Rafael’s Birth Story: I Think He Chose His Day

The story of how I tried to plan his arrival, learned to let go, accidentally watched a rocket launch—and realized Rafa was going to come exactly when he was ready.

We were overdue by one week, and I had an appointment to be induced on September 14th.

And to be honest with you, I didn’t want that.

Not because I was afraid of the drugs used for induction, but because I believe we choose the day we come into this world. I believe that day holds some kind of importance in the journey of who we are meant to become and what we are meant to do in this world.

Call it superstition.

So naturally, I did EVERYTHING they tell you to do to induce labor.

Walking. Dates. The Starbucks drink. You name it.

Nothing.

Rafa had made my body his home, and apparently he was very comfortable there.

All of a sudden, I had this weird mix of feelings. Part of me thought, I must have done a very cozy job in there. The other part wondered, Am I not in touch with my body enough? Why can’t I talk to it and tell it that it’s time?

So I did what I know best: stayed positive.

Although, to be completely transparent, I cried a lot in the bathroom.

But I wouldn’t let myself leave that bathroom mirror without changing my attitude. Because at the end of the day, all I have is faith.

“Toma el mismo esfuerzo hacer mala cara a buena cara, entonces elige buena cara.” — My mom

It takes the same effort to make a bad face as it does a good one, so choose the good face.

And I did.

The Day Before Rafa

That Sunday, we decided to skip church.

Pete wanted to go, but he had hurt his left eye the day before while finishing our subfloor.

If you’re on my website, you probably already know that we’ve been trying to manage a budget restoration of our 1930s Florida home while also going through pregnancy—and now becoming new parents.

Very normal behavior.

Back to the subfloor.

We had to remove part of the flooring after taking out the old butler staircase and also needed to level the floor. Since Baby Rafa still hadn’t made his entrance into the world, Pete decided Saturday was obviously the perfect opportunity to finish it.

While cutting wood, and carelessly not wearing safety glasses, something flew into his eye.

And let’s be honest: someone as experienced as Pete with power tools should know better.

But I give him grace because everything he does is for the benefit of this new little family.

So Sunday morning: no church.

Pete had a bad eye, and I guess you don’t want to give God the side-eye. LOL.

Instead, we decided to make it a beach day—hopefully our last one before Baby Rafa arrived.

My sister, Lala, was already in town to help us manage postpartum and be the good sister with the extra set of hands everyone needs.

We got ready. I felt completely normal.

And off to the beach we went.

And Then, a Rocket

I love going to Playalinda Beach in Cape Canaveral. It’s a little more private, usually less crowded, and there are no cars driving on the beach—which I hate.

We were running later than normal for a beach day and ended up arriving around 2 PM.

To my shock, there was a huge line of cars waiting to enter the park.

This was NOT normal.

Usually there are maybe three cars ahead of you and you drive right in. I thought there had been an accident or something.

The park ranger checked our pass and directed us into a faster lane. We skipped probably 14 cars.

I remember thinking, All these people don’t have passes? Everyone decided to pay for the day TODAY?

I vaguely asked Pete to check whether there was a launch happening, but then we got distracted and brushed it off.

On our way to Lot 6, we saw a turtle crossing the road.

We stopped. Pete jumped out and helped the turtle cross safely.

Good karma.

Another turtle saved.

Honestly, this becomes a surprisingly normal thing when you live in Florida. It’s wild out here.

We finally got to the beach. The water was perfect. The sand was perfect. We sat down and enjoyed the sun.

About 15 minutes later, I heard what I can only describe as a bomb—if I ever heard one.

I turned to my right.

There it was.

A rocket launching into space.

We had somehow, without planning it, without rushing, and by simply letting the day flow, ended up sitting on the beach watching a rocket launch.

And looking back, that feels significant.

Because that was exactly how I had hoped labor would happen.

No forcing it. No planning every second. Just letting it flow.

Okay… Is This Labor?

After the beach, we headed home.

Around 7 PM, Pete reached out to one of his clients who is a nurse to get a second opinion about his eye.

