Can my mom come in now?

She looks at me with wide eyes and a conviction and sense of clarity that she hasn't had for several hours and asks, "Can my mom come in now?"

There's this beautiful ebb and flow of awareness in a laboring woman which is always incredible to witness. She seems to float back and forth between being completely in her body with little awareness of what's going on around her, to moments of total mental clarity where she'll suddenly stop and and be completely succinct about her needs or wants.

There is also often a beautiful surrender that happens for women in birth: surrender to the process, surrender to what is and will be, and a surrender to transitioning from needing a mother to becoming a mother.

This particular woman had originally decided to labor with just her husband and myself (her doula) in the room and asked that her mother wait down the hall. This was a common wish of laboring mothers I supported in birth at the hospital. I can't tell you if it's only in recent years or happened for ages, but the mothers I have supported often wanted their partners or husbands by their side instead of their own mother, grandmother, or sister. I don't know why this is, and I simply honored their wishes, but I do know that if a laboring woman's mother was nearby... she always, always asked for her.

I can almost predict the point that a woman will ask for her own mom. Based on how a woman is laboring, by her sounds and her movements, there is sometimes a knowing of how close she is to delivery. For the women I worked with, it was most often later in their labor when she would reach the point where she wanted her own mother.

This woman was probably 12-14 hours in to laboring at the hospital, and up until this point it was just myself, her husband, and nurses coming in and out of her room. It was sometime in the middle of the night and her husband was faithfully alternating between keeping their birth playlist going and holding her or supporting her as needed. He was an amazing birth partner for her, and I was just lucky enough to witness their labor and birth...

But she still wanted her mom.

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I wanted my mother, too.

I went in to labor with my twins, my first birth, the evening of May 27, 2012. My water broke while we were at home having a get-together with friends, and we were typical first time parents full of excitement, anticipation, and a little bit of nerves. After confirming via ultrasound that Baby A was still in a breech position, the doctor informed me that we'd be having a c-section and they'd begin prepping me. However, after the anesthesiologist came in and discussed what I'd eaten that night and my lack of actual active labor, the decision was made to wait until the next morning to deliver. I wasn't in much pain, my labor was intermittent at best, and we settled in to our room to try to sleep.... and wait. The waiting is sometimes the hardest part.

The idea of sleep in a hospital is ironic because the nurses and staff need to come in regularly to check on you and adjust monitors. Soon, my twins' father was able to find sleep on the half chair/half bed in the room. The lights were off and I can still clearly recall the sound of beeping monitors and the muffled heartbeats of my boys still tucked safely in my belly. I watched the baby monitors, I listened, I wondered... and waited.

Sometime in the middle of the night I remember wanting her there. I wanted my mom to sit with me, and hold my hand, and share in the anticipation and the excitement. I was admittedly anxious about the c-section and worried about the health of the babies. I had wanted a very different birth experience for myself and my babies than I was about to have, and I needed to reconcile that. I wanted her to tell me everything was going to be ok. On the night before I'd officially become a mother myself, I wanted my own mom to wrap her arms around me and mother me.

And then I had my own moment of clarity and realized... the next day was Memorial Day.

My mom died on Memorial Day.

My babies were about to be born on the day my mom died. Their actual due date wasn't for weeks; it wasn't a coincidence.

Holy. Hell. My boys will be born on the anniversary of my mother's death.

Can my mom come in now?

The full circle moment was not lost on me. A day that was once filled with sadness and sorrow, would now be filled with love and joy. It was as if my mom, my babies, and the universe knew that I'd need her there with me that night and the next day.

She wasn't there physically, and she wasn't able to hold my hand or comfort me, but the knowing of the synchronous timing was an ever-present reminder that she was a part of their birth. She was a part of me becoming a mother.

I would learn that night about surrender in my own birth experience, and so many times in the years to follow. Like the women I have witnessed in labor and birth, I have seen my own ebb and flow of awareness, my own floating back and forth between being completely in my body to total clarity. I have learned to surrender to the need for mothering. I am wildly independent and have found a courage to move through life that I didn't know I possessed. Like many of the mothers I have supported, in my own first labor and birth I wanted to keep it private and share the experience with my partner, my twins' father. But as that night wore on and my own delivery grew close, I too would look up with wide eyes and ask, "Can my mom come in now?"

And so, in order to fully become the woman and mother I needed myself, I remember the laboring women I have witnessed. I, too, have to surrender to the process, surrender to what is and will be, and surrender to the fact that I still need mothering of my own.