In her pause. In her pace. In her own power it is happening.

I am waiting. Sitting on a hand loomed throw rug on the floor in front of her kitchen sink. The eighteen by eighteen inch ceramic tiles are immaculately clean.  There are no crumbs along the kickboard of her floor.  I checked.

She is sitting in the lotus position, naked, soaking in the warm water of the blue inflated birth tub that sits where her dinner table usually is.  Her thick brown hair is piled on top of her head.  Calm faced she moves only as the contraction builds.  Breathing with concentration she leans back and reaches for her husband's hands, all without opening her eyes.  It is hard to trust my sense of time in a space like this.  The last ten minutes feel like an hour, the last hours feel like just ten minutes.  

Arriving only for the advanced stage of labor, I should be fresh with energy.  But it is middle of the night.  She began contracting early this morning, labored calmly through the day cleaning her house. This is her first child and she is prepared to patiently wait and work through the process. 

As I left my house in the dark star filled night I texted the midwife.  “Is there coffee?”  The midwife’s reply, “She’s making some for us now.” 

I scroll to the previous text message received from the midwife, 25 minutes earlier that says, “Jenny is 8-9 cm! I just got here.  Whenever you are able, you might head this direction. J” Seriously? Transitional and still the hostess. 

Her husband later confirmed that she set the water to boil and quickly returned to the depths of labor giving him some brief directions on how to finish the process.  The coffee was warm and caffeinated, fulfilled its purpose.

We wait; the midwife, myself the birth assistant, the husband and mama each contraction taking its time.  She rests about five minutes between each.  I am reminded how hard it can be to wait for the body to birth.  Doing nothing sometimes takes more effort than doing something.  Her bag of waters not yet broken, cushions her baby’s head from intense contact with her cervix.  This makes for a more gentle rhythm of contractions.  In this case it also means slower progress, teetering on the verge of pushing for an hour instead of minutes.

Many practitioners would encourage intervention to “move things along”.  Breaking the water, coaching hard pushing, getting the job done in half the time.  Midwives and mothers entertain this approach, enticed by the goal within sight and relief to be done.  It is a sprint to the end versus the leisurely walk. This midwife discussed with Jenny and her husband the option.  They decided to wait. She enjoyed the rest between her contractions and was in no hurry. No sprinting needed. It is a leisurely stroll.

As I waited I scribbled down some notes wanting to remember these thoughts.  I wrote, “Really, it is happening.  In her pause. In her pace. In her own power it is happening.” So I waited.  An hour and a half later the baby was born.