the free birth of tullis

This post is written by Karissa Laidlaw (@callmedarling on IG) about the birth of her fourth baby in 2021. Photographs are by me, Brooke Collier. It’s a long read with lots of photos, but I assure you it is worth every second of your life spent reading this delightful storytelling and seeing the beauty of these photos.

PART ONE // the arrival

I awoke as usual on August 10, a sunny summer day — a Tuesday. A fact which upon mental registration evoked the immediate knowing that birth could not possibly occur on such a day, as it was a weekday and all my olders had arrived within my comfort zone of the weekend when Nick, my husband, was sure to be home. I could sense that things had been “happening” overnight as I recalled quite a few trips to the bathroom and thought to myself through the daze of sleep how it was an exceptional amount of times to pee. I felt mild cramping, which, coupled with the knowledge that if left alone, the birth process will inevitably begin without any action required on my part, reassured me that birth was imminent and likely soon than later. However, I had been having sporadic sensations on and off since 37 weeks thus wasn’t fully convinced these sensations would result in a baby. It was also our anniversary which meant two even numbers for a birthdate (to which I have a strong, albeit strange affinity), and oh what a lovely story that would make, a fortuitous coincidence I deemed too exceptional for me to ever experience, surely. And then there was the true hang up, the root impediment of an otherwise dream day for birthing; a luxurious pool we were to visit with friends awaited me, a treat I was especially anticipating with the intense heat of late summer and the discomfort of my advanced gestation certainly confirmed by my girth. I had my heart set on that watery oasis, and for all of the equally absurd aforementioned reasons, there just couldn’t be a baby today.

The morning progressed like any other to include breakfast with the kids and the daily chase of trying to get my two year old into clothes, a feat slightly heightened by the continuing cramping still dull and erratic but annoying enough to be noticed. At breakfast I broke up the usual discussions of overnight dreams with the friendly heads up that I was likely in early labor which was met with speculation of and excitement for their sibling’s arrival. This revelation did not, however increase my beloved two year old’s desire to cooperate, and when my husband, Nick, sent me the sweetest text of adoration I replied that I regrettably could not return the sentiment in that moment as our darling daughter’s morning antics had left me feeling quite cross. After breakfast I snapped a photo of the kids reading peacefully together on the couch, thinking to myself how intensely tempestuous parenthood can seem especially when 39+5 weeks with (fourth) child. Looking through the lens at such an endearing scene, a wave of gratitude came over me and feelings of love and warmth for my existent family were restored.

I decided it a good idea to run errands to see if the change in scenery and social interaction would disrupt the continuing sensations. Upon arrival to the local coffee shop for my much anticipated morning latte, I chose to endure a stronger contraction outside rather than ride it out with all the patrons to witness and wonder my ailment (although seemingly obvious, you never can put it past the masses to be utterly oblivious). Afterward I stopped by Courtney’s house, the aforementioned friend with the opulent pool by familial extension, as I thought it better explanatory for her to visually witness me than to explain my state over the phone. As a fellow home birther and birth enthusiast, I knew she wouldn’t have any reservations about an “accidental” water birth at her in-laws — in fact she’d likely be quite thrilled, however I didn’t want to traumatize her mother-in-law and thought it best to assess the situation together. We both decided it was still worth a go, though in hindsight I suspect she was appeasing me in that moment knowing full well the likely scenario. Nonetheless she encouraged me to go get my goat milk from the farm, my usual Tuesday errand, and kept the kids so I could go alone, agreeing that we would reconvene and head for her in-laws when I got back. That was not to be.

