Bonus Content The Birth of Lydia and Naomi
Megan
A contraction hits during math centers, and I immediately panic.
I’m crouched beside Tucker’s desk when my entire abdomen tightens—low, deep, unmistakable—and my first thought is, Holy crap. This is it.
It’s happening.
I stand up too fast, hand flying to my belly that weighs one hundred pounds. Well, feels like it, at least.
Sierra glances over from across the room. “You good?”
I nod, but I’m already pulling my phone from my desk drawer, checking the time.
Ten forty-seven a.m.
It could be nothing. Braxton Hicks. I’ve had them before.
But what if it’s not nothing? What if the babies are coming and I’m just standing here like an idiot?
Twenty minutes later, another one comes. Twenty-one minutes apart. That’s not labor; that’s way too long.
But what if it is?
What if I wait too long and something happens?
I think about all the stories I’ve heard—women who didn’t make it to the hospital in time, babies born in cars, in parking lots, at home with no one there to help.
Mason’s delivered a baby before, but not twins. And I don’t think he wants to add it to his resume.
My hands are shaking so badly I can barely hold my phone. Sierra walks over during independent work time. “How far apart?”
“Twenty minutes.”
“Okay. That’s still early.”
“I’m still gonna call Mason real quick.”
“Yeah, go.”
I take my phone out to the hallway, suddenly very aware of every feeling in my body. Like I’m waiting for something major to happen.
Mason answers on the second ring.
“What’s wrong?”
I try not to laugh. I never call him during the day.
“I’m having contractions,” I whisper.
“Really?”
“Yeah, they’re still twenty minutes. I guess I’ll see what happens, if they get closer together. Maybe I’ll call the doctor.”
“Okay. Yeah, just—” His radio interrupts. It wouldn’t be a phone call between us without that.
He ends up having to go but tells me to keep him updated.
By one p.m., they’re fifteen minutes apart. I’m on my way home and Mason’s not far behind me.
He barrels inside, almost tripping on the bags I set by the door. I’m sitting on the yoga ball in the living room that’s been out for the last three weeks.
“How far?”
“Thirteen minutes.”
He’s stressed, quickly getting his belt off, feeling his pockets.
Talking fast, telling me he’s not even gonna shower.
He’s gonna change, load the truck, and we’re gonna go.
I try not to laugh through the rambling.
All I can think about it is how all my sisters-in-law—and mother-in-law—told me just a few weeks ago that all the boys were exactly like this.
And thinking about how I’ll get to tell them Mason was no better makes me laugh.
The drive to the hospital feels like it takes forever. Not that I’m in much pain, but just the underlying concern that they’re going to get closer together and I’m not gonna be able to handle it.
“That one was ten minutes apart,” I say, letting out a breath.
Mason glances at me, reaching his hand onto my stomach. “They’re getting closer.”
“Yeah, what if we don’t make it in time?”
“Baby, we’re only five minutes away,” he assures me, but I hear the hint in his tone, trying not to laugh.
“We’ll make it,” he adds, rubbing my stomach.
Then, all of a sudden, I feel this snap, low in my stomach.
It doesn’t hurt, but if it had a sound, it would’ve sounded like a rubber band snapped.
Then…warm liquid. I know it’s not pee. I look over at Mason as if he knows what’s happening, but he’s just driving along, one hand on the wheel, the other still on my stomach, looking out his window at the road, calm.
“Mason.”
“Hmm?”
“My water just broke.”
His eyes dart to me. “What?” He sits up, trying to see, trying to drive.
I shift in the seat. “It wasn’t a lot but—” I pause, feeling more. “Now there’s more.”
Mason rubs his forehead, trying to not freak out that it’s going to be soaked into his truck seat.
“Alright, it’s uh— It’s fine. I’ll clean it up…sometime.”
I try not to laugh. “Sorry.”
“Nothing you can do about it.” He rubs my shoulder, like he’s also trying to tell himself that.
We get to the hospital, and it isn’t until then that I realize I have to walk in there with wet pants. Mason suggests a wheelchair and that’s instantly the best idea I’ve ever heard.
We get into a triage room and everything kinda blurs. I get undressed and into a gown, they check my dilation—three centimeters—then do an ultrasound. Both babies are still head down, like they’ve been for weeks. I’m relieved. I really don’t want a C-section.
By the time we get moved to a room, it’s five p.m. and my contractions are picking up—six minutes apart, more intense, harder to talk through, lasting longer than before. They feel like really bad period cramps, the kind that would’ve had me taking ibuprofen two hours ago.
