(Although, that part might be a stretch… in addition to being my last baby, Baby E is also the tiniest.)

If you aren’t assaulted by the onslaught of social media shares I’ve dropped in the past four weeks, you might be blissfully unaware that we welcomed our third son on October 3. Elliot Mac flew into the world at 10:52pm, about 40 minutes after we walked into the hospital. I’m not exaggerating when I say it was all hands to the pump in the delivery room in an effort to prep for his arrival. We got to the L&D room some 20 minutes before he was in my arms.

The final weeks of this pregnancy were hard. More specifically, they were Hard, with a capital H. After months of feeling great and strong, signs of early labour at 32 weeks landed me on modified rest and strict orders to slow down. No heavy lifting. No high intensity workouts. Pelvic rest. I was miserable. When I was told I could resume life as usual a month later, whilst still remembering I was at risk of another preterm babe, I assumed we’d have another baby before term.

When 37 weeks came and went, I was both shocked and relieved but also… I was tired.

Tired of being pregnant. And, it turned out, I was tired because I was quite anaemic and required iron infusions because the iron supplements I’d been taking since 20 weeks pregnant weren’t helping.

And, while I tried to put on a brave face about it all, the truth is I was terrified about the prospect of being newly postpartum and running my business. Questions about how I’d manage, what if I needed a c-section, what if something went wrong swirled around in my head. I stopped sleeping. Like I said: Hard.

Pelvic pain started to get in the way of day-to-day life, and my blood pressure wasn’t the hottest either. Just before 38 weeks, my doctors agreed it was time to get this baby out. They scheduled me in for a “sweep and stretch” the day I hit 38 weeks. It was a Friday at 4pm. It led to four and a half MISERABLE days.

After the sweep, I had contractions every 8-10 minutes. The next day, I walked 12.5 kilometres. We wound up heading to the hospital when my contractions became six minutes apart, optimistic we’d be holding the baby soon. NOPE. We were sent home at 3am on Sunday morning. On Monday morning, I had an iron infusion but my blood pressure was quite high so I was sent to the Early Labour Assessment Unit (ELAU) where I was told my doctor was in favour of induction… but then, I was sent home again. I asked for another sweep before leaving, cautiously optimistic it would help. It did… kinda.

At 1am on Tuesday morning, I went back to the ELAU and learnt I was 3cm dilated at 50% effaced. But, I wasn’t progressing fast enough so – YOU GUESSED IT – they sent me home again, this time after giving me morphine and Gravol to help me sleep. I slept from 5:30-10am, walked 6km, had a bath, and saw my doctor who did a final sweep and announced I was 4cm and 70% effaced. We left her office and my contractions shot up to every 5 minutes, becoming increasingly painful. I almost didn’t survive a trip around the grocery store. By 6pm, I could barely function. I kissed S goodnight and went to the basement bathtub where I laboured for two hours.

By 9pm, I was delirious with pain and finally called it – though I was still scared of being sent home. The MacDonald bridge (aka the one closest to us and most convenient for getting to the hospital) was closed, so we had to take the long way. I was in such pain, I couldn’t sit down. I kneeled in the backseat of our SUV, holding onto the headrest, the whole way. As we drove down Robie Street, I sensed something was changing. I remember telling Marc exactly that, “Something is different…”

We arrived at the hospital at 10:07pm. A quick check in the ELAU determined I was 10cm dilated and ready to deliver a baby! At 10:52pm, after walking from ELAU to Labour & Delivery whilst my nurse pushed a wheelchair and asked if I was sure I didn’t want her to wheel me, I had a beautiful and empowering delivery. Nothing compares to the first time you hold your child. It was as true of my third as it was of my first. As I reached underneath me (I was kneeling) to take him in my arms, I felt so much joy and also a pang of sadness: I’ll never experience this again.

E weighed 6 pounds and 2 ounces, just like his big brother S, but he was a smidge shorter – by about half an inch. My last and my littlest. His birth was my first with no major, medical intervention. I had no Pitocin, which I had with both F and S – having been induced past-term (overdue) with F, and needing it to speed up my labour when I had preterm rupture of membranes (PROM) with S. I had no pain management, having no time for an epidural. In the end, though, I’m so glad I was able to experience a natural delivery – even if I would have sold my soul for an epidural in the thick of it!

Four weeks postpartum and three weeks into working with a newborn, I can say with certainty I wouldn’t change a thing.

Each of my babies has taught me so much about myself, about motherhood, and about life.

F taught me how big and how small the world is, at the same time. He gave me something bigger than myself to focus on and taught me how to ground myself because it let me grow roots for him, too.

S taught me patience and how to give myself grace. My wild child, he’s given me immense perspective and a new appreciation for both noise and for quiet.

And E has taught me that I’m stronger and more capable than I’ve given myself credit for. He’s given me the confidence to believe in my body.