Not so long ago, I was just sitting down to write my son Salem's birth story. Now he's almost 15 months old and here I am again, writing his little sister's. (The scene is very similar, actually, except for a few significant details: there are two cribs in the nursery now instead of one, and while one tiny baby sleeps on my chest, my firstborn is now too much his own man to ever do more than sit next to me on the couch for a few minutes. I'm using my phone, not my laptop, to draft this post, because toddlers have devious little fingers that can't be trusted with laptop keyboards.)
Lydia Zahava was born on February 28th, 2022, one day after her due date.
She had spent the entire month previous playing practical jokes on me. Night after night I went to bed with mild contractions, thinking it couldn't possibly be that much longer until she finally decided to come out--and every morning I woke up, still pregnant and incredibly tired of it. By the middle of February my body felt so cumbersome that my husband started helping me into and out of bed without me needing to ask. I started avoiding the stairs in my house at any cost. I grew increasingly touchy about acquaintances' well-meaning inquiries of "how much longer?" and "no baby yet?"
I expected the end of my second pregnancy to involve less anxiety than the first, but in reality it was more excruciating--probably because of my expectations. I felt I should be more prepared, should be able to easily distinguish between real labor and a Braxton Hicks contraction. I thought my labor was sure to start suddenly, since my body had already been through the process before--and this is what I wanted, for things to simply happen. But these expectations kept getting disproven left and right. I told people sardonically that the feeling was like knowing you were going on a road trip soon, but not when you were leaving or where you were going--only that you had to be ready to leave at a moment's notice.
One night as I treated Zac to my millionth rant on the subject, he stopped me and said, "Have you been praying about this? I haven't heard you mention God a single time in this whole conversation." To which I replied, "Get out of my face with that convicting nonsense."
Not really. But that is kind of how it felt. To be honest, I didn't want to talk to God about it because I thought I could predict what He'd say: that I should be patient and trust his timing and let go of my expectations. As much as I wished I could be patient, I was also tired of being placated and admonished. But I will begrudgingly admit that Zac was right to point this out to me.
So I decided that I would just start complaining to God. Every morning I nagged Him with the same request, to finally meet this baby, knowing that one of these days that prayer would be answered with a yes. I stopped ending my prayers before they began. I told God how I was feeling. And He did not give me what I wanted--but He did also show me how okay it actually was for me to not get my way. Every notion I had about the perfect timing got chucked out the window one by one. We made a plan to induce on the 28th, a Monday. It was an unsavory choice for me, the last resort I hadn't wanted to worry about. But every day I got a little more comfortable with being proven wrong.
Not that I gave up very easily. I still paced my living room like a caged tiger and danced around my kitchen and recklessly drank chamomile tea in the hopes that the little lady might catch my hints.
She did not. Or if she did, she decided unequivocally to ignore them. By the 27th, Lydia's due date, she was no closer to moving herself out and I had been sufficiently humbled to no longer feel like inducing was somehow beneath me, like it meant I was giving up or admitting to my desperation. In other words, I got over myself a little bit.
The day itself was a beautiful day. The night before, my parents came by our house to pick up Salem for his very first sleepover, and I didn't even cry after they left (I got that over with before they arrived). On Monday Zac and I got up at 5:45. I had predicted only restless, anxious sleep for myself--if any--but far from being anxious, I was relieved. That morning did indeed feel like getting ready for a road trip--a road trip that promised the best souvenir ever. Nothing was rushed. The car seat buckled in, the go bags stuffed in the trunk, the tiny polka dot dress for Lydia all ready for her to come home in style. The week's forecast was practically summery, so much so that I boldly left the winter weather car seat cover at home.
To most people, when you say the words "in labor," the images that come to mind are hardly placid ones. Most people would not envision a pleasant day spent playing made-up word games with one's spouse, watching Marvel movies on TV, and cracking jokes with two nurses as they bustle around checking monitors and hooking up bags of fluid. But that was how we spent Lydia's birthday. The only low points in the day were getting a disgusting IV placed in my right forearm, and trying not to picture the epidural needle going into my back as I squeezed the life out of Zac's hands.
I will never be ashamed of getting pain medication during labor. With Lydia, and Salem as well, once I had the epidural I was able to rest and really enjoy the time spent anticipating the birth. I can remember both days as peaceful, even restful, preparation for an exciting change.
In total, I was in labor for about 9 hours. At 5:15 pm, my doctor arrived to interrupt our scheduled programming of Avengers: Endgame, and it was time to push (we did finish the movie afterward, ha). I was so grateful that this moment came before the nurse shift changed, so that the two nurses who had helped make my day so peaceful were the ones there with me when Lydia made her appearance.
She was born at 5:41, weighing 7lb 15oz, measuring 20 inches long and looking, somehow, just like her dad. In the end she couldn't have made it easier on me.
We named her Lydia Zahava. Lydia was Zac's choice: in his words, the prettiest name for a girl he could think of (and fitting, because it actually means "beauty"). Zahava is a name of Hebrew origin, from the word zahav, meaning "gold." Lydia Zahava, because of what a treasured gift she is to us, and because our prayer for her is that she will learn to find her worth in the beautiful identity that God bestowed upon her when He created her.
I spent the next day in the hospital with her, just the two of us, since Zac, husband and dad extraordinaire, had to be at work. My mom brought Salem to see us during the day, and I loved watching his sweet, clumsy fascination with his new little sister. We brought both our babies home on the evening of March 1st.
This time around, the wait was certainly the hardest labor, but our precious Lydia is well worth it. She's truly adorable, a little angel who looks just like her brother when she's sleeping and makes the tiniest squeaking noises whenever she stretches out her limbs. She's had no trouble at all stealing the hearts of everyone she meets--except maybe the cats.
Welcome to the world, sweet girl.
He will be the sure foundation for your times,
a rich store of salvation and wisdom and knowledge;
the fear of the Lord is the key to this treasure.
Isaiah 33:6