Meanwhile, Lala and I decided to watch a scary movie with banana bread and matcha.

Obviously.

I had also started feeling some uncomfortable pain in my lower back and something that felt like period cramps. Walking seemed to help, so I kept moving around.

I brushed it off.

Earlier that day, I had texted my OB-GYN asking if I could delay my induction. She told me to come in early the next morning so she could check me and we could decide what to do.

So I was NOT in the headspace of, I might go into labor tonight.

My positivity about spontaneous labor had honestly started turning into disappointment and giving in to the fact that induction was probably happening.

Then Pete’s nurse friend texted him:

Go to the emergency room ASAP.

Of course.

And almost immediately, my pain started getting stronger and stopped really going away.

Somewhere in the back of our minds, I think we both knew:

This might be it.

I had felt a smaller version of this pain earlier that week, but something—the gods, life, the stars, the rocket, and probably my Colombian superstition—was telling me:

This is it.

So we packed whatever was left into the car.

To go to urgent care.

For Pete.

While I was possibly in labor.

Because apparently one emergency at a time would have been too easy.

My contractions kept getting stronger on the drive, so we downloaded an app and started timing them.

At this point, all three of us knew:

We were getting a baby soon.

We arrived at the emergency center and Pete ran inside.

In my head I’m thinking, If this takes less than an hour, I can wait.

For someone who LOVES having control, pregnancy has probably been my biggest lesson in letting go.

Well, no good news.

Nobody could see him quickly.

They even laughed when he explained that he had a very small time frame because his pregnant wife was outside in early labor.

So Pete came back out, and we all decided:

Winnie Palmer. Let’s go.

We’re Having a Baby

By the time we arrived at Winnie Palmer Hospital, my contractions were about five minutes apart and lasting about one minute each.

We went in, and they checked me to see whether I was dilated enough to be admitted.

Meanwhile, I told Pete:

“Try to get someone in this hospital to look at your eye. I can manage. I can hold on.”

Famous last words.

I stayed with Lala while they checked me.

And the pain was getting to Búfalo Natalia—an endearing nickname my mom has for me because of my strength.

But even Búfalo Natalia was struggling.

I felt terrible squeezing my sister as hard as I wanted to squeeze Pete.

And inside my head:

Where is he? This is messed up. He should be here. WTF? We literally took a course for this. WHERE IS HE?!

Poor Lala texted him to come back.

By this point it was around 11:30 PM.

The doctor had already cleared me for admission. We were just waiting for a room.

And I was waiting for one very important thing:

The epidural.

When they asked me to rate my pain from 1–10, all I could think was:

This is the worst pain I have ever felt in my life. TEN.

Poor Pete Was in Labor Too

Once Pete was finally with me, my anger disappeared.

He was there.

Now I could release some of this onto him.

I could not find a comfortable position during contractions.

The bed. Standing. The birthing ball.

At one point, I genuinely considered the floor.

The bouncing ball ended up being the best.

I would move Pete closer, then farther away. Touch me. Don’t touch me. Massage my lower back. No, not like that.

I pulled his shirt.

I made him move his body in figure eights with me while holding my hands.

Poor man was basically going through labor too.

Originally, I thought I wanted a walking epidural and then would add more medication later.

But at that point, I was already 4 centimeters dilated and thought:

Why am I trying to win an award here?

Release me from this insufferable pain.

The Epidural

Around 2 AM on September 14th, the anesthesiologist came in with a resident.

The resident started giving me the whole spiel about side effects.

A bit long of a talk for a woman currently having contractions, but okay.

I listened and then immediately turned to the anesthesiologist:

“I want you to do it.”

Nothing against the resident, but my sister-in-law had recently experienced a serious complication after an inadequate application, and my own doctor had told me I could request the anesthesiologist directly.

For something that felt this high-risk to me, I wasn’t going to play polite.

Between contractions, I held my body as still as I possibly could.

I got my Búfalo out.

I found the strength.

Pete held me.

He was my rock.

