We Buried the Placentas: A Mother’s Day Tale
I could write a whole book—maybe three—about birthing my children. Each of them arrived earthside in their own wild, harrowing way. And if you know them as people now, you’d probably say, Yeah, that tracks.
Because here’s the thing: a birth story often tells you everything you need to know about the essence of a child. Early, late, upside down, or backwards—whether they were cut out, pushed out, or pulled out by their feet—how they get here ends up making perfect sense once their little personalities begin to shine.
After my first birth, I remember thinking: Why aren’t we parading every new mom through the streets, high above our shoulders with confetti, street food, and maybe even a few tequila shots? The sheer magnitude of what just happened deserves a ticker-tape celebration.
Growing a baby—and then birthing that baby—is, quite frankly, the craziest thing ever. You do the sexy thing, and from there? You eat, sleep, drink a lot of water… and somehow, a cluster of cells inside you grows a heart. Then limbs. Then fingers and toes. And eventually, a brain capable of solving equations, driving a car, and putting a man on the moon.
And when that little cluster wants to be born, your body bends, morphs, stretches, and contracts. You open, and open, and impossibly open some more—and somehow a baby that seems too big to fit does fit. Your body doesn’t rip in half. A C-section doesn’t disembowel you permanently. Everyone (mostly) survives. It’s god-like.
Is there anything a woman can’t do?
Three Births, All the Clubs
As for me and my crew, we’re in all the birth clubs. Sophia came after a 21-hour home birth that ended with a NICU stay and a week of rapidly graying hair. Cooper was born in the hospital after a relatively smooth six-hour labor, ending with a pushing phase so fast the doctor missed it by twenty minutes. Mason finished the trio with a breech position and a double-wrapped umbilical cord—off to the C-section table we went.
Home birth with NICU. Check. Natural hospital birth. Check. Planned C-section. Check.
They each made their entrance with all the skin-of-our-teeth drama that perfectly sets the stage for parenting itself.
What to Do With a Placenta (Other Than Frame It)
Because we started with a home birth, Sophia’s placenta was carefully wrapped by our midwives and placed in the freezer. Naturally, we followed suit with the boys. Over the years, we collected a tidy stack of frozen placentas—11, 9, and 4 years old respectively—chilling next to the waffles.
Now, some earth mamas blend theirs into healing smoothies. Others snip the umbilical cord, dry it like jerky, and frame it on the wall. I have friends who’ve done both.
I, however, could stomach neither.
So we chose a third option: we buried them. Out of sight, under a tree. Think of it as the dead-fish principle taught to the pilgrims: decaying protein = healthy crops. In our case, a tree.
The Great Placenta Burial
Gross, right? My kids certainly thought so.
When we pulled those suckers out of the freezer—frozen, bloody, chicken-like slabs—there was a moment of collective horror. And honestly? That moment was a little sweet. After all the ways they entered this world—ways that cracked me open and rebuilt me—it felt strangely satisfying to watch them squirm over the organ that made their life possible.
Yep. Mama grew that thing. And you. And then birthed you through the deepest surrender she could muster. Take that.
Their reactions were as unique as their births.
Sophia: Grossed out but fascinated. “That was in you?” she asked, eyes wide, wheels turning.
Cooper: He nearly lost his lunch. The look on his face said it all. “We kept it in the FREEZER? NEXT TO OUR FOOD?” Safe to say he won’t be the doctor in the family.
Mason: Gloves on, in the dirt, trying to crawl into the hole with the frozen bundle. “Look at the BIG WORM, Mom!” he shouted. All in. Always wanting more.
And there we were, in the front yard, burying the placentas beneath a newly planted Japanese maple. Pushing dirt around the roots, adding water, laughing, gagging, wondering what the neighbors were thinking.
A Tree, A Ceremony, A Full Circle
Sure, that tree would grow without the organs underneath it. But burying them marked a full-circle moment. One that honored not just the births themselves, but the transformation they required of me.
Because let’s be honest: the end of pregnancy doesn’t get mourned. It gets skipped over in celebration of the new life. But pregnancy—and especially birth—requires a woman to die to her old self. To be reborn as a mother who will keep this child alive at any cost.
Sleep? Flat abs? A phone call without interruption?
Ashes to ashes. Dust to dust.
The placentas in the ground are more than biological leftovers. They are the physical remnants of the many versions of me I shed on the way to becoming a mother—versions I can no longer name, because the woman who emerged feels like she’s been here all along.
Every spring, when that tree buds anew—
Every summer, when its leaves turn a deep blood red—
Every fall, when those leaves float down and return to the soil—
It will remind me of my own transformation.
The conception of my babies.
The birth of my motherhood.
The death of the woman I could no longer be.
Some might find this strange. Some might find it beautiful.
But for me, it feels like a celebration.
Because for all the better, and all the worse, every day is my Mother’s Day.