The solitude of a solo drive was wholeheartedly welcomed. I took the opportunity to call my sister who excitedly timed contractions for the fun of it, both baffled and amused at how erratic they were ranging anywhere from one to five minutes apart and lasting for times just as unpredictable. The progression wasn’t in any way linear. My friend Iona texted me with encouragement, curiosity, and sheer joy at the prospect of “today is the day!”, the excitement of a new babe and their impending birth nearly palpable. I also called Brooke, my dear friend and believer in mother-led, undisturbed (or as I say, unfucked with) birth who was to witness, hold space for, and photographically capture my birth, to express my sincere dilemma; I REALLY could not let it go, I was absolutely determined to spend the day at that pool. She suggested I call Nick and ask him to come home from work to accompany the kids and I, in case we needed to make a fast break and to ensure I wouldn’t give birth alone in the car, if I did. I thought that was brilliant. When I called Nick and very seriously requested he leave work, I felt an air of skepticism that only served to further solidify my adamance as well as generate a bit of annoyance at his less than enthusiastic response to what I felt were perfectly reasonable requests. How dare he question my needs!? I assured him we could reassess when he got home if need be and he agreed to head my way in a half hour. On my way home, Iona spotted me in my car and called to say I must not be so uncomfortable since I was out and about, however unbeknownst to her I had to lift myself up from the seat, clenching my underside to keep contained through a few of the stronger waves. My baby was getting closer, that much became apparent.

I don’t think the realization ever occurred that the pool trip was doubtful, however I vividly remember knowing I would not be leaving my home again the moment I stepped through the front door, goat milk in hand. A sense of relief covered me in the unwavering belief that I had all the resources I needed to bring forth my baby, within me. With the choice to birth unassisted, there was no one to call, no one to wait on, no disruptive checks of false assurance, and no savior necessary. I was alone, and for the first time on the precipice of birth I felt fully secure in this knowing, consciously choosing faith over fear as I walked into the abyss of the unknown, wholly welcoming the decimation that is birth. Standing there in the doorway on the edge of forever, fearless and prepared, that first step forward was the culmination of all the work it took to connect back to my inborn abilities, what had been an arduous yet wildly fruitful journey inward to unpack my life, unlearn many untruths, and finally set down baggage that was never mine to carry. Standing there in my foyer victorious in my pursuit, physically alone yet fully embodied, I was ready.

The quietness of an empty home registered like the first snowfall; welcomed for its placidity juxtaposed with feelings of unease for the known reality which lies beyond the beauty; this tranquil silence was soon to be disrupted, I could feel it. I found myself in my bedroom on my birth ball, rocking and swaying through intensifying contractions while Fantasia On a Theme by Thomas Tallis, a gorgeous, ethereal orchestral piece I found great meaning in and performed live during my pregnancy, played from my phone. As I sat there in solace, completely alone with my thoughts, I knew whatever came to mind needed to come out. And what came to me released a primal wailing so deeply fierce it surprised even me; my mother, how immensely I yearned for her, how I wished she could be there with me in the sacred rebirth unfolding in my bedroom. This emotional release served as the catalyst for labor, as my surges began to quicken and finally take rhythm.

It was around this time Nick arrived home (11:05 am), the familiar sound of his meticulously refurbished 1970 Honda informing me of such. He had ridden his motorcycle that day, and in later reflection shared what a wholly satisfying ride it was. A proud father headed home to his awaiting wife swollen with his seed, pride and excitement emanating in the form of a ceaseless smile, sun on his shoulders and wind in his hair. Nick rode tall that day. Like the dutiful companion he is, he began immediately checking off the labor to-do list I had compiled in weeks prior, to include cleaning fingerprints off the front glass, wiping down toilets, and putting out the new front door rug for the sake of vanity. All seemingly irrelevant tasks, but they mattered to me and he honored that, completing them all with a sense of urgency and without complaint. God bless Nick, truly.

I was now upstairs seated on my throne, the porcelain one, which I had vowed -not- to birth on (all three olders were nearly born IN it, and truth be told, the heavenly lighting in my east facing abode was just too dreamy to forfeit, especially being my first daytime birth), but decorated the bathroom shelves to perfection just in case, to include a pretty clock so Brooke could visually capture the time of birth. Despite my self loathing for my endless affinity to aesthetic, all the details were accounted for. It was in this position I realized I was involuntarily pushing, the fetal ejection reflex in full force, and waves of nausea came with it. I immediately texted Brooke to say so, to which she replied she was now rushing (11:39 am), as a handful of minutes prior I told her I wasn’t quite sure, that I didn’t want to waste her time having her come too soon. In reaction to a sudden strong desire for Nick’s presence, I quite literally screamed his name as a means of beckoning, because in a 117 year old house with four levels and soundly-built walls, one cannot actually hear anything unless the other shouts it. By the time he got to me, in the span of another singular minute, I had lost my bloody show and was full on involuntarily pushing. He helped me to our bedroom where I instructed him, very specifically, to put down the incontinence pads (in lieu of disposable plastic chux pads which I find annoying and distracting) topped with white towels, because the pads were a putrid shade of green and that just simply wouldn’t do.

