At the base of my torso is a slit from which my children have emerged. A smallish scar from which big things have grown. For a long time I was not proud of this little mark but over time I have come to accept that this is the birth story of my children.
My body gave up after very long labours with both children. It stalled at 6cm with Luca and 9cm with Ellie. The disappointment at getting so close with my second was tremendous. Completely overwhelming. We waited and laboured and waited and laboured. We even pushed, but that one last, tiny centimetre would not eventuate. I can fall pregnant in the blink of an eye, I carry my babies with ease, but I just can't get them out of me no matter how hard I try. It seems to be my fate and I was the loudest advocate for a natural, drug free birth.
I still dream of pushing my babies out, not dreaming as in wishful thinking, but really dreaming that I give birth. I'm not sure if this dream is a sign that I should have a third. After 2 c-sections I don't like my chances of a natural birth. But for the time being I have a good, long heroic tale of an epic labour and an assisted birth. That's how I like to think of it.