To everyone who’s been asking about Teddy’s birth story, thank you for your patience. I usually let these memories settle before I write about them—Clara’s birth took me almost a year to process because of all the complicated emotions—but Teddy’s arrival was much calmer and more straightforward. After the trauma of my first birth (read about Clara’s birth here), I welcomed the idea of a routine, scheduled delivery with no surprises. Mostly, that’s what I got, and I’m so grateful. There were still moments of anxiety, but the biggest challenge this time was managing the lingering fears from the past and allowing myself to enjoy the day. In many ways, Teddy’s birth felt like the emotional culmination of the last four years.
This pregnancy led to a scheduled C-section because going into labor carried real risks for both me and Teddy—my previous labor triggered a placental abruption. Knowing his birthday in advance felt strange at first, but it was a comforting constant. After the fear and chaos of Clara’s labor, I clung to every predictable detail I could get.
April 16th arrived quietly. We left Clara with the grandparents and drove to the hospital for our 6:30 a.m. check-in. It felt odd to arrive without contractions—when I labored with Clara I was in a lot of pain on the way to the hospital—so the calmness was a relief but also allowed old worries to creep back in. The memory of things going from fine to chaotic last time made me scan the room for what could go wrong, even while everything was going smoothly.
Once we got to labor and delivery they had me into a gown quickly and started an IV. I joked about my terrible veins, and sure enough it took three attempts from three different people to find one that would hold. The last try was by the anesthesiologist, who numbed my hand before finding the right spot. Because I hadn’t been allowed to eat or drink that morning, I was dehydrated, which made veins even harder to access.
The IV fiasco actually helped; it kept my mind occupied so I wasn’t spiraling. They monitored Teddy the whole time, which felt reassuring, and the anesthesiologist kept the mood light—he was in a great mood because his daughter had finally slept through the night. Before long it was time for the epidural, which meant I would be wheeled into the operating room before John could join me.
As they wheeled me down the hall I had a small panic attack. It sounded irrational even in the moment: my chest felt tight and it was hard to breathe. I took a few steadying breaths and reminded myself this was a happy day. In my head I kept repeating, “Get it together—this is going to be amazing.”
In the operating room I sat up and curled my spine for the epidural. Just like my veins, my spine was being uncooperative and the anesthesiologist needed multiple attempts. At one point I felt something drip down my back and asked if it was blood; it turned out to be spinal fluid. Strange but oddly fascinating, and yet another distraction from worry. Eventually the epidural went in correctly, I was laid down on the table, and then I looked up.
SAME ROOM. It was the exact ceiling I’d stared at when Clara was born. I recognized the room instantly and the memory hit me hard—how different the outcome had been the first time. John later told me he had the same feeling standing in the hallway outside.
John was allowed in as soon as I was on the table. He squeezed my hand and the nerves gave way to excitement. We were about to meet our little boy. I probably gripped his hand a bit too hard, but he didn’t mind. He later showed me a photo he’d taken—most of my eyes were squeezed shut in the blur of emotion, but finding the photo afterward felt like a small, sweet victory. After missing so many photographs during Clara’s intense delivery, John wanted to capture more this time.
About ten to fifteen minutes in the doctor said, “He has so much hair,” and “He’s so big,” and “His kicks are so strong.” I remember panicking and asking, “Why isn’t he crying?!”—it was the one sound I desperately wanted to hear. The doctor reassured me she was just getting him out, and then he let out a big wail. It was the most relieving sound. When they brought him to my chest for skin-to-skin I felt instant calm—he was breathing, squirming, and occasionally peeking at me with sleepy eyes.
John and I cried and laughed as we studied every detail of him—the tiny hairs, the little freckle, and even the shoulder fuzz we jokingly called “werewolf hair.” They took him briefly to weigh and measure him, and when he cried again we both laughed through our tears. It felt surreal and miraculous.
There was some extra bleeding because my uterus wasn’t clamping down, so they gave me a dose of pitocin and it did the trick; no transfusion was needed. Once stitched up, I was able to nurse Teddy in the recovery room and spent that first hour drinking him in—his face, his scent, everything. Seeing John tear up made it all feel even more monumental. Healthy babies are born every day, but to us this felt like a profound miracle.
When we were settled into our postpartum room, we introduced Teddy to John’s parents, my mom, and Clara. Watching Clara gently stroke his head, then climb into bed beside us to snuggle him, was a wave of joy I can’t fully describe. I’m deeply grateful to the medical team who kept both of our babies safe and to the family and friends who supported us through the pregnancy and delivery.
Recovery from this second C-section felt easier. My incision was smaller and I had less blood loss than the first time, so I was up and walking in the hospital the next day (I even managed a morning shower) and I needed fewer pain medications once we were home. One practical tip for other C-section moms: the abdominal binder the hospital gave me after Clara made a big difference, so I brought it back this time. It’s a wide, Velcro-secured band you wear around your waist that supports your abdomen. It felt like constant support—less jarring when I laughed, sneezed, or moved—and it helped me stand straighter and walk with less discomfort. I wore mine for about four weeks postpartum. If your hospital doesn’t offer one, ask for it; it was a huge help for me both times.
Beyond the binder and the medical details, I want to thank you all for the love and encouragement you shared during this pregnancy and around Teddy’s birth. Your messages were comforting during a very emotional time, and we appreciate every kind word.
Your well wishes meant so much. Big, grateful kisses to everyone who checked in and sent support. Also, fair warning: Teddy might have already left you a present in the diaper photos—just kidding, that one’s for John 😉
One last thought: how is my baby boy already this big? Absolute insanity—but the best kind.