Once I positioned myself — seated on my legs, my hands placed on my thighs to support my upper half upright — I experienced -thee- realization, the knowing that occurs when it registers there is no going back from here, similar to the brief moment at the crest of the rollercoaster when you very briefly reconsider your commitment to the ride. My baby was coming, and there was no stopping the events about to unfold. It also occurred to me my older children likely wouldn’t be there to witness their sibling’s arrival, and although disappointing, there wasn’t much mental space available to dwell. Onward and inward I went, moaning loudly from a primal space through back to back contractions. I then heard footsteps on the stairs and came up to the surface just long enough to figure out it was Brooke, who, with her ninja-like skill and camera in hand, very quickly settled into my birthing suite without energetic disruption. Flawless and truly magic as she is, she had arrived at 12:04 pm, exactly two minutes before my baby did, quite miraculously.

Kneeling against my bed completely in the throes of active labor, I could feel everything transpiring within me quite vividly, an intense phenomenon that kept me very much tied to my physical reality. With the absence of any outside authority, it was me who announced aloud, “our baby is coming!”. Rather than being told; I knew. As baby’s body came closer to emerging, I sought reassurance of positioning knowing, for me, head first would mean I was seconds away from the end, to which I was ready to be. My inquiry was met with confident confirmation and was all the knowing I needed to mentally forge on (although the process absolutely would’ve proceeded without my mental buy in, or in whatever position baby decided to come out). Nick was sitting back against the open door of our bedroom faced directly at my backside, perfectly positioned to witness our back-to-belly baby emerge, inch by inch, feature by feature, witnessing with anticipation our baby’s unfolding, a look of focus and attentiveness on his face. As baby’s head emerged, he respected my wishes for autonomy and gently encouraged me adjuring, “Karissa, catch your baby!”. With one hand cradling baby’s head and the other planting me to the ground, silently breathing my baby down with one long breath, my meconium stained waters bursting just before emergence, I called for my husband, crying out, “Nicky, help me!”. And in that moment, without pause, Nick swiftly leapt into position, extending his open palms between my legs catching his son as he tumbled from my body, the perfection of untouched skin meeting with the scars and lines and the strength of his father’s awaiting hands. A robust cry filled the room from the babe being handed to me; a boy, our third son and fourth child, had arrived.

And when I pulled him to my chest, as if by divine intervention, I turned to find my three beautiful children standing in the doorway staring back at me, having walked into the magical moment of their sibling’s earthside arrival. I will always recall that celestial moment with incredible gratitude, and imagine it to be amongst the best I’ll ever experience in my lifetime.

PART TWO // afterbirth

Once I collected Tullis in my arms, I knew immediately I had another sensitive babe, something I clearly sensed in his cry and his overall being, my second born being my first. I held him tight to my breast and comforted him with my voice, singing to him as I had all along our journey together, paying no mind to the blood and vernix and meconium transferring to my own skin. I beckoned the kids to meet their sibling, ensuring them they didn’t need to be afraid as they were all a bit shocked to have walked into such a dramatic scene. I looked to Jameson and informed him he had been right in his guess — we had another boy. He was certainly pleased with that fact. After admiring his perfect features including his lusciously plump, perfectly spiraled cord, Nick and I both agreeing how much he looked like Arlie, our middle son, I turned my attention to my placenta.

