October 9, 2019 | 1:42 am

We certainly don’t play favorites when we attend births, but this birth was a special one in our books. Our entire team got to be in the birth space together for the first time to support one of our own. We’re thrilled to share Hugo’s birth story here in Gather Birth Cooperative co-founder Emily’s own words.

As someone whose professional life has long centered on storytelling, it seemed likely that writing my own birth story would be easy. After all, I’ve documented so many others! Retelling my second-born’s arrival, however, has been one of my greatest creative challenges. Here’s my perspective on how it played out, and thank goodness for photographs:

Unlike the final stretch of my first pregnancy, by the time 38 and 39 and then 40 weeks rolled around, I was absolutely ready to meet our baby. Where there had been a sense of uncertainty before meeting our daughter three years prior, now there was only impatience. All but a quiet trace of my only significant worry - the possibility of a repeat experience with a retained placenta - were gone, thanks to ongoing dialogue with my providers, an articulated list of birth hopes, and three incredible business partners who were always willing to lend their expertise. My impatience didn’t have much to do with the fact that my husband and I chose not to find out the sex of our baby, either, since I was certain it was a girl. More simply: it had been a challenging pregnancy. I was ready for the next part. The good part.

Seventeen hours before our baby arrived, I began feeling a bit of cramping every fifteen minutes. Then it was eight minutes. Then four. Two. The texts I sent during this time sound uncertain in retrospect - “I may be having contractions, we’ll see” - but I was quietly confident things were happening. I simply wanted to rest at home, alone, for as long as possible, without the expectations of others.

My husband returned from work to drive me to my final pregnancy checkup, scheduled for midday. By the time we rolled up to the clinic, my contractions had spread out significantly. Still: “that looks like the face of a person in labor,” my doctor said. She was right. The waves returned, steady and strong, by the time we stepped back out into the still-warm October sunshine.

I wanted to go home and relax in my own bathtub; my husband was certain that there wasn’t time and that our daughter’s prediction of a baby born in our stairwell would materialize if we did. We went home. The baby was not born.

Twelve hours before we met our little one, we drove to the hospital. My sister met me out front, where I waited for my husband to park the car while fending off an eager volunteer who was absolutely determined to wheel me inside. Someone let Meredith, Gina, and Brooke know we were there; someone made sure our daughter would be picked up from preschool on time. There were nine attempts to place an IV; it was unpleasant. I lay in bed for a bit, then tried the ball, then tried walking and swaying. Back to the bed. Everything felt manageable, though occasionally intense, as long as I was reclined. Meredith arrived, with Brooke not far behind. I was eager to get back into a warm tub as soon as possible, and, once my IV arm was thoroughly waterproofed, I did, still smiling and chatting between most contractions. Beloved Icelandic music played. We waited together and time passed.

Nine hours before baby, I closed my eyes and proceeded to keep them shut until my final push. Doing lunges through the hallway? Eyes closed. Rebozo? Eyes closed. My visual memories fade entirely after the moment one of my friends removed the clock from the wall, surely trying to ward off discouragement as the hours inched by. Until the moment I helped draw my baby out of the water, I only remember sensations, sounds. Gina arrived, and I knew it was her from the tap-tap-tap her shoes made as she attempted a heeled tiptoe into the room.

Looking through my photographs later, I gasped at how unaware I became of my surroundings as the crackling intensity of labor picked up. I remain in awe of how much of the birth experience is held alone within the heart and memory of the birthing person.

This is the magic of hiring a birth photographer. With photos, I can look back and see my husband anchored beside me and the grin my sister had moments after the baby arrived. This is the power of having a team surrounding and supporting you, bearing witness to your story. When my words fail - when I cannot perfectly remember everything that swilred around me on this most marvelous and impossible of days - I have a collection of beautiful images to bring everything back into sharp focus. I have a husband, a sister, a flock of friends, who can share their perspectives and memories with me.

Seven hours until baby. Five. Three. I continued to spend a lot of time in the tub; my husband and doulas continue to spend a lot of time doing hip counter-pressure to ease the gritty pain in my lower back. Every so often, I called out to make sure my sister was still there. She was. They all were.

At some point, I made my way to the birth tub suite down the hall. There were peanut butter crackers and ice chips spooned carefully into my mouth, encouragement to try new positions. Sometimes I agreed; sometimes I just turned away and tuned everyone out. No matter what, everyone was supportive and flexible, trusting that my baby would arrive at the right time and in their own way. Just after midnight, I asked what time it was. After a few moments of silence, my sister spoke up. I was so happy for that solidity - a bit of reality to bring me back from the feeling that I might just float away in the warm water. I knew what date my baby would call their birthday. What joy.

In retrospect, it was clear that the time to welcome our little one had arrived when I began worrying that I would need to continue working this hard for ten more hours. “I can’t do this for much longer,” I told my husband, over and over. Just moments before the baby arrived, there was no doubt in my mind that were hundreds of challenging minutes remained.

And then!

Many hours before the morning sun rose, at 1:42 am, I lifted our sweet baby - a boy! - into my arms. Magnificent. He was - and is - perfect, all fuzzy auburn hair and wise eyes. I will never forget seeing him that first time, shouting immediately that he was a boy, seeing a tear on my steady husband’s cheek.

These photographs, captured by my Gather Birth co-founders, are treasures. As the parent of a new little baby, I truly hope that every client who hires our team will include photography as some portion of their package. There’s nothing like reliving this day over and over.