And Then There Were Three

Call me Mom! Joni's story of flying feet first into the world.

On the eve of my daughter’s birth, I published a post titled, “To My Daughter and Her Dreams.” The very next morning, unexpectedly, she made her earthly debut two weeks early. She knew I must have been ready, and so was she — feet first (well, technically, booty first) and with a head full of spiky punk-rock hair!

Joni was born on June 29, 2024, and life as I once knew it has suddenly disappeared entirely in the best way possible. During my nine months of pregnancy, I transformed into a new being. The Pregnant Me. And in an instant, as soon as Joni took her first breath outside of the womb, I became another new being all over again. The Mom Me. Another radical transformation. Another upheaval of body and self. Another whirlwind cycle of becoming, rapidly, because there is no other choice but to morph and adapt to be what Joni needs right now.

While the pregnancy whirlwind felt like being stuck in the quicksand of an old cartoon, the birth whirlwind felt like the Tasmanian Devil himself whirred around in my body. And newborn motherhood? 1,000 Tasmanian Devils. But VERY CUTE Tasmanian Devils. With adorable coos and little hands to atone for all of the crying and puking and projectile pooping!

As those who have been following Mother Love Letters since its inception know quite well, I did not enjoy being pregnant. My mental state was all over the place; of course, I understood that the root cause was hormonal imbalance/increase, but nonetheless, I felt terribly untethered! Uncomfortable! Inconsolable! I had almost every symptom known to womankind and I gained a total of 78 pounds on my petite frame (RIP pelvic floor). I can officially confirm, with much gratitude, that my birthing experience was far more pleasant than my carrying, despite the pain and unpredictability of it all. I couldn’t ask for anything more satisfying at the end of my challenging pregnancy journey.

What was supposed to be a scheduled cesarean delivery a week before my official due date turned into an almost-emergency-cesarean-delivery nearly another week ahead of my scheduled due date thanks to Super Frank Breech Joni breaking my water like a Hollywood trope and sending me into precipitous labor. 38 weeks was all she needed to rush into my arms — 8 pounds thick and full of zest.

A mad dash to the hospital, painful contractions that went from 10min apart to 3min apart within an hour, AND a smiley incision scar? Oh, how I live for the melodrama!

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The Great Water Break

Saturday, June 29, 2024, was supposed to be the day my husband and I installed Joni’s carseat, setup her bassinet, and figured out how to assemble my breast pump parts. I slept in, not knowing it would possibly be my last opportunity to do so for a long while (farewell, o ye 10 hours of obnoxiously uninhibited rest). I returned a call to my grandma, whose name is coincidentally June. We talked about the excitement of Joni’s upcoming arrival and about Grandma June’s muggy summer in Florida.

The very second I hung up the phone, tossing it onto my bed as I made my way lazily across my bedroom floor to my closet, my water broke.

I don’t mean that I may have noticed some unusual wetness. I mean it BROKE. Like when Lani’s water in Season 2 of HBO’s The White Lotus broke.

Everyone told me that my water breaking fully was extremely unlikely to happen, especially for Joni being my first baby. “That doesn’t really happen in real life!” They decreed. Still, it was the one “what if” I was panicked about pre-delivery — breaking my water and rushing to the hospital and having to deliver Joni in the passenger seat of my husband’s car with absolutely no idea what to do with my hands or a slippery newborn baby.

I felt so absurd when it happened. Even in my own house. I couldn’t stop laughing. I had tunnel vision. It was happening. IT WAS HAPPENING. I frantically texted my doctor. I forgot to put on my shoes. I hardly knew my own name. The adrenaline was instantaneous and the realization froze me in time.

Luckily, I didn’t have to deliver Joni in the passenger seat of my husband’s car, but that didn’t stop her from flying out of my womb. My water broke at 10:30am. My first contraction came upon me at 11:30am. And Joni was out in the world by 1:31pm. ZOOM, GIRL, ZOOM!