The process felt longer than it had with my olders, although I don’t actually know that, and it doesn’t really matter either. My backside was hurting (all the hemorrhoids from his descent as well as my tailbone, admittedly more discomfort than my prior births) and I was ready to snuggle up into bed with my baby, a moment always cherished in the aftermath of birth. While we waited, Courtney gently cleaned me up with a sponge bath, and Murphie sweetly encouraged her baby brother to nurse as well as nursed alongside him to stimulate contractions to expel my placenta, an unbearably precious gesture. I felt a few big gushes which I knew to be the placenta detaching, and when it still didn’t come lying supine, I moved to the toilet trusting gravity to do the trick. In a comical snafu, the bowl we placed in the toilet to catch the placenta was actually too big to fit through the toilet seat once it was down, so the umbilical cord tethered me to the toilet until we picked my placenta up to be able to retrieve the bowl with the seat up again. We all shared a good laugh about that.

Once I got settled into bed, we gathered our supplies for the cord burning ceremony, to include beeswax tapers handmade by my sister and a small cedar box carefully crafted by Nick. With great enthusiasm Jameson proudly lit the candles, and for nearly fifteen minutes held one alongside his dad to gently sever the cord, releasing the placenta which had perfectly nourished our baby during his time within and further solidifying his new life earthside. Together we sang him happy birthday (a handful of times per Murph’s self-requested encore), while I sang Vienna Teng’s Lullabye for a Stormy Night, my ode to my children and my own inner child, to love them all through life’s turbulences, and to do the work to show up for them in ways I wish my parents could have for me, a song I went on to sing to my father a mere four months later as he drew his last breaths at the end of his earthly life journey. I cried as I sang, Tullis lying on me skin to skin, his light-toned newness starkly contrasted against my dark summer tan, avidly nursing and peacefully dreaming, content as could be for the duration.

After the ceremony, Courtney made me the loveliest fruit bowl for much needed nourishment, and Nick and Brooke made me my placenta smoothie. In the kindest and most thoughtful gesture, Courtney honored my hope for the olders to pick their sibling a flower bouquet, to include zinnias we grew just for the occasion, their blooms in perfect alignment with Tullis’ gestation. Arlie, my lover of flowers, delivered this most beautiful arrangement to my bedside with eagerness and a smile, a gesture that made us both feel special.

As I snacked, we all carefully looked our boy over, Nick diligently taking his measurements, ensuring to account for every last inch and ounce. We weighed him with a brass spring scale we had procured from our favorite keeper of junk, Steve, who always contributes in some way or another to our children’s beginnings, whether a plowed driveway for birth in a snowstorm or banishment of giving birth during the Buckley Old Engine Show, never-ending playful banter or a rusty scale — he is always there when you need him. Having literally been found in a junk pile, Nick took the care to polish it up and paint it to perfection, which made it all the more meaningful. And it was accurate too, which we confirmed with our trusty fish scale we always used to weigh our prior babes. Tullis turned out to be our biggest baby to date, of no surprise to me as at times I thought there might be two, prompting reassurance to Arlie that he would always be our “big ass baby”, a title he delights in with great pride, despite his brother outweighing him by nearly a full pound.

Three hours after Tullis’ arrival we said goodbye to Brooke and Courtney, our hearts filled with ineffable gratitude for their countless contributions to a most perfect unfolding that wouldn’t have transpired as it had without them. We spent the remainder of the day relishing in the lingering high, admiring our newest treasure with great delight and curiosity, Murphie declaring, “hims has no teef!” and the boys speculating whether he’d ever had a popsicle before. Lying there basking in the messy abundance of my life, my family taking up every last inch of my bed, my body aching and my heart so full — the thought came to my mind that I might very well be the wealthiest woman on earth, rich in all the things that matter the most.

Tullis Jeffrey Laidlaw, 9 lbs 6oz and 21.5” inches, with a head circumference I could feel before I knew, born in our bedroom in the afternoon sun, on our eighth year of marriage and on a date comprised of mostly even numbers, birthed undisturbed and in full sovereignty. From conception to earthside, the journey of Tullis is the most intentional thing I have ever done, and our birth the most transformative, redemptive experience of my life, eternally imprinted on my heart and mind.