Today, my baby is five years old. Five. Such a big girl. Such a little girl.

In “She” Elvis Costello sings “I’ll take her laughter and her tears and make them all my souvenirs. Where she goes I’ve got to be. The meaning of my life is She.” This song has always reminded me of Gwennie–it’s about the duality of relationships, the joy and the pain. Raising children always brings plenty of both joy and pain, and Gwennie serves hers up with double shot of drama.

Gwennie was actually born on her due date (which is unusual), and we always joke that it was the last time she’s ever done what she was asked to do. We didn’t know if Gwennie was going to be a boy or a girl because, true to her…challenging…nature, she wouldn’t give it up for the ultrasound. But aside from not knowing her sex, and from annoying student nurses, Gwennie’s birth was perfect. It marked a real transition for me.

I hate hospitals, but I’m usually a people pleaser, a do-what-I’m-told kind of person. But while I was pregnant with Gwennie, I read Naomi Wolf’s Misconceptions, and I was entrenched in a the-birth-industry-is-misogynist paradigm (I still, mostly, believe this). I was determined to give birth when my body decided to and without any medical interventions like inductions and episiotomies and epidurals (I’d accidentally had a natural birth with Mira because I was progressing too quickly and couldn’t get drugs, so I knew what I was getting into). At my April 30 appointment, my doctor wanted to set up an appointment for induction, just in case. I refused, and my doctor got a little pissy with me. I spent the evening of April 30 rubbing my belly and willing Gwennie to be born. My labor started four hours later.

There is, of course, the detailed labor story involving Crse and her husband Gill. Crse sat with me and just talked to me during the first few hours of my labor–and her role in the event is immeasurable. Gill played his part too.

I was afraid that if I went to the hospital too early that the doctor would force birth interventions on me, despite my clear resistance. I insisted on walking around the backyard for an hour after my water broke. I’ll never forget the image of Gill standing in the back door and yelling to me across the yard, “you have to go to the hospital.”

We got on the road. I called my mom and sister from the car. We arrived at the hospital at 10:30 am, and Gwennie was born shortly after noon. No epidural. No episiotomy. It was perfect.

What I learned from Gwennie’s birth is that I could trust my body and myself. I learned that if I listened to my body and followed my instincts (and not the doctor’s schedule) that everything would be okay. I also learned that I could trust my people: Crse and Gill; my mom, who attended Gwennie’s birth–the only grandchild she’s actually watched come  into the world; my sister, who threw the annoying student nurse out of the room; Reg, who snuck me contraband water when no one was looking.

To me, Gwennie’s birth was perfect more because of the efforts of my family than the work of the hospital staff, who played an entirely supportive role. Even my doctor, who had never hidden her skepticism of my birth plan, said, “Well, you did it. You really knew what you wanted.”

Wanted. Gwennie was. Gwennie is very, very wanted. Happy Birthday, baby girl.