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A Vermont homebirth.

Article Excerpt
In the last weeks of my pregnancy I seemed to lose almost all ability for rational thought. Even though I knew that I could not possibly be pregnant forever, I began to believe that I would be. I felt consumed by my pregnancy; I could not do school work or housework. The only activities I seemed to enjoy were lying on the couch with my favorite blanket, eating and playing with my first son, Noah. Looking back on that time now, I think it was my version of nesting.

The evening before my son Max was born, I had a bit of energy but was also feeling more than a little cranky. Noah and I made dinner together; we cooked corn chowder and baked blueberry muffins. Noah dropped a whole carton of eggs on the floor and they all broke. I was more snippy with him then I needed to be, more because of the fact that I had to figure out how to get my large self down on the floor to clean up the mess than because the eggs were broken. My mood darkened further when I realized the eggs were dripping through the cracks in the wooden floor, directly into our basement. In the end I threw multiple paper towels over the mess and decided my husband could clean it up when he got home from work.

When we first bought our house, I found the tiny kitchen charming and practical. As I attempted to step over the egg mess and squeeze my belly into the tiny corner cabinet for a bowl, I no longer found any charm in the tiny kitchen.

By the time my husband, Craig, arrived home I felt like a vicious, foaming pregnant monster, ready to pounce on anyone or anything that further propelled my dark mood. I was ready for this baby to be born.

One of the token phrases that I heard over and over again with both my pregnancies was that "the baby will come when he's ready." I knew that, in part, this was true. I thought a lot about the baby's need to be ready before labor would start. I wanted my baby to be ready both physically and spiritually. I did not want to rush his entrance into the world. I did, however, want to gently encourage him to at least start thinking about it.

The night of the egg fiasco, I realized I was beginning to reach my limits. Before I went to sleep Craig gave me a nice massage and I began to send the baby some loving thoughts. I told him it was safe for him to be born now, that we loved him and that I couldn't wait to hold him in my arms. Then I drifted off to sleep.

I awoke at 3:00 in the morning with the familiar urge to pee. This was not uncommon; after all I had a rather large baby sitting on my bladder. What was uncommon was that I had made it to 3:00 without having to wake up. I slowly made my way down the stairs and walked into the dimly lit bathroom. I immediately jumped and then I screamed. Scampering out of the bathroom was a rodent of some kind. I am still unclear if it was a mouse or a mole, although I...

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