A little more than three years ago, we lived in a cute little third-floor apartment near downtown Provo. It had a big shared balcony outside the living room’s sliding doors where Henry liked to play with his basketball and cars. Every day he and I went for a walk down Center Street to Pioneer Park, where he would spend an hour or so going down the big green twisty slide over and over. Gared’s job was just a five-minute drive to the south, and the Provo City Center Temple was being built just around the corner. A couple times a week Henry and I added Smith’s grocery store to our walk and nearly tipped the stroller over with all the bags of groceries I hung from the handles. It was a little noisy living there, which you may not expect for such a small city, but I fell asleep every night to the sounds of the car engines going up and down the street at all hours. And I didn’t mind it. I didn’t necessarily mind that the apartment was quite small, either. It was tricky finding places for our food and random possessions (and my habit of bringing home stray furniture), but we made it work, and I absolutely loved walking everywhere with my little redheaded boy.
Truth be told, our walks had become rather infrequent by the time Henry turned two. I was expecting another little boy, and my heart condition was more persistent and bothersome this time. Climbing three flights of stairs from the parking garage to our door was a marathon that required a good hour’s rest afterwards—never mind that simple, everyday activities like preparing food and caring for a busy toddler exhausted me before the day was half spent. Laundry? Forget it. Go fish something out of the hamper that doesn’t smell too bad.
But, life continued fairly happily for our little family. Henry was losing his baby fat, growing long and lean and saying words like “ambulance.” Gared got a promotion at work and excelled in his new position. He worked a late shift, and despite the fact that I slept like an 85-year-old I insisted on “staying up” (AKA, falling asleep on the couch) to greet him when he got home at 11 pm. I got out our tiny white crib and set it up on my side of the bed. We named our unborn boy William Foye, after his two great-grandfathers, and I daydreamed of walks up and down Center Street with my two boys in the spring.
One evening just after the New Year, Henry was already in bed and I was sitting on the couch watching something or other when Gared got a phone call. I knew pretty quickly from listening to his response what it was about, but I hoped I was wrong. After hanging up he looked at me with a weary expression. “That was the landlord. The owners are selling the condo.”
“We have to move?”
“Looks like it.”
I felt a sense of panic setting in almost immediately. “But…I’m due in, like, three weeks! Do they not realize that? How long before it’s sold? What if the buyer wants to rent it out, can’t we just transfer to them and stay? Or can we at least stay until after the baby’s born? It’s such bad timing and I won’t be much help…” All questions that he could not answer, and neither could the landlord, but I rambled on regardless.
And just like that, the rhythm that we’d found, the sense of belonging and “home” that I had attached to that place—the visions of a cozy baby nook in my bedroom and of sunny walks down Center Street in springtime—all fled like running water. Multiple calls to the landlord, as well as our own deliberations and prayers, made it clear that the safest course of action was to find a new place and move as quickly as possible. Despite my reluctance to be displaced and try to settle somewhere new right before bringing a new baby into the world, I recognized that recovering from childbirth and caring for a newborn and toddler through the chaos of packing up and moving a house was even less desirable. And since there was no way of knowing who would buy the condo and what their plans for it would be, it seemed far too risky to stay in the hope that the new owners would want tenants.
So, at a time when I would so much rather have spent my time washing baby clothes, putting my house in order, gathering needed supplies, making freezer meals, and mentally and emotionally preparing for William’s arrival—I spent most of my waking hours scouring the internet for available apartments, calling landlords, scheduling appointments, packing up our belongings, and preparing to say goodbye to our home. Unavoidably, almost all the apartments I selected were near downtown Provo. But as Gared and I toured them over the next few days, even if one or two of them seemed like viable options, we knew that none of them were right for our family. It was heartbreaking for me, but I knew that I needed to expand my search and let go of the idea that we would be able to recreate the same exact environment and lifestyle I’d grown used to over the last year.
It was then that a single photo caught my attention. It was the living room of an apartment in Orem, with vaulted ceilings and a big, bright, arched window. I had never wanted to live in Orem. There is no quaint downtown, no pedestrian-friendly streets begging for a leisurely stroll with two little boys. There are sidewalks everywhere, and a lot of shopping, but…there are also cars. A lot of them. Big, fast, busy intersections full of speeding cars, with strip malls on every corner. I just couldn’t picture myself there.
But I could see myself in that room, sitting with my boys in the light of that big window.
I picked up the phone and scheduled an appointment to see it. The moment I walked in, I had that gut feeling I had been looking for, and knew I’d found our new home. Just a day or two later and we were signing the lease, before Gared had even seen it for the first time. A week after that, and we were moving in.
As relieved and grateful as I was to have found a nice place on such short notice, I was still very anxious about getting ready for the baby. Right as all of this was occurring, Gared received another promotion, which kept him at work beyond the typical 8-hour day and made it difficult for him to help me unpack. Unable to perform labors that even the average pregnant woman can reasonably be expected to do, I fretted that William would arrive and the house would be littered with boxes and clutter, our possessions scattered and impossible to find when we needed them—so far from the calm, peaceful space I so wanted to bring my baby home to.
