Atlanta, my sweet Atlanta. I realize I’ve yet to write down her story, and it's long overdue.
As with all my birth stories, I begin not with the moment of their physical arrival, but with the first time I truly met them. This could be when their soul first connected with mine, when I saw them in a vision, or when their name revealed itself to me. Atlanta’s story is no different. Meeting her long before she was conceived was just as profound as the moments when her physical body was created and brought into this world.
So, here is Atlanta’s story.
A First Vision
If you've read her big sister’s story, you might remember how I wrote, "I had a vision. I saw two little girls, close in age, walking hand in hand. I felt that their names should be Troia and Atlanta."
That was my first encounter with Atlanta—a vision of a beautiful little girl destined to walk this earth with her sister. It was clear they were meant to arrive not far apart in age, and that’s exactly what happened. When Troia was just six months old, Atlanta decided it was time to join us.
We didn’t try to stop her. My vision had made it clear what was meant to be, and I’ve always trusted those insights. We were prepared for Troia to become a big sister earlier than most.
Atlanta was ready, and it took just one try for her to begin her journey with us. She was eager to be part of our family, and so a new chapter began.
Change in Birth Plan
Just a minute after Troia’s birth, I turned to my then-partner and declared that the next baby would be born at home. There was no doubt in my mind—I wanted a different experience. So, when Atlanta was on the way, we set our sights on a homebirth. We discussed this with our gynaecologist, but he immediately dismissed the idea. He was adamantly against homebirths and even refused to continue as our doctor if we chose that path. His firm stance only strengthened my resolve.
We soon connected with a local duo of midwives, and from the start, we felt a warm connection with them. They were open, supportive, and fully embraced our desire for a homebirth. They also had a network of gynaecologists who were comfortable working alongside them, and we chose one from their recommendations to support us through the rest of the pregnancy. It was then that we realized how much better our first birth experience could have been if we’d had a different gynaecologist from the beginning. This new one was a breath of fresh air—completely different from what we had before.
Easy Peasy Pregnancy
Atlanta’s pregnancy was smooth sailing. No morning sickness, no complications, not a single struggle. It was the kind of pregnancy that just glided by without any bumps along the way. Now, after four more pregnancies, I fully appreciate how much of a luxury that was. It was truly wonderful.
Naming the Baby
Even though my vision had already shown me that the baby would be a girl and that her name was Atlanta, my ego had a way of creeping in during pregnancy, casting doubts here and there. While I never questioned that the baby was a girl— we didn’t prepare for a boy at all—I did find myself doubting the name at times. Not because I didn’t love the name Atlanta (I adored it!), but because I wanted to be absolutely sure it was the right one. It was pure ego, doing what it does best—trying to protect and second-guess.
In the end, we had three names in the running: Atlanta, Acte, and Aralynn. But finally, I decided to quiet my ego and let it go for now. I told myself I would choose when the baby was born—although, deep down, I knew there was never really any doubt.
28 weeks
At around 28 weeks, anxiety hit me hard. This was the same point in Troia’s pregnancy when we discovered I was 1 cm dilated and had to go on bed rest to keep her in as long as possible. So when I reached that milestone during Atlanta’s pregnancy, I was overwhelmed by a wave of panic. I had a severe anxiety attack, accompanied by intense Braxton Hicks contractions.
We rushed for an emergency consultation with our gynaecologist, fearing the worst. But thankfully, everything was perfectly fine—Atlanta was high, dry, and there was no sign of dilation. It was a pure anxiety attack, nothing more.
It was during that consultation that our gynaecologist shared something surprising. He mentioned that the previous one might have overreacted during Troia's pregnancy. According to him, it’s not uncommon for some women to be 1 cm dilated around that time, and it usually doesn’t mean anything significant. Dilation isn’t fixed, he explained; it can fluctuate between 1, 2, or even 3 cm, and often it’s not a cause for concern.
He suspected that much of the drama during my first pregnancy might have been unnecessary. He reassured us that he would monitor things closely but wouldn’t take any action unless it was truly needed. He wasn’t one to panic easily—a breath of fresh air, as I said before, and exactly the kind of calm, steady presence I needed in a gynaecologist.
Baby Was Breech
Unfortunately, there was one thing our gynaecologist did keep a close eye on—our daughter was breech, and had been for quite some time. It seemed to be her preferred position. The issue was that she was growing, and the specific type of breech position she was in didn’t leave much room for her to turn.
As the weeks went by, the chances of her turning on her own grew smaller and smaller. Eventually, our gynecologist began to bring up the need for a serious discussion about our options. Our midwives were included in this conversation since they didn’t handle breech births at home.
Suddenly, the homebirth I had hoped for was no longer a certainty.
Planning a Breech Birth
Fortunately, our gynaecologist was one of only two in the metropolitan area who supported breech births and didn’t automatically opt for a caesarean. That aligned perfectly with my own preference—I was determined to avoid a c-section if possible. I was ready to go through a breech birth instead.
