My Second Birth Story - Pt. 1
After much supportive feedback from my first birth story, I am back to share the story of my second. It makes way more sense within the context of my first birth, so if you haven’t read that, or if you need a refresher, read it here.
This time, I gave birth at home, and I know the idea of home birth is a loaded one. You should know that my first thought after returning to lucidity from laborland was: “Holy #/&%! Everyone should give birth however they want!”
You should also know that this is a story about birth. Swear words, anatomical terms, and brief reference to how babies are made are part of the package.
In Part 1 I share about quickly getting pregnant. Please take care if that’s not for you right now.
2019…aka Before Parenthood
The start of this story stretches out years before the actual birth—about four to be precise. Even at the time of conceiving our first child Viggo, I had this insatiable need to just know if this would be my last pregnancy.
Of course, as the years since have taught me, there is no knowing. Nothing is promised. But that urge persisted anyway.
From the start, Bjarke was firm in his own ‘knowing.’ That for him, his own complex considerations led him to conclude that one child was enough.
Over the years and as we embarked upon life with Viggo, I returned now and then to the wondering. Would there ever be another? Sometimes I asked this question aloud to Bjarke, against my better judgment, with a tinge of hope that his answer had morphed, that his No would soften, eventually, into a clear and enthusiastic Yes.
I specifically remember a date night in Spain. We cheated the system and stole away a late dinner at the excellent restaurant on our hotel’s ground floor while Viggo slept upstairs, our phones as long distance baby monitors.
View of the plaza with our hotel restaurant from the ground.
View of the plaza with our hotel restaurant from our room (plus cute toddler).
We sipped wine and crunched croquettes and savored that vacation sensation of air that just is—neither too hot nor too cold. We’d had 16 months with Viggo in which to grow in love and find our footing. We were on our first real family vacation after a year and a half of pandemic. Bjarke was filling out his dad role so beautifully; I thought it could be worth checking in with him again. Some part of me believed that he’d have softened by now, even just a little bit, at the edges.
Of course, another part of me knew that this wasn’t the best conversation to have on one of the only true dates we’d had since becoming parents. But I was compelled, and likely, too optimistic.
“I cannot imagine a future in which I’d change my mind,” he answered, puncturing the mood, his power to do so only existing because I’d allowed myself to hope. The door slammed shut—not even a teeny crack remained for conversation. It was decided; not by me or by us, but by one.
After that evening, I doubled down on the work I’d begun before my first pregnancy—the work of contenting myself with this family size. Of making one child also what I wanted.
I could see the benefits. So many of my nearest and dearest people are only children, so I am not swayed by the argument that siblings make for better humans. Nor am I convinced that a sibling is a guaranteed gift.
I could see myself in this life with one child.
We could make our current apartment work for the long haul. We’d have one less plane ticket to buy for our frequent returns to the US (or hey, even an occasional vacation). We’d have fewer logistics on our minds—dodging double the messages from daycare, double the homework, double the activities. I could sooner return to my creative dreams, instead of diverting that energy to creating another human. I liked the autonomy of my body, liked how sharply my mind was working again, liked the increasing freedom to volunteer or socialize on nights and weekends. And did I really want to subject my body to birth again?
Around Viggo’s 2nd birthday, and with my 33rd birthday in sight, I dropped a few final-confirmation comments into conversation with Bjarke. “I know it’s not probable, but if we do have another baby…” I’d say as we discussed life decisions like changing jobs, purchasing an apartment, or living abroad for a stint. I continued adding the ‘ifs,’ but with more and more resignation. They became sheepish, guarded attempts to take Bjarke’s temperature, and eventually, they tapered into silence.
Viggo’s birthday came and went, as did mine. I kept waiting for pangs of ‘baby fever’ to hit me hard enough to launch a campaign to convince Bjarke. But they never came. It seemed I’d successfully contented myself with the one-child life.
Summer 2022
That summer we convened my family for a magical week of Minnesota lake life. We had no schedule, no place to be, and, most importantly, a ratio of eight doting adults to one child.
That Minnesota lake life.
Over drinks the following week, Bjarke looked across the table at me and said that he had changed his mind: he was now open to having another child. Tears sprung to my eyes so immediately that I didn’t have time to hide them. My heart simply leapt. Did he really just say that?
We continued the evening, dreaming up our future, me inquiring relentlessly into Bjarke’s change of heart. “If it’s truly important to you, I’m willing to do it,” he said. Can you imagine being so loved? Not in a buy-me-romantic-flowers or a take-me-somewhere-nice kind of way. No. This was next level of love; Bjarke was willing to commit to such a drastic life change—one he never envisioned or needed for himself—because he sensed that it really mattered to me. It still takes my breath away.
