The birth of Franklin Aurelius Salem

I had been experiencing prodromal labor for weeks, just as i had 4 pregnancies prior. So by the time my 39th week arrived, I was more than ready to meet my baby. My midwife, who was traveling from out of state, arrived on November 22nd, and within an hour or two of her being here, my contractions picked up intensely. They were coming every three to four minutes, much stronger than what I had been feeling before. It felt different, real, and yet, something in me knew this wasn’t quite it yet.

We had my midwife come over, and together, we worked on setting up the birth pool. It took five hours. Living in a fifth-wheel RV meant it was a challenge, and by the time the pool was finally ready, my contractions had spaced out again. Five minutes, ten minutes, twenty minutes apart. The frustration set in hard. I was exhausted, sore, and disheartened. When my midwife checked me, I was sitting at 7 centimeters and 80% effaced, but I knew in my gut that my body wasn’t ready. The environment wasn’t right. I felt like I was under pressure to perform, and my body was resisting. So I made the call—I sent everyone home. I wanted to rest, hoping that by morning, my body would reset and labor would come naturally.

But it didn’t. Not yet.

Over the next few days, I tried everything to coax labor into gear. Tinctures. The miles circuit. Pumping. Long walks up and down the same gravel path. Every time I moved, contractions would stir and build—but as soon as I paused, they vanished. It was maddening. My body felt like a switch stuck halfway on. I cried in frustration more than once. The stop-and-start rhythm wore me down, physically and emotionally.

Eventually, I stopped trying to control it. I stopped timing, stopped coaxing, stopped negotiating with the process. I let go. We shifted the focus to what made me feel good: warm food, laughter, cuddles with my kids, music, deep breaths, and rest. I wrapped myself in love and waited, trusting—truly trusting—that my body would know when.

We had already decided on Saturday that, when the time came, I would labor at my midwife’s location instead of in my RV. It took too long to fill the birth pool, and we all had a feeling that when labor truly started, it would go fast so we didn't want to be fighting to fill the pool when we needed to.

But by Monday morning, that peace was gone. I woke in a haze of pain that radiated through my pelvis like fire. Baby had shifted and was pressing against my sacral nerve, triggering sharp bolts of agony with every movement. Between the intense nerve pain and my already brutal SPD, I could barely walk. I knew I couldn’t keep going like this. Something had to change. I needed him in a better position if I was going to make it through this birth with strength.

That’s when everything shifted. My midwife and I decided to focus entirely on positioning. No more labor-stimulating tricks—just comfort, alignment, and listening to what my body needed. We did a hot shower, massage, side-lying releases, and the miles circuit again—but this time, gently. Intentionally.

Then came something new: a myofascial release session. As she began, I could feel everything inside me respond. My baby kicked, turned, shifted. It was as if he’d been waiting for this too. His movements felt purposeful, like he was making his way down the path. For twenty minutes, I just breathed and felt him settle. The release wasn’t just physical—it was emotional. I felt myself soften. I felt ready.

Later that evening after dinnee abd a walk with my stoma h supported by a rebozi scarf to hold him in a good position, we did one more release, and this time, he barely moved. He was in position. He was waiting.

That night, we went home, tired but hopeful. I curled into bed and was asleep as soon as my head hit the pillow.

And at 3:34 a.m., the storm rolled in.

I woke to my first real, strong, no-doubt-about-it contraction. I shook my husband awake, and he groggily told me he had just been dreaming that we had a baby. I laughed, and he asked what was happening. I told him we needed to go. Like, right now. He wanted to time a few contractions, but I already knew. This was it.

I was laying on my right side when I felt a pop deep in my hips. I didn’t realize it at the time, but my water had broken. I immediately had another contraction that rocked me and shifted to my hands and knees, groaning through it and rocking back into the pressure and intensity.

When it rolled past I stood up I moved into my bathroom and was hit with another contraction that nearly knocked me back to my knees, and my husband called the midwife to tell her we were on our way. Within fifteen minutes, I had woken all four of my kids, loaded them into the car, and we were on the road.

Not even five minutes into the drive, I had a contraction that changed everything. It came with pressure. My whole body responded instinctively, and I knew—I wasn’t going to make it. "Oh shit," I said, half laughing, "We’re going to have a baby in the car."

My husband, ever calm, told me to breathe, to relax. "Just hold on, its okay" he said. "We’re almost there."

I wasn’t.

Another contraction came, and I felt my baby drop. My body started pushing, and there was no stopping it. I told my husband I needed to push. "Don't do that." he said jokingly "Just breathe through it, baby."

"I can’t stop it."

Two contractions later, I felt him crowning. The ring of fire blossomed though me, and I gasped, "I’m crowning." My husband glanced over, saw what was happening, and just nodded. "Oh, yeah. You are."

I placed my hand on the top of my babies head to guide him out and took some slow deep breaths and waited. One foot braced against the bottom pocket of the door, the other I lifted onto the dashboard. I took a deep breath, and with the next contraction, I pushed. My baby was out in one powerful, instinctive push. I pulled him to my chest, shaking, overwhelmed, exhilarated. The umbilical cord was wrapped across him like a little satchel strap. I unwrapped him, cleared his mouth with my own, and held him close, wrapped in a towel I had grabbed at the last second in anticipation of my water breaking.

My husband called the midwife. "We had the baby," he said simply.

Laughter echoed through the phone. "Of course, you did."

When we arrived, she checked us over before I even got out of the car. My baby was perfect—bruised from his fast arrival, but healthy. It took an hour for my placenta to deliver, and about thirty minutes after arriving, he latched for the first time. But he was so calm. So quiet. He didn’t cry, not at birth, not even when we tried to get him mad. He grunted, huffed, let out little sighs of protest. But not a real cry for almost a full day.

When I think back on it, I never could have imagined my birth happening this way. I had dreamed of a peaceful water birth since my first pregnancy, of laboring in warm water, surrounded by soft lights and music. Instead, I gave birth in the front seat of a car, on the road, with my other four children cheering me on in the backseat. And yet, I wouldn’t change a thing.

It wasn’t perfect, but it was mine. I trusted my body completely. I leaned into the process, surrendered to it, and in return, my body did exactly what it was meant to do. I caught my baby with my own hands, brought him into the world on my own terms, even if those terms weren’t what I had imagined. It was fast. It was intense. It was wild. But it was also incredibly powerful. And in the end, I was at peace with it. Because birth—no matter how it happens—is always beautiful.