He had an excellent understanding with my midwives when it came to these matters. They were permitted to guide me through labor and delivery in the hospital, but legally, he had to be present at the moment of birth, just in case. This arrangement turned out to be the best possible solution for us: giving birth with my midwives in the hospital, with my gynaecologist there for support if needed.
Everyone involved knew how important it was to me not to repeat the experience I had during my first birth. They all worked together seamlessly to make sure that didn’t happen. Although the birth would take place in a different hospital where the gynaecologist worked, it was agreed that it would just be my midwives, my partner, and me in the birth room—until the final moments, when the gynaecologist would quietly stay in the corner to oversee everything.
I felt incredibly respected by this team. At that point in my motherhood journey, it was the best outcome I could have hoped for. While I was disappointed that it wouldn’t be a homebirth, I was deeply grateful that all my wishes and concerns were honored.
August 26th - 35 Weeks and 2 Days Pregnant
Pain. A lot of pain. I had never experienced anything like it before. My belly was cramping, bulging, and doing things it shouldn’t have been doing. Even now, 18 years later, I can still remember that pain. Looking back, it was worse than labor itself. Much worse.
Not knowing what else to do, we called the gynaecologist, who told us to come in immediately for a check-up.
To our surprise, it turned out that our baby had turned. The baby that was supposed to be unturnable had somehow managed to shift her entire, almost fully grown body within me.
But then, with a big smile, the gynaecologist said, “This means your homebirth is back on the table!”
August 30th - 4 Days Later
At 35 weeks and 6 days pregnant, Troia and I enjoyed a lazy morning together. She woke up around 10, nursed in bed, and then drifted back to sleep beside me until 11:30, when she nursed again. But that second nursing session felt different—something was off. It was just a gut feeling, but it stuck with me. When we finally got out of bed, I noticed a bit of wetness "down there." Not much, nothing that would cause alarm, but enough to make me wonder if something was happening.
I called my mother with the question, "How do you know if your water is breaking or if you just peed the bed?" Her answer wasn’t clear either. There was no gush of water, but it didn’t smell like pee either. As we stayed on the phone, I started to feel a light cramp. Then another. They were gentle, but combined with my intuition, I knew I needed to keep an eye on things. My mother suggested calling the midwife, so I did.
One of the midwives was on vacation, leaving the other to handle everything on her own. She had just returned home from another birth and needed some sleep before she could assist me. We agreed I’d monitor the situation, and if things got worse—as we both suspected they might—I’d call her back. During that conversation, the cramps continued to come.
I called my mother back to update her. It was comforting to have someone there, supporting me through the process. The cramps were becoming more frequent, though still manageable, but the intensity was changing. I told her I’d try soaking in a bath with Troia to see if it would ease the cramps. I’d heard that if it was just Braxton-Hicks, a bath could calm them down. If not, it might mean I was in labor.
After that call, I rang my then-husband to let him know what was happening. He said he’d check in during his lunch break and, if things hadn’t improved, he’d try to come home. (Let’s just say he wasn’t exactly known for his strong sense of responsibility.)
As the bath was ready, the doorbell rang. My mother had decided to come over to take care of Troia so I could focus on myself. She had a feeling… The bath didn’t ease the cramps; in fact, it seemed to intensify them. With my mother caring for Troia, I had a moment to myself, and the cramps—now clearly waves—began to grow stronger. It was obvious these weren’t Braxton-Hicks.
Just then, my then-husband arrived home too. He had told his boss that I might be in labor, and his boss sent him home. The waves intensified, and I found myself slipping into a focused, almost meditative state. Things were progressing quickly. We called the midwife again, who advised us to head to the hospital. Unfortunately, because I was under 37 weeks, she wasn’t legally allowed to assist with a homebirth. So, my hopes for a homebirth were dashed. My then-husband called his father to take us to the hospital, and Troia went home with my mother, who would care for her during the birth.
Hospital Birth
Upon arriving at the hospital, we were guided to our labor room. The staff asked if I wanted them to prepare the water bath, and I eagerly agreed as the waves were now incredibly intense.
Not long after, our midwife arrived, and I felt a huge sense of relief. Somehow, I still believed they might stop the labor with medication, and that I would return next month to give birth for real. It hadn’t fully dawned on me that I might actually be giving birth that day. But when she performed the first examination, her wide-eyed expression said it all— I was fully dilated, and the baby was visible. There was no stopping this. The baby was coming.
Despite being unprepared for the reality of giving birth, I stepped into the water bath and immediately began pushing. Four minutes later, another push. And four minutes after that, another one. Even though I was in full labor, my body only pushed every four minutes, leaving us to wait in between. It was oddly amusing; I actually fell asleep between pushes at one point.