We returned home that night in the glow of a new, united decision, a potential future that we were now both on board for. “We are going to have another baby,” was my last thought before I fell asleep.
And then I woke up.
Once the intoxicating dream of a new future wore off, I began to question whether I really did want another kid. I’d so deeply buried my own desire during the years of contenting myself with one child, that I’d lost touch with which feelings were mine, Bjarke’s, or society’s at large.
All my life, I knew I wanted to be a mother; that was never a gray area for me. Now that I was a mother, how much more mothering did I want? This decision felt infinitely murkier than the first.
Bjarke held fast in his offering; though he happily engaged in discussion, the decision landed ultimately with me. What did I want? And who the heck was going to tell me?
I messaged a favorite professor/climate activist, sought counsel from beloved colleagues, cornered a near-stranger at a book reading, grilled my only-child friends, grilled my sibling-ed friends, and surveyed a captive audience in the car on our way to a board retreat.
I asked:
How do you square the decision to have another child with the facts of climate change?
How do you have hope for your children’s future?
How did you house two children in your existing home?
Do you still have capacity for a creative life with two or more children?
Why did you stop at one?
Why did you add another?
Do you regret anything about being an only child?
Where did you find more parenting energy within yourself?
How did you know how much parenting was enough parenting for you?
Was pregnancy/birth/postpartum easier the second time around?
How did your relationship with your co-parent weather the transition to two?
And lastly, on a long text thread with a dear colleague and friend, I asked:
Is certainty about this decision even available?
The answer was a wise and frustrating No.
So, with certainty unavailable, we almost flipped a coin. Almost.
I turned to my most prescribed Dear Sugar column “Ghost Ships” (if you’ve come to me at a big decision crossroads, you’ve definitely received a link). I created my own sails of big paper, wrote ‘Life with One Child’ on one side and ‘Life with Two Children’ on the other, and tried to place myself inside each future. I scrawled down all I could see, quite unfeelingly.
I squeezed my eyes shut to see each life more clearly, to sense which fit best in my body. After writing row upon row without reaction, I paused to take in ‘Life with One Child.’ A lump formed in my throat; I could not swallow the reality of the quieter home, the singular parenting experience, or having just one blood relative in Denmark. This seemed as clear a signal as I was going to get: it was a yes.
And still, I hesitated. Whether I desired a second child and whether it was a good idea remained two different things. I was stuck on how an additional Global North human would exacerbate climate change. I despaired over the extreme weather, too-hot temperatures, and the unrest spawned by a climate refugee crisis my children would endure in their lifetimes.
Sure, I’d had one child, so part of me once held enough hope to bring him into this world. But was I really going to double down on that optimism?
Autumn 2022
In September I went to Italy. For five days. Without Bjarke or my 2-year old son. I went there to taste and learn and connect with people from all corners of the earth at Slow Food’s Terra Madre gathering. I came away with hope in droves.
Regaining my freedom and eating all the cannoli at Terra Madre
Listening to activists like Sean Sherman and filling up with hope.
Part of that hope was personal: I now had proof that my creative, free, and outwardly-focused life would return after having babies. But more than that, the sheer volume of people around the world who are actively working to regenerate the land, repair humanity’s relationship with nature, and build resilient communities restored hope that my children could have the chance at a beautiful life. And I knew that, despite the demands of motherhood—maybe even especially because of the demands—I was motivated to do my part to make that happen.
Upon my return, I went to Bjarke and said, finally: yes, yes it is important to me to have another child. I would take him up on his offer.
Going from decision to actively trying to conceive was a hard pivot—even with the clarity I’d managed to muster. I kept asking Bjarke, “Are you sure this is ok with you?” He’d say “yes,” but every bit of his body language screamed ‘no’ and ‘I regret ever admitting during a moment of weakness and abundant childcare that I’m willing to take on more parenting.’
I felt so unconvinced that I joked/not-joked about having him put his consent in writing, so he could never claim coercion. But Bjarke is one of the smartest, most level-headed people I know; I had to trust his word.
A few days later, I read all the signs from my body (thankful for the education of Fertility Friday and Taking Charge of Your Fertility); if I wanted to be pregnant, now was a good time to try. I got one final nod of nervous consent from Bjarke, and…
…two weeks later I was staring at a positive pregnancy test, waffling between beaming and wanting to throw up.
