Dear Hannah,

Life was full while you were growing inside of me.  I was in my first year in a new position; your dad was in grad school; we were building you and Phoebe a house; and, of course, we were keeping up with Phoebe.  Maybe that’s why you entered the world the way you did.  Maybe you felt you needed to take advantage of our undivided attention.

The morning of your birth we saw the doctor.  I was 39 weeks.  He didn’t want me to go past my due date because I was having trouble processing sugar.  We didn’t think it would be a problem.  I was in early labor for two weeks by that time.  My right hip was out of place.  I was exhausted and needed an attitude and chiropractic adjustment.  Everyone was ready to meet you.  The doctor performed a routine procedure that might induce labor.  With a twinkle in his eye, he suggested I try castor oil.  Two tablespoons in orange juice.  It was the most sugar I’d had in ten weeks.

I waited for the purported symptoms of castor oil ingestion, but after an hour I could only marvel with mild concern about what my body was able to digest.  Easy contractions had been coming and going all day.  This often happens after a visit to the doctor in the third trimester.  Around dinner time (7pm) they started getting a bit more regular.  I didn’t pay too much attention.  I could talk through them; they didn’t seem to last long. 

After dinner I told your dad.  He wanted to start timing contractions.  I suggested he put Phoebe to bed first.  Seven minutes later he found me in the middle of the bed on hands and knees.  I couldn’t talk through the contractions anymore.  Dad began the timer.

Rule of thumb, according to our internet education, is to leave for the hospital when contractions are 30-45 seconds long and 5 minutes apart.  I never thought to investigate how far away this hospital should be.  Our hospital of choice was over an hour away.  Your dad timed four contractions.  I would have sworn they were too short.  They were 30-45 sections long and 90 seconds apart.  Dad calmly suggested we head to the hospital.  I asked him to grab a towel in case my waters broke in the car.  But honestly, I wasn’t convinced I was in labor.  I was thinking it would be so embarrassing when the contractions stopped halfway to the hospital.

I contracted halfway down the stairs and again on the stone path leading to the car.  I hopped in the back seat next to a car seat still set up for a 2 year old, not a newborn.  Dad took off driving as quickly and carefully as he could on the 2km of dirt road before pavement. 

We’d almost made it to said pavement when I started feeling nauseous.  I’d thrown up in labor with your sister.  Adding the smell of vomit to backseat labor seemed like a poor addition to the situation.  so I rolled down the window and turned my body to face the road.  Now, please, for the rest of the story, imagine your mama squatting in the backseat of a Subaru Forrester, open window framing her mzungu face, moaning and later screaming with the pains of labor at every bewildered Kenyan on the road.  It was Saturday night in Ngong Town; there were lots of Kenyans on the road.  Other than meeting you, it might be my favorite part of your birth story.

Looking back, I’d say I was in transition by the time we hit the pavement.  That means I was in a really challenging part of labor.  Just after Milele Mall, where we get pizza, almost to the Delta petrol station, my waters broke with a gush.  Your sweet dad tried to hand me the towel from home, but I refused it.  The damage was already done to the seat cover.  It was a good choice considering what was to come. 

After my waters broke everything changed.  Dad knew because my moaning turned to yelling.  It took me a few contractions to realize I was pushing.  Our bodies do amazing things without us asking them to.  They breath while we are sleeping, digest food, clean our blood supply, our hearts beat.  Wonderful things happen that we are barely conscious of.  My labor with you was similar and different.  My body was doing things I wasn’t asking it to.  But they weren’t small things!   They were huge things!  Honestly, it was scary.

There wasn’t time for me to go to the fuzzy-pain-place women go to during labor.  I was alert and strategizing between every contraction.  I told your dad I was pushing.  He called the doctor.  He told us to keep heading towards our hospital.  In the doctor’s defense women can push for hours!  But I started to realize you were on your way.  I asked your dad to pray because I was so scared.  He prayed for you and for me and for our protection and for wisdom for us to know what to do.  Your dad wanted to stop the car and take a look.  That was probably the wisdom we’d just prayed for.  But, I requested we just drive to the nearest hospital.  It wasn’t far.  He agreed and we continued on our way.  So did you.

Just at the bottom of the hill on Ngong road where the bridge crosses the stream in which we often see baptisms performed, I delivered your head.  I was still wearing my pregnancy yoga pants, the ones with paint on them from the cabinets in the kitchen.  I told your dad we should stop the car.  Of course, at that place, there was nowhere to pull the car over!  God gave us the grace to make it all the way up the hill and down the other side to pull into the Rubis petrol station.  It wasn’t open for business yet but had the security lights on and installed- a gift from God for privacy and light.  Your dad helped me change position and prepare to deliver the rest of you.  We waited about three seconds for the next contraction.  And there you were.  Naked, instantly screaming, perfect on my chest covered in the towel from home not used to catch amniotic fluid but to keep you warm as your dad put on the hazards and drove like a madman to the nearest hospital. 

It was thirty minutes after we’d left the house.

The story continues, of course.  Security guards at the hospital didn’t stop us but had the gates open when we arrived.  We were left alone in the car because you and I were both so stable and they wanted to prepare a place for us.  You nursed before we entered the hospital.  Dear Kenyan male nurses, worried for my modesty, tried to put my yoga pants back on me and the angel female nurse who looked at them like they were crazy and knew no women cares about being naked in a hospital parking lot minutes after giving birth.  And on, and on.

Now you’re six months old.  So full of smiles and joy; cooing non-stop.  You’re asserting your presence into our family, and we are all in love.  You made us stop everything and attend to you.  I pray you keep doing that.