From 0 to 100

When my husband and I arrived at the hospital, I continued my hysterical laughing fit. Everything felt so surreal. As we approached triage, I simply cackled, “Hi there, I am here because I think my water broke.” So casual! How can something so monumental feel so strangely silly, like I’m stopping by a deli to pickup a sandwich?

I asked for a “puppy pad” to sop up my water that just kept flowing. Which, of course, made me laugh even harder because now it was all happening in public. I’m having a baby!

My dad called me while we were waiting to be seen by a triage nurse. We were freaking out together — he was going to be a grandpa! Then, out of nowhere, my first contraction hit. It blinded me. I hung up immediately, stopped laughing, and suddenly, everything became very real and serious.

Several minutes later, I was taken to a triage bed. “My baby is Frank Breech. She has not flipped since Week 32. I had a scheduled cesarean for July 3. My contractions just started but are getting worse as we speak,” I relayed breathlessly to the triage nurse. She worked so calmly while I panicked internally. “Oh my, I can see your contractions intensifying rapidly! Hold on honey,” she replied and tinkered away on her keyboard.

The next two hours were a blur. My contractions became precariously close together in too short of a time. I felt an urge to release something; I felt an instinct telling me not to. My angel of a doctor texted me, “I will take care of you! I am on my way !” The doctor on call held my hand and said he would be with me until my own doctor arrived. An anesthesiologist introduced himself. The triage nurse made an emergency phone call to delay three other scheduled cesareans to accommodate my urgently needed cesarean for my sprinting breech baby. A monitor beeped. My phone lit up. Paper crinkled. Buttons clacked. People said things.

I lost control of my bladder and my gas. I was in my own clothes and then suddenly I was in a patient gown. I was in triage and then suddenly I was in the operating room. A needle struck my spine, then there was stinging, then there was nothing. I made a joke about being Shakey Graves when the spinal block medication set in, causing my arms to vibrate wildly. I heard a nurse yell from across the room, “Hey! I love that band!” I was in good company. I laughed again, then I cried. It was all happening.

Soon after, my doctor was scrubbing in and hugging me with my husband. And then she was behind a draped blue sheet. And then there was tugging and pulling and pressure. There were so many bright lights. There was an, “Oh! There is a booty! There she is, hello sweet booty girl!” And then there was Joni.

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My doctor presented Joni to me almost immediately. When I looked at her, I felt shock. How did that teeny but not teeny human just come out of me? Is she really mine? My husband cut her umbilical cord and then she was placed on my chest. When she was placed on my chest, everything fell into place and I fell into tears and I thought to myself, “Yes, she is mine.”

Apparently it took an hour to sew my body back together. It felt like five minutes.

After surgery, we were admitted to a recovery room where we would all stay for the next two nights. While delivery was practically too fast to actively process, recovery was practically too slow to cope with. Seemingly every half hour, someone was barging in to do a test on me. Or my baby. Or wake me up. Or bother me about lactation.

My c-section birth? 10/10. My hospital stay? 1/10. But because this post is about Joni and her grand entrance, I’ll save the “post-birth recovery” rant for another day.

Life with Joni has almost spanned one month already, and I feel just right — in the sense that I am healing, I am slow-moving, I am singularly-focused, I am filled with joy, I am exhausted, I am overwhelmed, I am playing with tiny toes, I am whole.

I am Joni’s comfort, her food source, her home. And life couldn’t be more perfect.

I know that not everyone’s birth goes according to plan. Mine certainly didn’t, but I am so lucky that my body gave me a positive experience to cherish — one that feels both surreal and magical, given the circumstances. If you’d like to share any part of your own birth story, I’d love to hear about it. Bringing life into the world has made me feel powerful. I wish that for everyone.

To our babies and our incredible wombs that bring them forth.

Xo,

Violet Carol

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More words from Violet Carol can be found on Instagram.

Older Mother Love Letters posts can be read here.

Mother Love Letters is a newsletter for intimate words on the messy and magical shared experiences of pregnancy and motherhood. If this post resonated with you, please feel free to “like” it, share it with a friend, or leave a comment to connect.