Last modified: Tuesday, February 27, 2007 12:18 AM EST LAVERTY: Baby, you're a natural It was always the same. First came the skeptical glance and furrowed brow. Then the head would invariably lower and the viewer would look up at me with a mixture of mock horror, disgust and disbelief. "What? Are you crazy?" Nobody could understand why, in an age where medications are dispensed like Pez candies, a woman of relatively sane mind would want to give birth without drugs. After all, many of the women I spoke to were older and had their babies via the alarming "ether" method, wherein they went to the hospital, got dosed with ether and woke up 22 hours later to find that - lo and behold! - they had given birth to a child. So in February 2005, I began a quest to find out everything I could about natural childbirth. As my belly blossomed, I read all the natural childbirth books my swollen fingers could hold. I feasted on whole-grain breads and fresh fruits and vegetables and gallons of cold, creamy milk. I learned about home birth and birthing balls and breathing techniques and giving birth in a tub. Through it all I kept trying to imagine what the pain of childbirth felt like. My husband Patrick and I created a birth plan. This is a piece of paper where you write down all the things you'd ideally like to happen (or avoid) during childbirth, and then forget at home when contractions hit on a Saturday morning at 2 a.m., three weeks before your due date. As we sped to the hospital, I marveled at how empty the highway was. Just a few sparkling lights and an occasional car cut into the inky night. As the Providence skyline came into view, I knew our lives would never be the same. The next time we made this trip, it would be in reverse, and we'd have a little girl in the backseat. It was around 4:30 a.m. by the time we made it through the intake and triage process. In the delivery room, we flipped on the TV and watched as Hurricane Rita came ashore. We walked and walked in the hallway outside our room, the sun sparkling through the wall of windows on our side. It was a beautiful day - sunny and breezy - a perfect early autumn afternoon, when the leaves are still green and you can still smell a tiny wisp of summer in the air. In between the pretty views, the pain would start up again, like a wave cresting onto shore. Grasping onto the wall, I doubled over while Patrick took his hands to the sides of my hips and squeezed - a neat little trick our midwife Noreen taught us. Relief, if but for a little while. It felt marvelous. Then the wave ebbed away and the walking would begin again. In between our hallway jaunts, I brought out the talismans meant to help focus my attention: an ultrasound picture of our little girl, a pink bootie and a photo of our three cats. All of these things were flung to the ground during the "transition" period, during which the mother prepares - in much pain - for the pushing phase. "Is this where some people throw up?" I asked Noreen through pants. "Yes," she said, smiling gently. For the 40 minutes I pushed with the pain, gripping the handrails on the side of the bed so hard they shook as guttural growls and yells came from my mouth. "I want an epidural!" I screamed after one of the more memorable contractions. "Please! I need an epidural!" They brought out a mirror so I could see our daughter's head. The quarter-sized spot of wavy black hair kept me going, even as I was about to run down the hall myself and fetch an anesthesiologist. Bearing down with all my strength, holding my breath, I gave one final push along with a beastly howl. And then, in seconds, she was here. Just as if she had always been. As Patrick cut the cord, Noreen placed my baby on my chest. I felt her warm, sweet, wavy hair and took in her delicate, China doll features. My chin. Patrick's eyebrows. I'm still not sure whose lips she has. Our baby. All natural. Oh yes. The pain of childbirth? Well, I don't have to explain it to you other moms. It's excruciating, especially those last 90 minutes or so. But it's also the most empowering, most Zen, most beautiful thing I've ever done. And yes, just a little crazy. Dana R. Laverty is still waiting for that epidural. You can reach her at danarae14@hotmail.com.