However, after an hour of pushing with little progress, it became clear that the four-minute intervals and the water were not helping. The labor wasn't progressing as it should. We decided to switch to the birthing chair. Once there, the midwife suspected that the baby was “sunnyside up,” or as we beautifully say in Dutch, a "sterrenkijkertje," a star watcher. This means the baby had descended face-up, looking toward my belly instead of my back. When a mother gives birth lying on her back, the baby appears to be looking up at the stars as they emerge. I love our Dutch word for it. Sterrenkijkertje. Star watcher.
A few more pushes confirmed our suspicion. With my permission, a hospital midwife was brought in to help by applying pressure on the top of my belly. One push later, and the baby was crowning. One more push, and her head was out. But remember, there were still four minutes between each push.
That moment, I will never forget. During those four minutes before the next push, she quietly opened her eyes. They were pitch black, like a little doll’s, and she began looking around, taking in everything and everyone around her. Just her head was out, with a full head of dark hair, and she was already curious about the world. It was an extraordinary moment, having my baby partially born, yet still moving and kicking inside me, while her head was outside, quietly observing her surroundings for four long minutes. It was breathtaking. Even now, as I write this, I’m still mesmerized by that memory. It’s something I will never, ever forget.
One more push, and she was born. In that moment, my maternal instincts took over completely. As the midwife reached out to catch the baby, I instinctively swatted her hands away and took my baby into my own arms. If anyone had tried to interfere, I’m sure I would have roared, but thankfully, they understood and let me do my thing. I immediately pulled her onto my chest.
A girl! We had a little girl. Of course, this was no surprise—I had seen it in my vision—but we hadn’t confirmed it officially during the pregnancy (we never knew any of the genders of our babies before birth, except for my always-right-intuition).
Our sweet Atlanta was born (and just like that, the other names were forgotten). She was absolutely perfect.
Premature?
Even though she arrived a month early, Atlanta weighed a solid 2880 grams and measured 47 centimeters long. Not bad at all for a baby born that early. We were incredibly fortunate—she was healthy enough to stay with me from the moment she was born and never left my side.
After Birth
Of course, I needed stitches afterward, and hospital protocol required that a gynaecologist perform the procedure. They called the one on duty, and to my surprise, it was my own gynaecologist! He was taken aback to see me, especially since we had just seen each other four days earlier with no signs that I would give birth so soon. After hearing my story, he speculated that when Atlanta turned, she must have caused a tiny leak in the amniotic sac. That leak eventually led to labor, but it was so subtle that it didn’t show up on the ultrasound. And considering how quickly the birth progressed—just four hours in total, including 1.5 hours of pushing—there was really nothing that could have been done to prevent it.
But both baby and I were doing great, so in the end, everything turned out exactly as it was meant to.
The Sisters Met
That evening, my mother brought Troia to the hospital, and the sisters met for the first time. I remember that Troia had brought flowers for me, but in her excitement, she tossed them onto the bed without a second thought as she rushed to her baby sister. They connected instantly, and now, 18 years later, nothing has changed since that very first moment.
Breastfeeding
As the night settled in after Atlanta’s birth, I realized she hadn’t really nursed yet. I started to worry, but the midwives at the hospital reassured me. They explained that it was normal for some babies, especially since she was born a bit early. We agreed to keep an eye on it, but the midwives were confident she would start nursing soon.
And indeed, during the night, she suddenly began throwing up a significant amount of water, likely swallowed while she was still in the womb. Right after that, she eagerly sought out mommymilk, latching perfectly from the start and drinking as if her life depended on it. That was the beginning of a beautiful breastfeeding journey that would last for 5 years and 10 months. And so began my life as a mother with two nurslings.
18 Years of Atlanta
I could write endlessly about her. The first 19 months of her life were incredibly challenging. Atlanta was extremely sensitive to almost everything. She was ill for those entire 19 months, a combination of being premature and a star watcher. She couldn’t wear any kind of diapers as her skin would bleed severely. Even clothes washed with soap were too much for her until she was 3 years old. We had to wash her clothes separately, first with washing nuts and then a second rinse cycle with just water to remove any residue. That was the level of her sensitivity. She projectile vomited every time she nursed and cried—cried for what seemed like months on end. I remember having her in a baby wrap 24/7, literally. Even at night, I would sleep on a pile of pillows with her in the carrier on top of me.
It was exhausting, but Atlanta taught me so much during that time. It was because of her that I learned to set boundaries in my motherhood. Well-meaning advice and comments from others didn’t help, and I learned to speak up to protect my children from all the know-it-alls. She was exactly the daughter I needed, with exactly the challenges she had, to teach me those lessons. I’m forever grateful for that. Like all my children, she played an important role in shaping me as a mother.
After those first 19 months, life gradually became easier, though we did welcome our third daughter around that time. Atlanta became the easiest child ever, a blessing to all of us, bringing balance to our family in a way no one else could.
And now, she is 18 years old. I’m finding it hard to come to terms with that. My smallest baby, the one I felt I needed to protect the most out of all of them, is now 18. For heaven’s sake, where did the time go?
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