For a few hours I flitted about my apartment, unable to complete anything of consequence, relishing that tender moment of being the only one in the world who knew that everything was about to change.
I also relished being the sole knower of this news, because I’d felt so alone in my excitement when I shared my pregnancy with Bjarke the first time around. With Viggo, Bjarke needed ample time to work through the growing pains that arose from the propulsion into parenthood. And me? Integrating those new pieces of me came more easily, but I tempered my experience to match his, nervous that he would compare and despair. So my memory of early pregnancy and early baby days with Viggo is swirly; it’s hard to separate how I felt from how Bjarke felt.
But this time, I wanted us to make space for both of our distinct experiences. I wanted to have my joy and excitement in front of Bjarke, and I wanted him to have his hard moments in front of me. I wanted us to know that all of these emotions were ok and to support each other through them, like the solid team we are in all other facets of our shared life.
Our first assignment: make space for both of our reactions to the pregnancy. I didn’t want to hide my joy (or shock or nerves), and I needed to feel un-alone on this new, all-consuming adventure.
Bjarke was in Brussels for work while I watched those two lines appear in our bathroom in Copenhagen. The last thing I said to him was, “I don’t think it will be this month.” He was going to be shocked, and I knew he’d need space to roll through other emotions before joining me in excitement.
And that’s how, a couple hours after the pregnancy test, I found myself sharing the news first with a dear friend on a walk in our neighborhood. She sprang forward with a hug and beamed at me. Bolstered by the reassuring reaction I needed, I prepared for Bjarke’s return the next evening.
When he walked in the door, I directed him to sit in the living room while I put Viggo to bed. There, he found the note I’d written earlier. I wrote that I was pregnant, that I was giving him space to have his own honest reaction without me watching, and that, once I emerged from the bedroom, I needed him to hug me and tell me one thing he was looking forward to.
He did all those things, and we spent that evening swimming in our shared joy, fear, and disbelief.
Still processing in early pregnancy.
Starting to grasp reality at the first ultrasound.
First Trimester…aka Still Processing…aka Late Autumn 2022
That haze of disbelief continued on for weeks, and it was in this haze that a friend sent us a screenshot. An apartment was available in a sold-out co-housing community under construction on the edge of Copenhagen. Up until then, we’d restricted our home-hunting to our current neighborhood, because I was unwilling to restart the clock on the multi-year quest to get my Danish neighbors to say hi to me. Plus, we had several budding friendships with local families that I couldn’t imagine leaving.
Bjarke pushed the screenshot toward my face, and I wanted to cry and throw up at the same time. It represented a drastic move to a newly constructed section of town lacking the charm of an established neighborhood. But…it shouldered a nature preserve and was a swift Metro ride away from the city center. Most of all, it was a co-housing* community. Bjarke and I had long dreamt of living this way. I knew we would do it. The anxiety bubbled in my stomach.
*Co-housing is an insufficient translation of the Danish word bofaelleskab, which literally means ‘living community.’ Basically, it’s a group of people who do everyday life together, sharing resources like cars, guest rooms, and office space; and sharing responsibility for tasks like cooking and cleaning.
Funny enough, my gut’s alarm bells were ringing before I even heard the move-in date: June 15, 2023. Eight days before my ‘due date.’ Well within range of a normal time to birth. Oh, the panic. I almost said no based on the move-in date alone. Moving with a giant belly? Moving with a newborn? No, thank you.
Moreover, what would this move-in date mean for my desire to birth at home? I felt that chance dissolve into thin air. Poof. Gone.
But in the throes of deliberation, Bjarke—dear, sweet, Bjarke, who’d agreed to have another baby if it meant that much to me—said, “They’re going to make shared dinners Monday-Thursday each week in this community. I’m not doing two kids without that. I’m a 100% yes.”
So, negotiations closed. I got the baby, and Bjarke got the bofællesskab.
Beginning to share the news, even though we are still wrapping our brains around all the upcoming changes.
Winter 2023
Alright…here’s a recap of what’s transpired in the four months leading up to this point in our story:
Bjarke changed his mind after four years and is open to having a second child
I surveyed everyone and their mother to discern if I, too, want a second child
We both agreed, after much discernment, to try for a second child
I became pregnant with said second child
We learned about and closed on the purchase of a new home; move-in day is eight days before my due date
After recovering from whiplash from all of the above, I began looking ahead to birth. Every cell in my body was convinced that this pregnancy would end exactly like my first, that I was on a train to the same destination with no hope for stopping its inertia. It felt inevitable: I would go (way) beyond my due date and be pressured (forced?) into an unwanted induction that would last three (exhausting) days.
