Sylvie’s Birth Story

The past few years have been a homecoming for me; finding my place in the birth world, attending births, holding mothers, learning more than I've ever learnt, forming deep friendships with kindred birthy spirits...

Birth work changes you and it radicalises you. And if it doesn't, well, you're doing it wrong...!

The birth of my second baby, at the end of 2019 was a beautiful pain-free 3 hour oxytocin trip, with a slightly wobbly aftermath. She was born on the kitchen floor, with just Bill & I there. Birth, pure and simple.

But we hadn't prepared to give birth without a midwife, emotionally or practically, and with hindsight we didn't handle the post-birth bit very well. Instead of protecting my vulnerable state and making a cosy cocoon for us, we looked outwards, calling midwives who told us to call paramedics and so on...

Although the paramedics didn't come in the end (the midwife thankfully stood them down) I believe this stirred low level panic into a perfectly normal physiological birth, and I started to feel quite weak and faint. 

In the weeks that followed, I felt simultaneously so elated & proud that I'd given birth to my baby this way, whilst also feeling very anemic, pale & tired. The early days felt tough, compared to what had been a golden sparkly time with our firstborn.

So, pregnant again this time, 4 years older and a whole lot wiser, the one thing that felt very clear to me was that strangers weren't something I wanted or needed in my birth space at any point. I also became very focussed on perfecting the post birth cocoon.

There were fears for us both. But amongst the shadow work & the odd 3am thought spiral, I dove deep into freebirth stories & conversations. 

Since I announced Sylvie's birth, and particularly that she arrived surprise-breech, a lot of people have been really eager to hear the whole story.

When I've told it, although transcendental to me, it tells quite a lot like a normal boring freebirth!

My favourite thing about telling the story, though, is the conversations it ignites. Conversations around word spells, the power of *not* knowing everything and the very clear impact of environment and people on our actual physical health.

As anyone who knows me will know, birth is pretty much the only thing I want to talk about, most of the time. And Sylvie's arrival has stirred up a huge golden soup of beautiful new ideas and feelings about birth that I will carry forward in my life and work.

I'm so grateful to her for that.

As the sun went down each evening during the last few weeks of pregnancy, I began to feel a slight anxiety rise in me. I wonder if it's because of my doula work, and the feeling of going to bed when on-call. That slightly lonely anticipation of the 3am phone ringing.

I began to feel a deep need to labour and birth during the day, with the sun shining too, please, universe?

Every night I would get myself to sleep by visualising my perfect birth. It would start with the sun rising, waking to a beautiful spring day to realise I'm in labour. I really started willing it to happen every day, and then willing it not to happen every night.

The day before the birth, our neighbourhood mates had organised a boozy game of rounders on the village green. I didn't partake in the rounders (or the booze) but mostly sat, Buddha-like, in the sun, watching the jollities and reminding Bill not to drink too much, noticing my uterus gently surging every now and then.

That evening came around, there was a red sky and the sun went down again. I had a big old wobble about it all. I cried. I told Bill I was scared, not a feeling I remember having with the other two.

I slept.

My surges woke me around 5.30 with the sun and the birds, to the most perfect spring day. I got up and had a shower while feeling them every 10 minutes or so. They felt deep and concentrated to a particular spot. Cervixy, rather than womby, I've described it as since.

I woke Bill, told him what was happening. He sleepily smiled and said something happily and got up to make tea. I was reminded of 7 years earlier with our first, when my waters broke at 3am after we'd gone to bed at 1. That time when I woke Bill, he groaned... "Oh fuck".

So, we went downstairs, the other two kids still sound asleep in their beds. I sat on my ball as the sun streamed golden light through the window. I put on my playlist, a hugely important part of my experience each time. Songs to sing in labour, chosen with the heart.

Bill brought down my birth box, made us some breakfast and, as I tend to labour quite swiftly, pumped up the pool.

Everything, so far, was perfect.

After a serene couple of hours on my ball, singing and eating toast, our eldest, Luca, snuck downstairs and shouted "BOO!" at us, naturally.

After that mild shock, I told him the baby was coming. He smiled a little apprehensively, we had a cuddle and he went to wake his sister.

Bill let Harriet know we'd be needing her soon. My labour with Freida was 3 hours from the first sensation, so we were primed for things to happen swiftly, although I still felt pretty breezy.

The kids were both up by 8 and Harriet arrived at 8.30am, to their delight, they adore her. I said a gentle hi and got back to rocking on my ball. Her warmth brought some steady magic and Bill visibly relaxed as she took the reins with the kids.

Once Bill had filled the pool, Freida stripped off and jumped in for a dip, absolutely giddy to be swimming in the living room!

By 9ish, although the surges were still manageable I was starting to feel a bit less 'in the room' mentally. Kneeling on the floor over my ball, I felt like I was slowly drifting in and out of labourland.

When everyone was buzzing around me, I surprised myself by feeling totally at ease with it. I remember Bill asking the kids to be a bit quieter. I told him it was fine, I was enjoying listening to their chatter, even their little squabbles.

With my other two I'd laboured alone for the vast majority, but this time I wanted everyone there. One thing I remember so vividly is feeling so present amongst it all, deeply emotional, and so so full of love. Thank you oxytocin.

As I surged onwards, I needed Bill more and more. He was holding me tightly and squeezing my hips with each one. I felt such a need for his touch and arms. He was warmth and home and golden.

