The last time I gave birth was about 4 months ago. I love to give birth. The first time I did it, I did it naturally, and I told my husband, "I'd do that every other day." Because it's truly not the birth, it's the pregnancy--the growing, the craving, the stretching, the peeing. I mean, really, the pregnancy is the hard part.

And don't let me frighten you away with the whole "natural birth" thing, because I wouldn't do that to you. I'm not a "natural birth" kind of girl. I'm much more of a "why don't we see what this is like . . . " person and when I found out what it was really like, they said it was too late to do anything about it. I sweated and screamed that first birth out and it was empowering. Chalk one up for natural. I smiled and talked through the next two. Chalk two up for epidural.

But, my fourth is the story here. That was the one I did a few months ago, only I gave birth to him in Europe. Before I go any further, let me say that I'm seriously American. "Seriously" in that I not only come from the U.S., but I also really belong there. I had those first three births in the same hospital, two of them in the same room. They all were then baptized in the same church I married my husband. I've got roots somewhere just north of Pittsburgh, PA and they're stretched to the max because I've got them pulled clear here to Belgium.

The only thing I knew up until admittance was that "they pamper you" here in Europe and "you get to stay for a lovely 5 days. They don't kick you out after 3." Great. Because after my first, I'd really grown warm and fuzzies toward the nursing staff and nursery at the hospital. I wasn't shy. I called for meds and when they came with my dose, I'd give them a wink and a, "Why don't you take that baby to the nursery while I rest?" After my second, I stopped turning the room tv on. I just enjoyed the silence. After my third, who was born the day before Easter, they said I was an experienced mother and they'd be happy to sign us out early so we could spend the holiday with our family. I said, "I'll go if three of you come with me. I'm not leaving without 3." They stayed put . . . and so did baby and I.

I celebrated the idea of pregnancy in Europe and five days of hospital. We were planning on having at least four, we still consider more, and we were pregnant months after arriving in Belgium. I realized quickly that things were different here: ultrasounds every trimester (which meant extra trips to the hospital because the doctor's offices are not equipped), bloodwork every month (again, because the doctor's offices are not equipped to test urine/blood), and a scheduled induction more than 2 weeks before the due date. You heard me. And if you're used to carrying babies up to and past the due dates like I am, you know what a struggle it is to get the doctor to agree to induce even the day of your due date. But, you know what? They don't have practices here like they do back home, where in the case that your doctor is not available, three others are. It was just her. And she wanted to decide when that baby came.

I was a nervous wreck when I checked in. Even though that baby was uncomfortably large by the time I was 6 months pregnant, even though I'd stopped sleeping months ago and I had lost all the energy needed to take care of my other 3 children, and even though there was a very qualified physician overseeing this process--I really struggled with the idea of removing my son 2 weeks early. It's just a known fact: my babies enjoy the womb. They like to take their time and who am I to rush them? But, in the end, I went along with it. I did check in 18 days ahead of schedule.

It all started in a tiny room with a nurse who spoke little English. No hospital gown, I was supposed to provide my own night clothes but I forgot to remember that. I frantically searched the room for the medical equipment, the birthing table, the baby monitoring area--none of that was to be found. The nurse explained that I was going to be moved at the last minute, when it was time to push. Why? I ask you. Why move a woman who needs to push? Whatever. The induction started at 8 pm and they were still performing things to progress labor 10 hours later. I started crying (during the cruel and unusual epidural process) and never stopped. Finally, it was time to push.

The nurse and my OBGYN moved me to the birthing room. My husband was part of this as he was the muscle that got me to the new bed and also because I was still wearing his t-shirt. I felt so relieved on the birthing table, I remember, because it was the part I really loved. My husband was going to count during my pushes--a rythm we've grown accustom to and something that soothes me beyond belief--I was going to push with all my might and the doctor was going to pull the baby in one releasing gush and then! Then, I get to meet the little one whom I've been dreaming of for as long as I can remember.

Reality check: My husband was counting and I was soothed. All of a sudden, the doctor is screaming, "Take him! Take your baby! You do it!" and she's got my son there under one of his arms. Because I don't know why. And he's my baby so I grabbed him in a panic. Which, by the way, is not --by any means-- a releasing gush. To pull the child up and toward yourself, by yourself, is not comparable to having the child naturally come from the direction in which it was aiming. As I was holding the child, the doctor and nurse began to frantically remove all of the clothing on my upper body and then they pressed the creamy, warm little precious on top of me.

Without suctioning his nose and mouth, let alone wiping him off. Listen. That child came from me, born from a love that my husband and I hold true, and he is a miracle well beyond this Earth. I loved the idea of him before he was even created, so of course and you know, that I adored the baby. But, wipe him off. OK? Just get the creamy stuff off of him before you lay him up on me. Can you do that? But above all, suction him.

He was all white and creamy and warm on top of me, quiet. He wasn't crying and I was long past panic. What was happening (in hind-sight) is that the Europeans were reinforcing their value in skin-on-skin contact and that's not a bad thing. However, you could hear the goup and liquid in his breath and I couldn't enjoy the moment because, for the love of the living, suction this baby's mouth and nose.

When they finally attended to him, we found out he was a healthy 7.7 pounds. Amazing. Before the day, my smallest was 7.9 and my largest was 9.1. This child, two weeks before he was actually due, was well on his way to being my largest baby. He was within normal weight and size by his two week check-up. You should see him now--he's one of those fat and chubby football-player babies.

But, here's the ending to my story. Straight away after the birth, they took me and my lovely son to our hospital room. The nurse came and I told her right away that the cramps would soon be coming hard and fast (if you've had more than 2 children, you know what it's like after labor) and so bring on the medication and plenty of it. And, with a wink, I said, "I'm going to sleep. I gave birth all night long. Please, take the baby to the nursery." And she said, "We don't have a nursery. The baby stays with the mother at all times." For five days. The end.