There is this really embarrassing but totally endearing movie called Saturday's Warrior. It's a musical about a gigantic Mormon family in the 80's, and it was the soundtrack of my childhood. The movie begins with a family of seven kids in heaven, waiting to come to earth. The youngest daughter is a girl named Emily, and she's worried that by the time it's her turn to be born into her family, she'll be forgotten. Her oldest brother promises not to forget about her. When he leaves, she cries out in the sweetest voice, "Don't forget your promise!" I told London and Juliette the story of Emily and Saturday's Warrior on the way home from piano lessons last month, and we all cried.
The first time I journaled about Holland was more than five years ago. Of course, at the time, I didn't know her name was going to be Holland, although Kyle and I had loved the name for more than a decade. What I felt was this deep and overwhelming impression that there was a little girl missing from our family. But then Reid was born, and oh my gosh, he was the delight of the century. And then we got pregnant with Liam, and I thought he was a girl for SURE. Having seven children wasn't part of the plan, so I did my best to ignore and dismiss the unrelenting feeling that kept me up at night. But in my journal, I wrote about her again and again. Kyle and I agreed to wait until Liam was two, and then we would discuss the possibility of having just one more.
My pregnancy was a huge surprise. It took me more than a year to get pregnant with Reid, and nearly a year to get pregnant with Liam. Yet somehow, while actively trying NOT to get pregnant, I did. I was sicker than sick for nearly 4 months. I was so weak and frail, and completely incapable of doing any of the things I do. Kyle became the sole parent and my mom took over everything at Treehouse, and every single other thing I had to let go of. In this world that I have created, where everything is just the way I want it, letting go of control and being utterly powerless took its toll on my mental health. Finally, the nausea lifted, and just in time for the holidays, I was able to get out of bed.
Holland took her sweeeet time. My other kids were 2, 3, and even 4 weeks early, which obviously led me to believe that she would be coming early, too! Then, after weeks of prodromal labor with zero progress, I gave up on the idea that she would ever be born. My due date came and went. I told Kyle, "If you put a gun to my head and asked me if Holland is ever going to be born, I would tell you no. I'm going to be pregnant forever." I was utterly convinced of it. He laughed and said, "You always say that at the end!" To which I responded, "Well I MEAN IT this time!" And I did.
Late in the afternoon on May 7th, my sister and brother-in-law came over to share all the details about their trip to San Felipe. My mom came over, too, so she could hear their stories and visit with us for the evening. We all climbed on the bed in my master bedroom, and I laid down--mostly because I was too uncomfortable to sit or stand or function in any way at that point in my pregnancy. I started to have contractions, but they were 10 minutes apart-- and I'd been having contractions for weeks. I thought absolutely nothing of it. Each time I had a contraction, Maeci and Lance would pause their story, I'd make it through the surge, and the conversation would resume once more. Unbeknownst to me, Lance started to time them. And I started to squeeze my sister's hand to make it through. But I still did not and could not believe that I was actually in labor.
Then, I had a contraction that really hurt. "Okay, that was a good one!" I laughed.
"How far apart was that one, Lance?" my mom asked.
"8 minutes". He said. I knew it was nothing. After all, Holland was never going to be born. My mom texted Kyle, who was mercifully pulling into our neighborhood at that exact moment.
I had another contraction 3 minutes later.
"You better get in the shower now." My mom said. And Kyle called the birthing center.
I had two really painful contractions in the shower--the kind where I pressed my hands hard against the shower wall, cried out in pain, and couldn't move. That's when I panicked. There was no way I had time to blow dry my hair, and there was absolutely zero chance I was going to be able to curl it. I threw a dress over my dripping wet hair and climbed in the passenger seat of Kyle's car. We bounced back and forth between laughing/telling jokes and me screaming uncontrollably/Kyle telling me to breathe... all the way to the birthing center.
We never started my "Holland's Birth" playlist, and the essential oils I packed were forgotten in my hospital bag. The nutritious meal I made to eat after her birth, I left at home. It takes 20 minutes to fill the birthing tub, but Holland came in just 19. The only thing that went according to plan is the fact that by some absolute miracle, I made it to the birthing center--- and yet, her birth couldn't have been more perfect.
One contraction and a "POP" broke my water, and the next contraction, she was here. I froze, down on one hand and one elbow, and both knees, in shock. I could not move. I told myself- PICK HER UP. She's HERE! But my body wouldn't listen. I had to breathe first, to get some oxygen in my system, before I was capable of moving at all.
"Whenever you're ready, she's right underneath you." one of the midwives said.
There is absolutely nothing like it. Seeing this tiny person for the first time. You have loved them with your whole soul from the moment the pregnancy test was positive. And every time you threw up and you were too weak to walk to the bathroom, you pictured this exact moment of seeing their face. I never have to be pregnant again, but I also never get to have this feeling again.
I can't believe she's here. It feels so right, so complete, so meant to be. Holland is our 7th baby, born on May 7th, weighing exactly 7 pounds.