A few times a surge would take my breath away. I remember saying to Bill I was 'choosing pleasure' with a giggle, referencing a Free Birth Society podcast episode we'd listened to.

The intensity of the surges was increasing not just physically but emotionally too. There was one that brought a huge rush of tears as it trailed off. Bill held me and asked if I was okay, 'I'm just so happy' I laugh-cried.

Things my kids did while I was in labour:

Had a dip in the birth pool
Played Uno with Harriet
Did some whittling with Daddy
Watched Bluey
Wandered in and out
Ate breakfast
Complained they were bored
Complained it smelt weird
Squabbled
Rubbed my back
Brought me snacks

What I loved about having them there was how normal it was. They just carried on being them. It surprises me, still, how wonderful it felt to labour amongst that.

My wish not to have a midwife was something we discussed lots during pregnancy. There were many reasons it felt right to us both, which I will write about at some point. We settled on: I'll listen to my intuition on the day.

As it happened, there wasn't a moment during labour that I even thought about or considered calling a midwife. I believe my intuition did good there, as you'll see!

Having my dear friend Harriet as our doula though, was a gift not only for me and the children but for Bill too, who, due to our fast and unassisted birth with Freida, was keen to have another adult in the house. He was comfortable with the plan to freebirth as long as she was around, with her wise, balmy goodness. In my memories from the birth, she appears as a hazy golden beacon moving gently in and out of my peripheral vision.

At about 10am, 5 hours or so from the first sensation, I had a full and intense surge, leaning over my ball - my waters broke. Something funny crossed through my mind at that moment which was 'oh so I 𝘢𝘮 in labour…!'

Harriet helped guide me into the pool, "Your spa awaits" she said. I felt cocooned by the warmth of the water, yet almost immediately started feeling a full need to bear down.

Unlike my other two, where the foetal ejection reflex did the work for me, this time it felt as if I had to make a 'decision' to step into it.

I started rocking back on my knees, mooing and holding Harriet's hand tightly. I remember saying 'this is too intense, I can't go there'.

I reached down to see what I could feel as I pushed. I felt something and said "I can feel the head". As I said that though, I saw a picture in my mind, and it wasn't a head.

It's a gift from mother nature to be in that liminal brain space during physiological birth, the in-between of timelessness and thoughtlessness as your body takes over.

So when I saw that picture in my mind of 'very much not a head' as I reached down, nothing else came to me...my brain didn't go there.

What I did feel though, and this is different to my other two births, was that this baby had to come out in one push. The only way I can describe it, and again, this is a memory that's not born from a conscious thought (wild!) was that she was a different shape.

And so I beared down hard, shouted quite a lot I think, and out she flew, floated, landed.

I had a whisper of a thought of 'where's the baby' while I grappled to find her in the water. I don't think my eyes were working normally yet so it was all touch and feeling.

I found her, held her and pulled her up to my chest. My husband, son and daughter standing in front of me, holding onto each other tightly.

I looked at my baby's face, 'it's you'.

The most ordinary, extraordinary thing to happen in your living room.

A few moments after she was born, my own mother walked in. Bill has called her to be on hand for the kids if needed, she arrived just after her grandchild did, and swiftly burst into tears.

It wasn't until many hours later that the subject came up of which way she had come out. Both Harriet and Bill realised in hindsight that they had seen legs before they saw a head, and in the swiftness of the moment, the fact she was breech wasn't consciously acknowledged.

This was the biggest gift. There was no panic, no knowing, not even afterwards in that post birth vulnerability, awaiting the placenta. It was only the highest of golden highs, oxytocin soaring.

Thinking about those post- birth moments had probably been my biggest anxiety during pregnancy, due to feeling quite weak after my second birth.

I'd written up a birth plan entitled 'Jenny's Birth Cocoon' solely for that bit! Bill and I had big discussions about what I needed practically and emotionally. A big part of this was my wish for no midwives, just us.

We spoke about word spells, who's in the room, the positive, gentle, encouraging language and still, golden energy needed for that magical in-between space, when you're so vulnerable to your environment.

I worked with a wonderful herbalist Rachael , who made bespoke remedies for the elements of birth I wanted support with, and gave guidance on protecting that precious time. Having these remedies to hand made me feel so much more ready, held and connected to birth and my body.

Socks, soft words, herbs, hot tea, honey and love.

At some point while still in the pool it was time to see which flavour we had. Luca had been very keen to have another boy in the house "two sisters would be a real handful" he'd said. Freida kept changing her mind whether she wanted a sister or another brother.

A girl! Luca crossed his arms and let out a sigh.

It didn't take long for us to realise she was the spitting image of him, even with a a single dimple like he has, but on the opposite cheek. He was quickly besotted, like the rest of us.

A little while after I'd left the pool for the sofa, her placenta was born, Harriet graciously crouching underneath me with a bowl. Sylvie remained attached to it for many hours, before we made the decision to separate them and tie off her cord.

In a moment I'll treasure forever, completely unprompted, Freida, our four year old, picked up a damp flannel that I'd used as a compress in labour and started gently wiping the blood off my legs. My sweet little birthkeeper.

So there I remained for some time, sitting on the sofa, babe in arms, golden sunlight streaming through the window, looking at Bill, the kids, my mum and Harriet, beaming in awe, relief, love love love. The absolute best day of my life.