On an actual train one night, I wept to Bjarke. I tried to relay my fears and found myself so frustrated that, due to the biology lottery, he could never understand the vulnerability of pregnancy, not really. He couldn’t understand how I still carry my first birth in my body: how my muscles clench in remembrance of vaginal examinations with coerced consent; how my face grows hot with rage when I recall battling for the most basic of rights—to allow my body to birth; how I shudder with shame each time we pass the hospital, thinking I could have, should have, advocated better for myself.
Initially I thought my ticket out of this inevitable end would be a private midwife, which is how I found myself crying on a train with Bjarke. Private midwives cost money, and it’s quite an uncommon choice made in a country where our taxes already fund a robust public midwifery system.
How much of our shared finances should we invest in the chance for me to have a less traumatic birth? How much is a private midwife or a doula worth? How much am I worth? What is the value of me feeling safe, autonomous, and held? And could any amount of money or prenatal care really prevent a second traumatic experience?
These are impossible calculations, and while every part of me screamed, ‘Birth matters!,’ I still felt shaky in articulating how / why / how much, especially to someone who never had, and never will, give birth.
Eventually, I did explore the private midwife route, but I quickly learned that they must also operate under the same guideline as public hospitals, which meant they could not legally attend births past 42 weeks gestation. I birthed Viggo at 42+2 weeks. I did not want to be abandoned at the last minute.
Deflated by this realization, I fantasized about birthing by myself—laboring with no one pestering me about the time or date or dilation, and ‘accidentally’ waiting too long to call the midwife.
But I didn’t want to birth alone! I wanted support. I wanted care. I hated that it felt like having to choose between respectful, autonomous care or medical safety, but not both.
I floated, untethered, for a while. I did not know who would really care for me or who would help me give this story a different ending than the first.
Second Trimester…aka Spring 2023
Despite my fears, I had still arrived at this pregnancy a wholly different person than I’d been for my first. Some combination of parenting, time, birth trauma, righteous anger, a hard-won sense of self-worth, a renewed relationship with my physical body, a rootedness in my adopted country, and a sense of hope galvanized into the person who would bring this new life into the world.
I read (in Danish!) about the country’s midwifery system and its pitfalls. People had tried to convince me that much of what angered me about my first birth could be chalked up to the pandemic. But the books and articles and stories confirmed my hunch that the lack of continuity of care; the stretched-thin midwives who had to spend more time tapping notes than being present with me; the ‘overseeing’ doctors who handed down decisions before ever looking me in the eye; and the pressure to consent against my intuition were the norm and not some COVID anomaly.
Absent any perfect option, and increasingly short on time, I walked in to meet the public midwife appointed to me, skeptical but hoping.
Catrine greeted Bjarke and me and ushered us into her office. I sat across from her and shared my history, my fears, and my hopes. Catrine listened carefully, meeting my anger with her own. The silver ‘♀’ symbol around her neck caught the light as she helped me plot a better plan for this birth. She wrote NO VAGINAL EXAMINATIONS WITHOUT CONSENT in my medical notes. She booked me for an extra appointment to work through my residual trauma and make room for this new birth. She skipped not one beat when I nervously floated my hope for a home birth, despite not knowing where ‘home’ might be due to our move; she just said, “Why not birth at home?” She reminded me of my legal right to have a public midwife attend my home birth, no matter how many days beyond my due date. When I walked away, I felt lifted by her support.
Over the next several weeks, I felt a sense of resolve solidify in my body.
I became firm in myself, my body, my rights, and my knowing that birth matters. I wasn’t going to apologize or minimize or protect others from discomfort at the expense of my own. This time I would birth on my own terms.
I also resolved that I would birth at home, if my pregnancy remained uncomplicated, even though home was going to be a moving target. With sturdy support, we could weather this minor uncertainty, and we could imbue our new home with the comfort I needed to give life to my baby.
From here I pulled in the doulas who guided us through Viggo’s birth, called in a dear friend as a bonus doula, and continued to communicate openly with Bjarke about my needs. I made a conscious decision to narrow the birth media I consumed to one grounding voice (hello, Robina Khalid, you were my light) in order to leave room for my own compass to direct my path forward. I continued to reaffirm myself and my trust in my body.
In this way, I assembled my support team. Carefully they helped me step off the train speeding toward the same fate as my first birth, and together, we began down the uncharted path of this new story, ending yet to be known.
Wove this piece amongst friends to hang above Baby’s changing table.
Feeling much more sure about everything.