But I wasn’t giving birth. My mate was, and he was the one who had all the say.
“What do we do?” I was at a loss. The baby had to come out, that I knew.
“I need to walk around.”
I helped him up, divesting him of his damp clothes. We strolled to the river and back, stopping as his contractions started again.
“I can’t believe I thought those other ones were real,” he mumbled more than once.
“The doctor said they were just to prepare for this moment. You’ve got this, my love. You’ve got this.”
By the time we were back to our picnic zone, a much harder contraction came through, and he had to stop, holding on to me as his body shook with the pain.
“It burns,” he said.
I didn’t understand what he meant until he told me to quickly help him get on his hands and knees. That was when our birthing classes all came back—the burning sensation came when it was time to push—but it was too soon.
Wasn’t he supposed to be in labor for hours? Not that I wanted him in pain longer or that it mattered if our little one followed the rules or not. What was happening was happening, regardless.
I helped my mate down, trying not to freak out because I was about to help deliver our child. Sure, Heston was doing the heavy work, but I was the one that had to, quote, “catch the baby.”
His breaths were shallow, his body trembling as another contraction wracked through him. I placed my hands on his hips, helping him stay up, trying to offer whatever comfort I could.
“You’re doing great,” I whispered, though my own heart was racing. “Just breathe. You’ve got this.”
He nodded, his jaw clenched, a bead of sweat rolling down his temple. “I can feel it... the head,” he gasped, his voice laced with both pain and determination. “Help me on my back. My arms… they aren’t strong enough.”
I was sure that they were, but he was the boss and whatever made him most comfortable I was going to do.
He cried out again and I quickly moved between his legs. Heston was right, our baby was crowning. The sight filled me with awe and panic. It was go time and I needed to be the calm one.
“Okay, okay, just a little more. You’re almost there.” I tried to remember the words we were told during our classes, the ones that were supposed to affirm he was doing great or whatever, but I might as well have never gone to a single one for all I remembered.
“I have to push.”
“Then push, my love. Push.”
He bore down with the next contraction, his body instinctively knowing what to do. I kept my hands steady, ready to guide our baby into the world.
A deep, wolf-like howl escaped him as the baby’s head emerged fully. “That’s it, that’s it,” I encouraged him, tears pricking my eyes at the sheer beauty of the moment.
With one final push and a little help from my hands guiding our baby, they were out in the world, letting out their very first cry. It was beautiful.
“It’s a boy,” I choked out, barely able to speak through the lump in my throat.
Heston picked his head up and then fell back onto the blanket, exhausted but with a look of pure joy on his face. “Let me see him,” he whispered, reaching out.
I carefully placed our son on his chest, the tiny baby letting out a soft cry as he adjusted to the world. My mate guided him to his chest, where our son latched on for the first time, tears streaming down Heston’s cheeks as he gazed down at our son.
“He’s perfect,” he murmured.
“Yes, he is,” I agreed, leaning down to kiss his forehead, then the baby’s. “You both are.”
For a moment, we just lay there, the three of us, in our own little world. The sun was high in the sky, the breeze gentle, the sound of the river nearby reminding us of where we were. It was the perfect place, the perfect moment.
“We did it.”
“You did it. You’re incredible.”
