I can’t go on with life and not post about this. So here you go.
My BFF asked me to be her doula for her second birth, and I unhesitatingly said yes.
Then I hesitated.
I’m trained to be a doula, but I’ve never actually been a doula before.
What if I was a basketcase? What if I fell apart like I do when I hear birth stories or watch a (real) birth on TV and I ended up needing my BFF to hug me, her doula, and keep me calm and focused?
Well, I already said yes, so that couldn’t happen. I made a pact with My Doula Self that we were going to git ‘er done. All business, baby.
Then I stopped thinking about it and got on with my very normal, non-doula life.
Until last week, when I got The Call.
Insert: gushing superlatives.
It was a perfect birth.
Insert: More gushing superlatives.
You don’t want those kinds of details. Just trust me.
But Insert: More gushing superlatives.
And the biggest surprise of all:
It’s a girl!
(My BFF comes from a strong line of Boy-Havers, so this was a true surprise!)
I fixed dinner afterwards while everybody put the dining-room-turned-birth-room back together.
Then I got to hold baby Adelai.
I want one.
Don’t tell Doc I said that.
Isn’t she beautiful?
I’m happy to report that I did not crawl into my BFF’s lap and burst into tears as her baby was born. I didn’t call my mom, say “forget this” and drive to Starbucks, or do anything drastic for that matter. I was simply her doula.
And my BFF has no idea what a blessing that experience was for me.