The C-Section Birth of Artie: All 4.84kg of Him

In the week leading up to giving birth, I was doing all the things — drinking raspberry leaf tea, eating dates, curb walking, bouncing on the gym ball, perineal massage, expressing colostrum — you name it, I was trying it. I’d dreamed of a vaginal, unmedicated birth. The unknowns of labour scared me, but the idea of an epidural or c-section scared me even more. I’ve always been a bit of a wuss with needles, and the thought of one going into my spine gave me the absolute heebie jeebies.

At my last couple of OB appointments, we were told my cervix wasn’t ‘favourable’ for a spontaneous natural birth, but we held out until 41 weeks. At that point, I was struggling to even walk, so we agreed to go ahead with an induction to try to get things moving.

At 8:45pm on December 6th, we arrived at North West Private to begin the induction. Spirits were high despite all the waiting — we passed the time sending each other reels and swiping through a million truly questionable baby names on that baby Tinder app. Brendan kept the vibes alive, fully committed to vending machine cuisine with Solo and Samboy BBQ chips on rotation. 

After what felt like forever, the prostaglandin ribbon was finally inserted around 11pm. Brendan headed home around midnight to grab a few hours of sleep while I tried (and mostly failed) to rest. By 3:30am, cramps had started — that dull, period-pain kind of ache — and a midwife came in to hook me up to a monitor. I thought we were on. Safe to say, sleep was officially off the cards.

Brendan arrived back bright and early the next morning. The monitor showed some tightenings, but nothing dramatic. We were moved to the birth suite, and the ribbon was removed. Then came my OB — who proceeded to do the most traumatic internal check of all time. I genuinely saw stars. In that moment, I started doubting myself — if I couldn’t handle that, how on earth was I going to get through the al naturale birth I’d been hoping for? Despite his best efforts, my OB still couldn’t feel the baby’s head or get through my cervix to break my waters. The verdict: a c-section. Most likely due to baby’s size — things just weren’t progressing. (And in hindsight, yeah… definitely because of his size.)

I had a moment. Maybe a few. I was disappointed. I was scared. During our birth classes, I nearly passed out just watching the c-section roleplay (told you I was squeamish). Now that was the only part I actually needed to have paid attention to. WTF. I’d done all the things, and it felt like such a waste. But at the same time, I felt a wave of relief — it was happening. We were in control now. We were going to meet our baby so soon.

Back in our room, the wait began. My back was killing me, and the pain was ramping up. I put on the TENS machine and used a spiky massage ball to get through until it was go-time. Then came the real prep: gown on, jewellery and undies off. A wheelchair arrived, and off we went to the theatre waiting room. Brendan got into his sexy scrubs — thongs still on, obviously. Classic Aussie dad move.

The anaesthetist went through all the scary risks while inserting the drip — not exactly calming, but necessary. Then I was wheeled into the theatre and helped onto the bed. I had to sit perfectly still — sticking out my back while keeping my hips relaxed. I was shaking like a leaf but I breathed through the anxiety and breathed a sigh of relief when it was done so quickly. Everything went warm and tingly. I was laid flat. They tested me with ice — I could feel it from the boobs up, but nothing below. Success.

The anaesthetist didn’t have Spotify to play my birth playlist (tragic), but somehow we ended up with Taylor Swift playing as the surgery started and I wasn’t mad about it. I remember my body rocking chaotically side to side. I was just looking at Brendan the whole time — he kept me so calm and present. Then my OB said, “Oh my god.” My heart dropped, thinking something was wrong. But seconds later, they lifted our son up and our OB said, “Front rower for the Broncos here… wow, look at the size of this baby… this kid is ready for school… nearly five kilos of baby right here… give Kevvy Walters a ring mate — Payne Haas has his replacement!”

Arthur (Artie) was born at 1:13pm and was 4.84kg of pure scrumptiousness. Brendan went to cut the cord while I was being stitched up. My OB kept the comedy gold commentary coming: “If anyone’s had a good day today, it’s your vagina… you would’ve never been the same.” Artie was placed on my chest — skin to skin, pure magic. Our little fella (not so little) screamed his lungs out the whole time — strong, loud, making himself known. Brendan stayed with him for the final checks while I was wheeled into recovery. Soon after, our boy was brought back to me and latched straight away. My teeth were chattering so much from the drugs. I had been told from friends who’d had c-sections this might happen so I wasn’t phased by it. We were wheeled down to our room — Artie still attached to my boob.

The next few days were a blur — a whirlwind of pain, no sleep, and worry. Artie lost 12% of his birth weight and had low blood sugar readings, which meant constant monitoring and feeding around the clock. A few of the midwives were trying to push formula top ups after every feed but I was keen to use up the expressed colostrum from pregnancy until my milk came in properly. I was wrecked — sore, exhausted, and every movement felt like my insides were tearing apart. That first shower post-birth was hellish. There was no time to rest. Everything felt fragile. But somehow, in the foggy, teary, messy haze, we were completely in love — trying to soak up the magic of the newborn bubble.

We quickly learned that nothing stays the same for long. Everything feels huge in the moment — but it can change in an instant. And it did. His blood sugar stabilised after a couple of days, and soon enough, he was stacking on the weight like an absolute boss.

While it wasn’t the natural birth I wanted, reflecting on it now makes me feel so strong and fucking powerful. Whenever someone hears that I birthed a 4.84kg baby, they always seem a bit relieved when I mention it was a C-section. But let’s be clear, it was not the easy way out. My body is still recovering — from growing him, carrying him, and bringing him into the world — even 16 months later. And honestly, I couldn’t be prouder of what my body did. It made space for this big, beautiful boy — and brought him here safely.