One thing I will always remember about my labor with Andrew is how many times I was asked, “Which pregnancy is this for you?” and “How many living children?” The nurses, the resident, the anesthesiologist, everyone, so many times. I could never look anyone in the eye as I answered, “Fourth,” and “One.” Not a single day of this pregnancy had been a given for me; there were times last year when I wondered if I would ever again hold a baby in my arms. Andrew’s arrival is not just about a birth, but a rebirth, because he made me mother again. So it seems fitting that I complete his birth story during the week of Thanksgiving, because there is nothing for which I could be more grateful this year.

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It was Monday, November 2, three days before my due date. I looked at the clock as I got out of bed: 3:23am. After going to the bathroom, I was surprised by what is known as “bloody show.” But I knew labor might still be days away, so I headed back to bed and—contraction. Ten minutes later—contraction. They were 8-10 minutes apart so I waited until 5:30am to wake George. We packed a bag for Oliver, our first baby, and waited for him to wake up. I made him breakfast and we watched Word World together; I wanted it to be a normal morning for all of our sakes because our lives were about to change forever.

I called my parents and they drove to our house to pick up Oliver, who would be staying with them overnight. I kept myself busy the rest of the day doing some last minute laundry and cleaning while George finished some work from home. The contractions kept coming every 7-8 minutes all afternoon but never got closer together. I finally called my doctor at 4:00pm to let her know what was happening; she instructed me to continue waiting until the contractions were 5 minutes apart for an hour before going to the hospital. “If nothing changes, I’ll check you tomorrow morning,” she said, “but I have a feeling I’ll see you tonight!”

George and I took a walk to see if that would help things along. By 5:30pm I was getting frustrated because the contractions now seemed to be getting farther apart, anywhere from 8-12 minutes, but at the same time they were becoming increasingly painful. I could no longer walk or talk through the contractions after 7:00pm. I curled up in a ball on the couch, holding George’s hand, until 11:00pm. After watching me struggle for the past few hours, he was worried. “You only got a few hours of sleep last night, and you probably won’t sleep tonight,” he said. “If you’re already getting worn out, you won’t have strength when it comes time to push. I think we should go to the hospital and see where you’re at.” I was so uncomfortable and exhausted by then that I was shivering hard, so I didn’t argue.

The clock in the hospital’s main lobby read exactly midnight. We checked into OB triage and I was hooked up to monitors, which showed the contractions were still 7-8 minutes apart. A resident came in to examine me, and I could tell he was a bit skeptical, especially after hearing that I was only 1.5cm dilated at my 39-week appointment just 4 days earlier. So he was probably even more surprised than I was when he checked me and announced that I was 5cm dilated! I was immediately admitted and walked down the hall to a room in labor and delivery. I had to stop and lean against the wall during a contraction, after which the nurse asked me if I wanted an epidural. The contractions were really hurting already, and remembering my horribly painful natural labor with Oliver, I did not hesitate to say, “Yes!”

I needed one full bag of IV fluids before the epidural could be started, so it was another hour before the anesthesiologist arrived at 2:00am. He asked about my previous experience and then promised, “This one is going to work.” A few minutes later he asked, “Do you feel that?” I responded, “Feel what?” and he answered, “You just had a contraction.” I laughed and then turned my head to the side to look at him as I said gratefully, “Thank you… thank you SO MUCH.” But as a side effect of the epidural, my blood pressure soon started to drop; when it reached 80′s/50′s the anesthesiologist gave me an injection of a medication to raise it back to normal.

Once my blood pressure was stable, George came back into the room with a questioning look. I smiled and exclaimed happily, “It WORKED!” It was so surreal, watching the contractions on the monitor and feeling nothing at all; it was the complete opposite of my first labor experience. The resident came back to check me at 2:30am and gave me further good news: I was now 6cm dilated. He asked for permission to break my water to help things along, to which I agreed, and he performed this at 3:00am. By that time I’d been in labor for nearly 24 hours and I was ready for it to be over.

The resident was troubled, however, because my heart rate was elevated—it was up in the 130′s and 140′s (beats per minute). Strangely, I couldn’t tell at all; I felt completely relaxed. He became more concerned when I mentioned my history of a benign arrhythmia, but since the rest of my vital signs were normal and the baby was not in distress, he just monitored me very closely and I had to lay on my side throughout labor and delivery. (My OB later ordered an EKG after the birth followed by a cardiology consult. It was determined I had sinus tachycardia during labor, meaning my heart was beating very fast but in a normal rhythm, which was caused by the medication the anesthesiologist gave me to raise my blood pressure back to normal after the epidural.)

After examining me again, the resident told my nurse, “She’s 10cm and +1 station.” I laughed in disbelief, “Are you kidding me?” I’d gone from 6cm to 10cm in one hour; the contractions had never become more frequent than 6-7 minutes apart, but apparently they were strong enough to do their job! I was thrilled that I didn’t need Pitocin this time. The resident left to call my doctor and then returned to tell my nurse to start preparing. What followed is a blur in my memory: supplies being brought in, equipment being turned on, the bottom of the bed being removed. My doctor arrived around 4:45am and I started pushing at 5:00am. My legs were heavy with numbness; laying on my right side, my right foot was propped in a stirrup and George held up my left leg. Unfortunately, the contractions now slowed down further, so it felt like we were waiting forever in between. I could not feel it, but the top of the baby’s head was already in view, and I was making progress with each push.

I only pushed through 5 or 6 contractions before they told me to stop, waiting for my doctor (who was putting on gloves, etc). Suddenly the nurse said, “Oh!” and I saw the resident’s eyes widen: the baby’s head was sliding out without me pushing. He quickly put his hands under the baby’s head and held it while they suctioned his little nose and mouth. Then he said, “Okay, go ahead and push, but gently.” I barely pushed at all. It seemed like the rest of the room went entirely silent as the resident lifted up my baby boy and all I heard was his cry, strong and clear. I cried, too, as they placed him on my chest. His weight and warmth were real; he was alive, he was healthy, he was beautiful. I’d waited so long for this moment, but he was worth it. We made it, I thought, Thank you, God, we made it.

George cut the cord and they placed our baby in the waiting infant warmer next to my bed to be cleaned up and measured. He looked so tiny, although he was 7 lb 13 oz. I mouthed the words to George, just as I had done after Oliver’s birth, “Is he okay?” George smiled, reached over to squeeze my hand, and said, “He’s perfect.” My face was still soaked with tears as they handed my son back to me and I kissed him. Even though I’d given birth before, it was just as much a miracle and an exquisite gift, to be Mother and Child a second time.

“What’s his name?” the nurse asked.

“Andrew,” I smiled. Then I asked George which middle name he would like to use.

“I still like Keegan,” he answered, “if that’s okay with you.”

I looked down at our son. Keegan: little fire. It reminded me of the first day of spring when we saw a tiny white flicker on the ultrasound screen. His heartbeat, his life: a little fire. “Yes,” I agreed, “Andrew Keegan.”

Overwhelmed with gratitude and joy, I lifted Andrew’s cheek to mine and whispered, “I love you.” My newborn son just blinked wisely. He knew all along.