Mason’s great, attentive. He’s right here with me, telling me how much he loves me, reminding me to breathe, asking what he can do to help. I can tell he’s uptight with not being able to help more, and also just not knowing what to do.
I had him put my hair up, just to make him feel like he was being helpful. He took it very seriously. I saw myself in the mirror, briefly, when I was walking around. I look like I went through a windstorm.
Hours pass, we’re nearing midnight now. Last they checked, I was six centimeters and the babies were still both head down.
The contractions got way worse. Closer together.
Stronger than I ever thought they could get.
And, I have to say, I’m glad we’re having two.
I don’t think I’d be signing up to do this again.
So, this way, I labor once and get two babies out of it. It’s perfect.
“Okay,” I breathe after one contraction ends.
I’m leaning over the bottom of the bed. Mason’s behind me, his hands pressed to my hips, applying steady counter-pressure, just like the nurse showed him earlier.
“Next time they come in, I want the epidural. I can’t.
I don’t want to do it like this anymore,” I tell him, catching my breath.
“Whatever you want, sweetheart,” he says. “If this was me, I’d have gotten it hours ago.” He laughs and kisses my cheek. “You’re doing so good.”
Within twenty minutes the anesthesiologist is wheeling her cart in. The nurse tells me how to sit on the edge of the bed, directs Mason on how to sit in front of me. His hands in mine for now, his blue eyes sleepy but here. Present.
The anesthesiologist starts with wiping my back with something wet and sterile-smelling. And then it hits, the thought of the needle. I feel lightheaded, queasy, but Mason snaps me out of it almost instantly.
“You’re gonna keep your eyes on me,” he says. “Do you understand?” He’s not mean, just firm. Trying not to act scared. And I get it, because the last thing we need is for me to pass out with a needle in my back.
I nod, swallowing hard, focusing on him, his blue eyes.
“Good,” Mason says quietly. “Don’t mind them, just look at me.”
I feel the cold again. Then pressure, not pain. Just a strange, quick-building pressure in my lower back.
“You’re doing great, Megan,” the anesthesiologist says. “Almost done. Stay very still.”
Mason’s thumbs brush across my knuckles. “Breathe, babe.”
I breathe. More pressure. Then a deep pinch that almost makes me jump.
I squeeze Mason’s hands tighter and lean my forehead against his.
“Eyes on me,” he reminds me, voice steady.
I lock eyes and don’t look away.
“All done,” the anesthesiologist announces. “You did perfect.”
I let out a breath and Mason smiles, proud of me. Together, he and the nurse help me lie back down, adjusting pillows, positioning monitors.
The nurse dims the lights on her way out, and Mason pulls the chair closer to the bed, settling in beside me.
Within minutes, the next contraction comes, and it’s…different. Duller. Manageable. I can feel the tightening, the pressure, but the sharp, breathtaking pain is gone.
I look at Mason, eyes wide. “Oh my gosh.”
He grins. “Better?”
“So much better.”
He laughs, leaning down to kiss my forehead. “Good.”
“I love you,” I whisper.
“I love you too.”
My eyes drift closed, and for the first time in hours, I feel like I can breathe.
Mason
Megan’s been asleep for a few hours.
I haven’t moved from the chair beside her bed, watching the monitors, watching her breathe, watching the contraction lines spike and fall on the screen even though she can’t feel them anymore.
The epidural was a good decision. Watching her in pain like that was one of the hardest things I’ve ever had to watch. And I’ve seen a lot of things.
Megan stirs about twenty minutes later, blinking slowly, disoriented.
“Hey,” I say softly, leaning forward. “How you feel?”
“I feel pressure, just on my right side.” She smooths her hand down the right side of her stomach.
“Oh, really?”
“Yeah. Not nearly as bad but…uncomfortable.” She shifts, wincing slightly.
Right on cue, the door opens again and a nurse steps in with Dr. Harmon close behind, both of them smiling.
“How are we doing in here?” the nurse asks.
“Good,” Megan says through a breath. “Pressure on my side.”
“That’s normal,” the nurse nods, glancing at the monitor. “You’re on your side, so it’s not evenly distributed. Your contractions are closer together now.”
Dr. Harmon pulls on her gloves and moves to check Megan.
“You’re at eight centimeters,” she says a moment later. “Almost there.”
Megan’s eyes widen. “Really?”
“Really. I’m just gonna feel their positions again, make sure they’re still head down.”
She places her hands on Megan’s stomach, feeling, pressing lightly, focusing, thinking.
Moving from one side to the other. She looks at the nurse, and the nurse then heads to the door, no words exchanged, like she knows exactly what the doctor’s telling her.
I straighten, but Megan doesn’t seem to catch on.
“What’s wrong?” I ask.