Birth Story.

Before we dig in:

I’d like to invite you to my birthday party. My friends, Rebecca Spitzer and Jen Nordhem, and I all share July birthdays and thought: what better excuse to throw a virtual party? We’ve got cake, we’ve got cupcake, and most importantly we’ve got a little ritual to celebrate our wins and our wishes for the year ahead all together.

So, if you’ve been building in the margins, going through a career transformation, or if you’re just looking for an excuse to dust off your new year’s resolutions, join us! July birthday not required.

My breath is hot against my face as it ricochets off my mask with each exhale. There’s three or four other women, also in masks, spread out across the room. I take an empty seat next to the window, a healthy six foot distance from the others, overlooking a barren Millennium Park.

Sunshine glitters off The Bean as I unfold the paper in my hand to get a better look at my own little bean—a soft white fleck in an otherwise dark and shadowy image.

When I look at the ultrasound, a deep sense of knowing comes over me: you’re a girl. And despite the date printed on the image, I know you’re going to be the birthday gift of a lifetime.

Over the next several weeks, everyone close to your dad and me is placing their bets. There’s a general consensus that you are a boy. But I’m not even a tiny bit surprised when the nurse calls and tells us the good news: that we’ve got a healthy, baby girl on her way to us.

I’m in the shower and your dad is just on the other side of the curtain in our tiny bathroom brushing his teeth as we continue our hours long conversation about what to name you. When he says your name, we know it’s yours. A big name. A name each of the four languages inside you already knows how to say—Polish, Spanish, English, Italian, no translation needed.

When I can’t sleep, I hold my belly and I talk to you. I say your name, and I say my birthday, like a date we’ve already set. Happy, healthy baby. I know you hear me—I know you’ll come.

As we get closer, we start making our birth plan. It turns out you can take the girl out of Portland, but you can’t take the Portland out of the girl. Everyone in Chicago looks at me like I have two heads when I tell them I want a water birth. Everyone from back home shrugs and doesn’t give this second thought.

I’m 39 weeks and just a few days from turning 29. I know first time moms usually go past their due date, but I’m still disappointed there are no signs of labor. My mom flies in for the final stretch. I start my leave early and give myself over to nesting, readying the house for you.

I put up a poll on my Instagram stories and our friends and family start taking bets on when you’ll arrive since my birthday no longer seems realistic. I start mentally preparing for you to arrive past my birthday but I can’t kill the last remaining hope that somehow, someway, I’ll spontaneously go into labor in the next 72 hours and you’ll arrive right on cue.

I’m 39 and 4 when my mom drives me across town for fetal monitoring, at the only hospital in the area that does water births.

“Any chance this baby is coming in the next few days?!” I ask, hopeful.

My midwife laughs — not a chance. I’m not even a little dilated, and you’re still sitting high. She mentions, almost in passing, that my blood pressure is a touch high, but it’s lost in the hour I spend strapped to the monitors with no movement from you. I’m not worried. I know you’re just napping after kicking my ribs all night, but they send us down the street to L&D just to be sure.

“The good news is, your baby is perfectly fine.” The nurse points to the monitor, and there you are, kicking away. Then the doctor picks up where she left off: “But you’ve developed gestational hypertension. We’re going to have to induce you.”

There goes my water birth.

I spend the next two days prolonging my induction, pacing the hospital hallways, and excessively bouncing on the yoga ball hoping that my body will go into labor without having to bring out the big guns of Pitocin.

I wake up on my 29^th birthday in a hospital bed, tired and anxious. Ready or not, my midwife says it’s time to serve you your eviction notice and we make plans to start Pitocin.

“Well, at least she’ll probably come on my birthday!” I say but my midwife quickly corrects my assumption saying that I’ll more than likely labor through the night and not meet you until the next morning.

I don’t have much time to lament this assertion because the contractions start rolling in as if they’re making up for the lost time of the last 48 hours. After several hours, the pain overtakes the greatness of my fear of needles and I’m begging for an epidural.

My husband is relieved to know I’ll have some relief soon and horrified when a woman we’ve since affectionately nicknamed Marilyn Manson strolls into my hospital room, chains clinking against her studded belt. I swear I see cargo pants and combat boots peeking at me from under her hospital dressings as I’m hunched over a peanut ball like a cat, gripping my husband’s hands and bracing for impact.

It doesn’t work.

Everything’s fuzzy after this, but I know at some point I’m in distress and you’re in distress and my room is suddenly flooded with midwives and nurses and doctors and it’s sheer chaos.

It’s four in the afternoon and I’m still only four centimeters along.

We go for another epidural but this time they kick my husband and my doula out so I’m left to face one of my biggest fears alone. This one takes and things begin to progress.

Somewhere along the way, I fall asleep for an hour or so. They wake me up at 9PM and we start the Pitocin again.

At 11PM we start pushing. My husband holds one of my legs up by my ear, my doula the other. Still hopeful and a little naive, I float the idea one last time: maybe she’ll come on my birthday after all?

My midwife laughs and assures me I’ll be pushing well into the night.

You’re crowning now. I ask for the time. 11:45PM.

There’s no way. I’m tired. Having birthdays just a day apart is still cool.

I keep pushing.

When they finally put you onto my chest, you’re covered in blood and vernix and my hands are immediately filled with your shit.

But there you are: the best birthday gift I’ve ever received.

11:56PM.

---

***

A young woman with big hair leans against the wall, mindlessly wrapping the phone cord around her fingers.

“I don’t know mom. Let me ask him.”

He lifts the calendar off the wall and flips to July. He hovers his finger over the dates, scanning back and forth until he places it firmly on a seemingly random Thursday in the month.

“Here,” he says, “this is when she’ll be here.”

She laughs and rolls her eyes and continues her conversation with her mom.

A few months later, the baby is growing much faster than they expected. The doctor tells her the baby’s coming sooner than the August date they’d planned for and sends her to the front desk to schedule a C-section.

She’s a little stunned, a little unsure but she takes the directive anyway and schedules a date to meet her firstborn child.

“I think I have something that day,” she worries aloud. The receptionist chuckles as she tells her she’s going to have to reschedule whatever it is because now she’s going to have a baby.

When she gets back home, she sees the calendar on the wall. Thursday, July 23^rd is already circled in red.

She calls my dad to tell him the news.

---

***

Every year on my birthday, I’d crawl into bed next to my mom and she would tell me my birth story. Even though I’ve heard it 34 times now, I still feast on every detail.

I’ve always loved that I was brought into the world in such a mystical, magical way because my dad predicted my birthday. But that sense of magic increased tenfold when my daughter was born on my birthday too.

Some might call it a coincidence.

Some might say my dad and I manifested our babies.

But I say my daughter and I were always meant to belong to each other, our stories forever intertwined.

So, that’s a wrap, friends. If you feel this was time well spent, give this a little heart or leave a comment below. If you think you might want to spend more time with me each week, subscribe to Time Spent.

And if you’re new here, thanks for being here!

I’m Tiffany—a multipassionate mom, living in Chicago. I spent the last decade climbing the corporate career ladder, but now I’m officially off the clock and spending my time on the things that light me up the most. Like writing this newsletter. You can learn more about me by visiting my Substack homepage or by visiting my website.

Bye for now.