Many things culminating lately, banging together, rollicking around in the brain. Contemplations of a second pregnancy, labour and delivery bring the first one to mind for rehashing and reflecting.

The story of Evan’s birth, I admit, is sterile, tidied. I recorded the plot points faithfully, but much of the mess trickled away down into the bilge where it belongs, sloshing around beneath the ocean. A vivid but less than pristine collection of memories that stinks a little on a hot day. I keep them, but I don't take them out much.

They're irrelevant now, footnotes diminished in the brightness of Evan.

Birth is gorgeous, but not pretty. It makes you feel indescribably powerful, but its audience requires the shedding of all inhibitions.

Birth stretches you, pushes you, taunts you, bullies you, thrills you, shames you. It kicks you in the pants so hard you won’t sit down for a week. But then it’s over, and the next day breaks. They bring you soggy toast, cold tea and a celebrity gossip rag. You look outside and buses are running, people are late for work. The world trudges on, oblivious.

I’m a mother now! You want to hang out the window and yell, shaken and bruised but joyous. Can’t you see? I did it. Everything’s changed.

Your child-burrito snores in a plastic box, nose squashed, forcep-dented, chalky goop clinging to every crease. The most perfect 7 pounds, 9 ounces you’ll ever know. And you are more proud, more fulfilled, stronger than you’ve ever been in your entire life.

The messy stuff faded with the thrill of meeting our son. But contemplating another round of pregnancy and birth, I’m remembering more. To remind myself that I’m made of tough stock, that I can do it again.

Pride is not in having labour go exactly as you planned, all soft music and chanting and kissing and eucalyptus oil in the air. Sometimes your inner goddess says I'm outta here. Pride is in something else taking over. In discovering reserves of adaptability. We survive, even when it all goes to pot.

I was curled up in a ball for hours, immobilized with back labour. I had envisioned being a natural champ: moving, walking, bathing, turning, coaxing. But it wasn’t to be. Both of us, me and my backwards boy, were frozen. A full day like this made him stressed, exhausted.

His heart rate plummeted. The room erupted into Plan B, a gruff OB-GYN was brought on board and I was given a cup of some vile liquid to drink: NOW. What’s it for? I asked. Just drink it, an unfamiliar nurse replied. I obeyed, and it made me throw up. Christ. A heads-up would’ve been appreciated.

People are running in and out of the room, unplugging instruments, tugging at me. They tell me to hurry, and Justin’s wearing scrubs. I’m trying not to cry, to keep it together. An emergency c-section after twelve hours of back labour. Hysteria bubbles, wrestles with logic. I have not failed. I have not failed.

One nurse in particular laughed at me all the way down the hallway as they wheeled me into the OR, yelling, “She’s a puker! She’s a puker! We all had to wait because she puked!”

Stupid twat. I wished I’d thought to aim it in her direction.

The operating table is shaped like a T, and arms are strapped down to keep them out of the way. I was a sacrificial offering, soon to be devoured. Fixed at the wrist and ankles under spotlights, fifteen-odd masked faces staring at me, whispering, waiting for gore. 'Vulnerable' isn't sufficient. All that was missing was the bone necklace. Half of me found it funny: the other half was terrified.

The obstetrician gave me one contraction – one chance to push under duress of major surgery. I pushed to avoid that c-section, to get out of that room, to get back to soft lights and people I trusted. And so my very own Rocky Balboa corkscrewed his way into the world.

They stitched and wiped and pressed and murmured around me, and I strained to see past all the blue-clad figures huddled around the plastic box. Two purple legs, kicking, the flash of a tiny hand, matted, sticky dark hair.

And Pouf! There was no one else in the room but me and our son. Even Justin was a blur as I thought Bring him to me so I can finally look in his eyes and know he’s real, my inhabitant.

I’ll always remember the lime popsicles. The smiling nurse who came to look at me, early on, and said briskly, Dear, now dear, you’re a mess. Let’s mop you up, and you’ll be good as new. She made me feel dignified against all odds. The fresh strawberries and pineapple our family brought from Pete’s Frootique on Spring Garden Road, explosively refreshing. The quality of light when late one afternoon, we laid a sleepy Evan on the hospital bed and he obliged us with pictures, and we fell in love.

It was the first day of a bigger, vaster life.

I’m not sure why I’ve revisited this, revised it. Labour is a raw, complicated endeavour, the entrusting of a piece of your soul to another. I’m going to do it again before too long. I’ll be swept away in the rapids once more, hoping not to be smashed into the rocks.

But, as in everything else, all we can do is turn our smashings into learning, conviction, and passion for life.