God must have known my worries, because, along with the help of other family and friends, He sent the thing that every anxious young mother needs most—her own mother. By some miracle, our move coincided perfectly with the time that my parents planned to be in town.
It was the Wednesday after we had moved, and I had my 39-week appointment with my doctor. As I sat waiting on the exam table, I glanced over the 12-month calendar hanging on the wall and had a somewhat disappointing realization. “If this was my pregnancy with Henry, I would be in labor right now,” I thought. The concept of this pregnancy extending longer than the last was discouraging, especially since I was so desperate to be free of the bothersome symptoms of my heart condition. I mentally crossed my fingers that the doctor would at least find that I was progressing towards labor.
Not so. Barely a centimeter dilated. He offered to strip my membranes, but I pictured the state of my home and knew it was probably better that William stay where he was. Nonetheless, I went home feeling rather defeated. My parents arrived and I shared my disappointment with Mom.
“It’s because your house isn’t in order yet, you’re too unsettled,” she said. Then, in her most businesslike tone, “This is what we’re going to do. We’re going to get all these boxes unpacked and put everything away, and then this baby will come.”
I snorted. Although the theory made sense, I still doubted it worked that way—it seemed too simple, too easy to be true. I hadn’t even been having Braxton Hicks contractions. But I was not about to turn down the help, so we got to work. We spent the entire morning opening box after box, sorting, organizing, and putting everything in its proper place. It felt wonderful to see the boxes disappear, but, even though I spent the majority of the time sitting on the couch, my back, hips, and knees began to ache rather painfully. We took a break to go see a Normal Rockwell exhibit at BYU around noon, but it was only about 20 minutes before I had to duck out and sit down.
After the exhibit we headed back and continued with the unpacking. One of my mother’s greatest talents is her organizational ability. She has an amazing knack for looking at chaos and seeing, or finding, order. And when she has decided to tackle an organizing project, she is a force to be reckoned with. We plowed through the rest of the boxes, and by dinner time, there was very little that still needed to be put away. A few odds and ends that I had yet to make some decisions about.
By now I was in considerable pain. My back and hips especially were so sore that I was hobbling around everywhere I went. Mom observed me shrewdly. “Are you sure you aren’t in labor?” she asked innocently.
I snorted again. “Definitely not,” I said. “This feels nothing like labor. I really think I’ve just been on my feet too much the last few days.”
“Well…you really should pack a hospital bag, just in case. And go to sleep early, you really need the rest.”
After dinner, I got Henry ready and sent him to bed as quickly as possible. I didn’t want to get my hopes up, but something told me that there was some wisdom in Mom’s words. It was the last piece of the puzzle I needed to feel at peace in our new house, and ready to bring a new baby home. I grabbed the outfit I had chosen for William, the cozy quilt my sister Caroline had made for him, some comfortable clothes for myself and Gared, and all the toiletries we would need. Done. I was in bed at 9pm.
A contraction woke me at 1am. It was the exact same sensation I’d had with Henry. Just a little nudge, and the immediate knowledge that labor had begun. I could hardly believe my luck, and lay for several minutes quietly marveling at the sensation. The surges weren’t particularly close together, but they were consistent. I waddled out to the living room, where Gared was playing a video game, and advised that he go to bed and get as much sleep as possible before William decided to make his entrance.
I attempted to follow my own advice, but I was too excited to settle down. I drew a warm bath, propped my laptop on the toilet, opened my hypnobirthing playlist, pressed play, and turned out the light.
What happened next is a pleasant blur. I floated in the tub, lulled by the otherworldly whisperings of my hypnobirthing tracks into a state of such dreamlike oblivion that I had no real sense of time. The contractions would ebb and flow, increasing in strength but triggering no real discomfort. I couldn’t have told you wether they were increasing in frequency. Every so often I became suddenly aware that the bath water had cooled, and my left foot would wander up blindly to turn on the hot water until the tub flooded with warmth again.
I’m not sure how many times this cycle repeated, but eventually the strength of the contractions brought me close enough to the surface of consciousness to wonder how much time had passed. I also had to use the toilet.
When I hauled myself out of the tub, I was shocked to see that it had been nearly four hours. I was pulling on my bathrobe, trying to decide what to do now—maybe I should go eat a little?—when the next surge came on. Strong. Achy. I had to hold very still and breathe deeply until it had passed. I made my way to the bedroom to get dressed, but the contractions kept coming, and I couldn’t regain the sense of peace and serenity I had experienced in the tub. For the first time in hours, I began to feel what others would describe as labor pains, and the fierceness and suddenness with which they rolled over me was overwhelming.
Without really deciding to, I woke Gared and told him we should probably get ready to go the hospital. Mid-sentence, I was gripped by a contraction so strong and painful that I thought to myself, “Dang it! I wanted a natural birth, but I’m probably hours away from delivering. At this rate, I won’t be able to resist getting an epidural.”
