holds your body and your heart.
The house was waking up now, light stretching through the windows, the day quietly beginning.
A few minutes later, tiny footsteps padded down the hallway.
The kids had woken up and came excitedly in to meet their new baby sister.
Their faces lit up with wonder- sleepy smiles, giggles, the hush of awe that only siblings can bring.
They marveled at her tiny fingers and kissed her head before running downstairs with Jamin to make breakfast for me.
A little while later, they returned proudly carrying a plate: eggs and sourdough toast made with so much love.
I ate in bed while Shari completed Rosie’s newborn exam beside us, sunlight spilling across the sheets, the soft rhythm of a new day beginning.
Rob and I lay there, holding Rosie, quiet and amazed, the room glowing with that early morning light.
We kept saying how surreal it felt- that everything had already unfolded, that she was already here, and yet the day had only just begun.
There was nothing left to do but rest in the stillness, in the awe, in the gift of the morning.
Reflection
Every birth writes its own story.
Rosie’s was quiet, radiant, healing and full of peace- a gentle unfolding that reminded me how even after four births, there’s still magic, still mystery, still awe.
She came in her own timing, in her own way, and in doing so, she brought joy and healing to a day I hadn’t expected to hold it.
A home full of love.
A morning wrapped in light.
A birth that felt like coming home- for both of us.
I still can’t believe I’ve had the honor of birthing four times- in some ways it doesn’t feel real.
It’s something my husband lovingly jokes about, “Where were you?”, and every time it makes me smile.
Because even though birth is hard, messy, and somewhat unpredictable, it’s also the most beautiful, sacred thing I’ve ever known.
Each time, I feel like I leave for a little while- like I slip into another level of consciousness, somewhere between worlds.
Maybe that’s where I was.
And maybe that’s what birth really is- a crossing, a remembering, a return.
We saved Rosie’s placenta and, after moving to our new home in Teton Valley, planted it beneath a special rose bush. A small piece of her beginning rooted into this new soil.
I’ve heard that when you plant a placenta, it tells the earth that the child is here now, earthside, and asks Mother Earth to help protect them moving forward.
I love that. It feels like a blessing, a quiet conversation between her and my child.
Each spring, when that rose blooms, I’ll think of that morning- of the water, the light, the love, and how she continues to grow, right where she’s meant to be.
Each birth reminds me what it truly means to hold space- for surrender, for strength, for the quiet holiness in the in-between.
It’s a sacred echo that deepens how I show up for the mothers I serve,
and why I’ll always love birth- all of it- with my whole heart.
The Video
Some moments rewrite you. This is one of mine.