The epidural went in successfully.

And then…

Magic.

The pain started disappearing.

They gave me a button that allowed me to safely release additional medication if I needed it.

And me, being Colombian and naturally suspicious of American drugs, tried to keep myself feeling some pain.

The doctor asked if I could still feel my contractions.

“Yes.”

Apparently I had misunderstood the assignment.

I thought I was supposed to feel them the entire time.

I finally gave in and pressed the button.

And there I was.

Numb from my hips down.

Finally, I could breathe.

I could rest.

I even took a nap and did my makeup.

Waiting for Rafa

Around 6 AM, I was about 6 centimeters dilated. My contractions looked great.

But my water was still completely intact.

So we waited.

Lala went home to rest. Pete stayed with me.

And honestly?

I felt GOOD.

I was playing music. Relaxing.

Pretty chilling, I would say.

Around 10 AM, what felt like a buffet of doctors came into my room.

They told me I was 9.5 centimeters dilated and asked if I wanted them to break my water.

Immediately, my brain started going.

I’ve been trying this entire time to let things flow.

Rafa waited an extra week.

Do I really need to press the express-lane button just to “get it over with”?

I wasn’t in pain.

So I asked for an hour.

Please.

After carrying this baby for nine months and going through all of this, just give me one more hour.

Maybe it sounds silly. Maybe it was stubborn.

But I wanted to give my body that chance.

12:08 PM

At this point, I had a new nurse named Shaide.

And this amazing woman worked me.

She cleaned me, moved me, changed my positions and helped create space for Rafa to move farther down.

But inside my head, I was back in that same emotional place:

Why am I not in touch enough with my body for my water to break?

Looking back, I wish someone had simply told me:

You’re okay. We can wait. This is normal.

And then—

At 12:08 PM, my water broke.

ON ITS OWN.

I felt what I can only describe as a tiny bomb going off inside my body.

The weirdest feeling.

And at that point, probably the most exciting one.

Pete had literally just stepped out to get coffee.

Of course.

I called him:

“I BROKE WATER!!!!”

He ran back.

Shaide happened to be delivering another baby, and when they told her what happened, she asked if I could wait for her before starting to push.

And yes.

I wanted her there.

She had become part of our team.

Time to Push

We started pushing around 1 PM.

And THIS was the part I was not prepared for.

All the yoga.

All the breathing techniques.

All the pregnancy preparation.

And somehow nobody really explains:

Hold your breath and push like you need to go number two.

That’s it.

That’s the technique.

At first, I kept pushing through my face instead of directing the pressure down.

Instant headache.

Shaide helped me recognize when I was doing it wrong and taught me how to redirect that energy.

We tried different positions, and little by little, Rafa started coming down.

Around 2:40 PM, Shaide called the doctors.

They could see him.

He was on his way into the world.

Everyone started getting ready.

And I changed my playlist.

There was only one appropriate song for the final stretch:

Madonna — “Jump.”

That song pumps me up for anything.

This was it.

The final stretch of this mega-marathon between me, my mind, my body and my baby.

Two more pushes.

And just like that—

Baby Rafa was born.

They pulled him out and handed him directly to me.

I was in complete shock.

Like…

WTF?!

I cried. Pete cried. And then somehow the crying turned into laughter—pure excitement, relief and disbelief.

I looked at this little person I had been talking to and waiting for for nine months, held him, and immediately started talking to him in Spanish.

“Ya llegaste, mi bebé. Todo va a estar bien.”

And just like that, all the questioning from that last week disappeared.

Maybe my body had been listening to me all along. Maybe Rafa had too.

My water broke when it was ready. Rafa came when he was ready. And the woman who loves to plan everything had absolutely nothing to do with the timing of the most important moment of her life.

The day before, we had accidentally watched a rocket launch into the sky—no planning, no rushing, just being exactly where we needed to be at exactly the right time.

And less than 24 hours later, there he was.

My Rafa.

Call it faith. Call it superstition. Call it whatever you want.

I think Rafa chose his day.

And it was perfect.