While I lay in bed trying to pull myself back together, Gared dressed, grabbed the hospital bag, and called my parents to come watch Henry. I steeled myself, preparing to roll unceremoniously out of bed and finish dressing, when the most curious thing happened. As my stomach muscles strained to pull my body into a sitting position, my entire abdomen involuntarily clenched—clamped down, heaved, folded in on itself like a python constricting a bowling ball—forcing something between a groan and growl from my lungs as I collapsed back onto the bed.
Since I’d had an epidural during my labor with Henry, this sensation was new, but I was under no illusion as to its nature. “No way,” I thought. “I can’t be pushing yet, I still have hours to go!”
Gared reappeared in the doorway, still on the phone with Mom.
“I just pushed,” I stated, deadpan.
Gared’s eyes popped. “Uhhhh…don’t do that.”
“I didn’t mean to, it just happened.”
Gared’s movements became much quicker. As he disappeared back down the hallway, I could hear him updating Mom, with just a tinge of panic in his voice.
The contractions kept on coming, and I kept on pushing. I’ve heard many women describe the overwhelming “urge” to push that comes right at the end of labor, but this was more than an urge. It didn’t feel as though I had any control over it whatsoever. I vaguely remember Gared helping me to finish dressing, just in time for my parents to knock at the door. Mom was suddenly at my side, helping me down the hallway while Gared did…something. Start up the car?
I had to stop and lean on the piano in the living room, and again halfway down the front steps outside. One of my parents said something to Gared about not bothering with the delivery ward—”Go straight to the emergency room!” Then we were in the car and Gared was speeding north, running red lights like an outlaw.
And all the while I still couldn’t believe that this was really happening. I kept thinking that it was somehow in my head, that we would arrive at the hospital only to find that I was just 5 or 6 centimeters dilated and was carrying on, roaring like a she-lion, for nothing.
We pulled up outside the emergency room. Gared threw the car into park and leapt out the door. I gripped whatever I could get my hands on and clung on for dear life, trying to resist the spasms overtaking my body, but they knocked down my willpower like dominoes. I expected, hoped, to hear the rattle of gurney wheels any second, but no. Instead, the car door opened and Gared was again at my side, putting the car into gear and pulling away.
“WHAT ARE YOU DOING?!” I thundered. “I NEED TO GET IN THERE RIGHT. NOW.”
“They wouldn’t do anything! They said we have to go around to the other side, where the women’s center is,” he said, voice high and strained.
“DIDN’T YOU TELL THEM—”
“I tried, they wouldn’t listen.”
Thankfully it wasn’t a large hospital and we were outside the women’s center in mere seconds. This time the response was immediate, and a gaggle of nurses and a wheelchair materialized outside my window almost instantaneously. One of the nurses opened my door, helped me rip down my pajama pants, and checked me right then and there (isn’t it strange the things you do without any embarrassment at all when you’re about to push a human out of you?).
“Yep. There’s just a tiiiiiiiny lip of the cervix left, but you’re ten centimeters. He’s right there.”
And until that moment, I still hadn’t been entirely convinced. “ARE YOU SERIOUS???” I said stupidly.
I somehow got from the car to the wheelchair, although William was so close to making his arrival that I couldn’t sit properly. I braced my arms and feet, hovering over the seat and continuing to wail with each contraction as they sped me through the hallways to the closest room available—thinking to myself in a strangely detached way that this is exactly how birth looks in the movies.
I don’t remember much from the next few minutes. Nurses asked questions, I somehow answered while Gared went to park the car. I complained that it was hot and threw my robe across the room. The staff grabbed the nearest doctor, a man I had never laid eyes on in my life, but I didn’t care. This time, when the surge came and pulled me with it, I stopped fighting the tide and pushed with everything I had.
William Foye was born at 5:45 the morning of January 21st. He was just six ounces heavier than his brother, and the same length, but he came out hollering—something he hasn’t stopped doing since. He was red as a beet, and perfect in every way. The doctor worried that the fast delivery would leave him a bit bruised, but he had the roundest, most perfect little newborn head I’ve ever seen, covered in that nondescript infant fuzz that isn’t any color in particular. We wouldn’t know for a few weeks that his hair would be every bit as red as his brother’s.
He has my ears, eyes, and mouth. The nose and eyebrows come from his dad. His temperament matches his hair, but despite the grief it sometimes gives me, it’s one of the things I love most about him. He has earned the nickname “Sour Patch Kid” for his ability to be absolutely obnoxious one second and unbelievably sweet the next. Though Henry has always been the calmer and more sensitive of the two, it’s William who will climb into my lap, rest his head on my shoulder, and take refuge there for a few minutes.
William and Henry love each other in a way that only brothers can. They torment each other constantly, but the second they’re apart, they miss each other terribly. Watching their relationship blossom has been a wonderful blessing, especially over this past year.
William turned three this past January. He has grown so much, but in so many ways is still that howling little babe who made such a chaotic entrance three years ago. He keeps me on my toes and, I suspect, will be responsible for either keeping me young or sending me to an early grave. Either way, he has stubbornly insisted on making me love him more than I thought was possible after having Henry. I suppose I shouldn’t have been surprised, everyone says that your ability to love increases with each child.
Thanks for choosing me, William. You and your brother make it all worth it.
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