When I knew (after eating a large bag of Babybel cheeses at work one day) I was growing baby three within - which I have to admit
was rather a surprise - I made a definite decision to honour the capability of my body and birth him entirely my way.

The birth of my eldest son and of my daughter had been like sitting in a boat that was carried down a river and out to sea without any direction or control. I had been swept along without knowing that I had all the tools within that boat to steer, slow and ride the currents that carried me through childbirth.

This time, I was the Captain.

I established what I wasn’t going to do and I made my wishes and requests clear to my birthing team. They honoured these decisions.

And then, by chance, I came across hypnobirthing.

Every day from week 20 of my pregnancy, I listened to the hypnobirthing tracks that took me to a place of calm empowerment.
I learned to focus my mind on what my sons birthing journey would be, and how - together - we would steer that little birthing-boat steadily and positively into tomorrow.

At 39 weeks, I began to feel my womb tightening gently; hugging the sweet soul within. It ebbed and flowed, and steadied, and stopped, and the days passed with my the same building of momentum and quietening again.

On the fifth day, after my daily optimal positioning of baby encouragement (a forward leaning inversion from my sofa), I walked through my beautiful Cornish garden in the sweet September evening air, and had a big cry.
I held myself in that moment - between fear and knowing - and practiced honouring the trust I felt in my body.
It knew when my baby was ready.
It knew he was safe and well.
It knew that when the time was right, I would bring my baby earth side in the way I intended.

That next morning - a warm, bright Friday - after taking my eldest children to school, I felt the same gentle tightenings around his busy form.
I walked through our local wood with my husband, the tightenings building and easing as before. I scrubbed the floor on my hands and knees in the afternoon breathing through every quickening as it rose and fell. I picked my children up from school, had supper with them and put them to bed. I read to them, watching their little faces, animated by the story. Their little heads settled into their pillows, their eyes closed and still.

At 11pm the tightenings of my womb had established a rhythm that I had begun to note, but I felt restful and steady and I took my body’s lead and climbed into my bed. I rested, between sleep, until 1pm, the surging of my womb in a steady pace. My breathing and focus, calm and in control. The sails on my little birthing-boat were filling with a steady breeze at last.

When I got up at 1pm, my waters broke. I stood, frozen for a moment, and called my husband who found towels to place at my feet. This, was my signal - just as my body had shown me before - that I needed a firm grip on the sheets of the sails that were opening wide to the strengthening wind behind me. We were on our way!

I rang a dear friend and then my midwife who both, as I paused quietly for every definite, powerful surge, suggested that I make my way to the hospital in good time.
“Yes,” I had said, “But I’m completely fine. I’m not panicked or worried in any way.”
Without rush, or urgency, we made our way to the hospital, every surge another gust of wind in the sails as I steadied my boat over the growing waves.
“Here is another one.” I would announce calmly.

The spray of the cool sea water leapt up into the boat as it soared across the sea, the wind in my hair and face, my eyes closed throughout. The boat lifting on another wave, up and up, faster and higher.
“Here is another one.” I would announce calmly.

I was asked to get onto the bed. I declined.

I was asked to be examined. I declined.

Eyes closed, I danced to the rhythm of my birthing-boat, the momentum was in my control.
The boat lifting on another wave, up and up, faster and higher.
“Here is another one.” I would announce calmly.
The top of the wave, the boat stilling. And down the other side, exhilaration, relief, rest.

My eyes closed. I’m dancing by the window now, and suddenly I’m in the eye of the storm, my little boat a safe haven for the task at hand, and it’s energy is electric. Deep. Powerful.
“I am going to push now.” I announced as the bodies around me sprang into action; insisting I sit on the bed to get to the right room for birth. My husband’s voice telling them firmly that I’m going to push wherever I am and that that’s ok.

I am in another room now, my eyes still closed, my zone still peaceful and steady.
The boat lifting on another wave, up and up, faster and higher.
“Here is another one.” I would announce calmly.
And I was pushing.
The power and the relief of an energy from deep within.
The top of the wave, the boat stilling, flying, soaring.
And down the other side, exhilaration, relief, rest.

The boat lifting on another wave, up and up, faster and higher.
“Here is another one.” I would announce calmly.
And then, the push that was euphoric.
Where the boat was no longer near the sea, but in the clouds.
Was I still on the earth?
The silence and the stillness.
Divine and powerful.
And then, as if gravity had been turned up, my little boat is falling fast, falling down to the sea below.
The water is calm and the sound is beautiful.
A baby is crying.
My chest is warm and wet and heavy with my son.
My arms rise up to embrace him.
“Open your eyes!” Says a voice. “He’s here!”
I open my eyes for the first time and look down at my baby. His crying has stopped and his breathing is steady.
I feel exhausted, but powerful.

My little boat picks up movement again suddenly, a gust of wind blows the sails and the boat lurches forward. I close my eyes.
And I am pushing again.
“Oh I can’t do it again,” I say, “I can’t.”
“You’ve already done it!” My husband says, “he’s here. He’s in your arms!”
The top of the wave, the boat stilling, flying, soaring.
The placenta. That clever piece of us.
Relief, rest.
Rest.
Rest.
Rest.
Earth side and well, we look at him. Caress his little head. Kiss his sweet complexion. New and unknown, yet familiar.

My midwife is grinning.
For the first time since my arrival at hospital, my eyes are open.
I look around the little room, my baby resting quietly at my breast.
“Thank you.” I say as I meet her eye.
“You are most welcome.” She replies as she moves gently beside us. “I’ve never seen such determination in a woman before today.”
I look at her with wide eyes.
“Your determination and energy to birth your baby the way you did was powerful. I’ve never seen that before. You owned the room.
From wherever you were.”

My little birthing-boat and I are drifting gently on the water, the smallest member of the crew nestled within. The sails are slack, moving gently in the breeze. The warmth on our skin. I am a mother again; gifted a soul as if from the clouds of that highest peak where we paused, hanging between heaven and earth.

William Alec was born at just gone 4am on Saturday morning (40 +4.), weighing 7lbs 15oz.
After a bath, tea and toast, we were home at 8am to introduce him to his bother and sister who greeted us both as we sat in the car, their faces in awe, their hearts immediately in love.