In Water, In Blood, In Grace
The Nine Births of Our Children
The other day, I was chatting with some of the women at work. One of them is pregnant, and the conversation drifted to midwives and home birth. Somebody asked how many we’d done. Most people don’t know this, but Emily and I used to run a fairly large Facebook page on home birth.
But we’re not purists. Our rule of thumb was simple: do what’s most natural, given your particular situation, and choose the place that makes the mother feel safest. That little principle, clear and flexible, ended up saving the lives of two of our children. And Emily’s, too.
We’ve had nine pregnancies. Only one was truly drama-free.
Looking back now, with those years mostly behind us, I find myself remembering each one with gratitude. Not because it was easy, it wasn’t, but because God was there, in every labor, every loss, every rescue. Here’s our story.
Number One
Hudson was our first.
Emily went into labor while I was flying home from Vegas. The moment I turned on my phone, a message popped up. She was in labor. I blurted out, “I’m having a baby,” and the whole plane laughed.
A friend of a friend rushed me home. I walked in and saw the little inflatable pool set up in the living room. The midwife and her assistant were already there. Emily had talked me into trying a home birth. I was nervous—most men are. That protector instinct kicks in. You want her somewhere with monitors, drugs, backup plans.
But our midwife, Tracy, was solid. Calm, competent, cheerful. She’d prepared us for what could go wrong.
And then it did. Halfway through labor, Hudson’s heart rate dropped—not a quick dip, but a long, steady decline. We didn’t panic, but we moved fast. Emily rode in the back of Tracy’s SUV on her hands and knees, trying to shift Hudson’s position.
At the hospital, a young resident told us Emily needed a C-section—high blood pressure, she said. But there were no other signs. No swelling. No headaches. No protein in the urine. Just a number. And Hudson’s heart rate had already come back up.
We signed the “Against Medical Advice” form and went home.
Twenty hours later, I sat in that same tub in our living room and caught my firstborn son. I remember the weight of him in my hands. The flood of joy. The way Emily looked at me. I’ll never forget it.
God the Father had made me a father.
Number Two
Athanasius came next.
Another water birth. Another one at home. Smooth from start to finish. I stayed beside the tub this time, not in it. The room was quiet, peaceful. It felt like a gift. And it was. It was the last time Athan made anything easy.
Number Three
Caedmon was our third.
The labor went fine. The pregnancy didn’t. Emily and I were fighting a lot. I didn’t want any more kids—not right then. She needed more help. And three is often the tipping point. You’re not “trying parenting” anymore. You’re in it.
We used a midwife with a strong reputation. She was skilled, but not really our style—more clinical than warm. After Caed was born and Emily went to rest upstairs, the midwife and doula packed up and left.
It was four in the morning.
I walked downstairs and saw the birth pool still full of everything that comes with a birth. The earlier midwives had handled cleanup. Not this time.
We didn’t have a pump. Couldn’t just leave it sitting there. So I dragged the pool through the kitchen and out into the backyard. Dumped it. Sprayed it off with a hose. Cleaned the kitchen with vinegar and towels. Then I took a long, scalding shower.
Lesson learned: always ask if cleanup is included.
Number Four
Nicaea was our daughter who died.
I’ve written about her elsewhere. Most of that writing is still tucked away in a folder I haven’t opened in a long time. One day, maybe.
She died just before her due date. Her heart stopped without warning.
Everything was ready for another water birth—same corner of the living room where Caedmon was born. Emily delivered her naturally. Pitocin helped. Nicaea came out pale and blood-covered, but physically perfect.
Sometimes you do everything right. And the baby still dies.
The Lord gives. The Lord takes. One day, it’ll all make sense. He is good.
Number Five
Galilee came after that.
Had Nicaea lived, Galilee likely wouldn’t have been born. Nursing delays a woman’s cycle, but without a baby to nurse, Emily’s cycle came back quickly. So we ended up with what they call “Irish twins”—two births within twelve months.
We delivered at the hospital this time, but naturally. Same midwife as before came along, now acting as a doula. Labor went well.
But the staff acted like we were walking into a disaster.
One administrator panicked when we asked to delay cord clamping. I explained that the placenta still held good blood for thirty minutes after birth—that it was better for the baby.
She warned us that the blood would flow back into the placenta and kill our child.
I told her, “Go get the paperwork. No one’s cutting anything until we say so.”
They kept checking on Galilee every fifteen minutes like they expected something to go wrong.
Nothing did. We left as soon as they let us.
Number Six
Cedar was born at home.
Another water birth. This one was uneventful.
Early in labor, I sat on the couch drinking wine, eating brie, and watching Futurama. Emily had the midwife and doula with her. I joined when things got serious.
That same week, all the other kids came down with chickenpox. Emily had been vaccinated. I’d had it as a kid. We weren’t sure how it might affect a newborn, but breast milk passes antibodies. Cedar was fine.
We kept them quarantined a while. It was a hassle. But so is most of life.
Number Seven
Cyprian came early.
I was literally on my way to tell Emily I didn’t want more kids when she showed me the positive test.
Four weeks before his due date, she started spotting. She drove herself to the hospital while I stayed behind. My pastor came over and slept on our couch so I could head in.
Emily had lost a lot of blood. The doctors said we needed a C-section.
I turned to our midwife and asked what she thought.
She said, “We need to do this. Now.”
That was all I needed.
Fifteen minutes later, I was holding my son.
The doctor was upbeat—offering to let me peek behind the curtain. I could smell the cauterization. I just held Emily’s hand while she trembled through it.
Cyprian was early, but strong. Healthy.
Some doctors act too fast. Some wait too long. Some get it just right. The goal isn’t “natural.” The goal is “alive and well.”
That’s what we got.
Number Eight
Cyrene was born during the pandemic.
We were living in a two-bedroom apartment, rent-free, thanks to my father-in-law. When Emily told me she was pregnant again, I didn’t say anything for a full day. I felt ashamed. We were living on another man’s kindness, and I’d brought another mouth into the world.
We couldn’t do a home birth. We were new to the city. COVID protocols were tight.
They made Emily wear a mask during labor.
We did what we had to do. Got our daughter. Got out.
What a stupid time that was.
Number Nine
Foxe was our final child. Our bonus baby.
Yes, we know how not to have kids. We use the fertility awareness method—not to be confused with natural family planning. There’s a book about it, if you’re curious: Taking Charge of Your Fertility.
We followed the method for a while. Then we decided we were open to one more.
A couple years passed. Then we got pregnant again.
Emily wanted the baby’s sex to be a surprise. I was sure it was a girl. I thought we’d end with a Tigress.
But it was a boy. Foxe.
A few minutes after birth, he wasn’t breathing right. His color was off. Not enough oxygen. We called an ambulance.
At the hospital, they ventilated him. Gave him fentanyl. I cracked a joke—something about him being our Appalachian white trash baby. They injected a protein into his lungs. It worked.
He turned the corner quickly. We were home within three days.
It was terrifying. Then it was over.
We’re done now. Really.
This journey has taken a toll on Emily’s body. We’re not young anymore. Hudson’s becoming a man. We’re not just raising children now—we’re learning how to release them.
I love each of my children. I love the life we’ve lived. I love that Emily and I walked it together, one baby at a time, one test of faith at a time. God has been near. Every time.
You never know what’s coming.
Maybe one baby. Maybe nine. Maybe a loss. Maybe something else entirely. Maybe it’s smooth. Maybe it’s brutal.
Whatever it is, God will be with you in it.
It is rare to read birth stories from a father’s perspective. I really loved this!
This is the kind of thing I feel like I should be told before being a dad. Thank you.