The Lockdown Chronicles (Part 2): Six Computers and a Car Ride

If you ask me what it was like to be pregnant during the peak of 2020… I have to be honest. I don’t really remember it. Not clearly, anyway.

The months blur together into one long, exhausting hum. When you are managing an indoor plastic playground, rationing eggs, worrying about family across the ocean, and trying to keep eight children sane during a lockdown—your brain simply switches into survival mode.

There was no sitting quietly, holding my belly, or journaling about the pregnancy. My body was just… doing its job. It was quietly growing a life, while everything else around me felt loud, frantic, and overwhelming.

The Madrasati Chaos

By late August, the strict curfews had eased, but life was far from “normal.” Right as I reached my ninth month, the Madrasati platform launched. Online school had officially begun.

Suddenly, my house wasn’t just a home anymore. It became a full-scale digital command center for six different grade levels.

My husband, Masha’Allah, took on the massive responsibility of setting up all six computers. I could see the weight on his shoulders, trying to keep the technology running while holding down his own job. We had to divide and conquer:

• Upstairs: Two kids in his office, tethered to their screens while he worked.
• Downstairs: Four kids with me.

Imagine being nine months pregnant—heavy, tired, and already stretched to my limit—trying to monitor four different virtual classrooms at once. I had to make sure they were actually in class and not quietly switching tabs to YouTube. Add two toddlers running underfoot and a house that never truly quieted down, and it felt like there was no “pause” button on life.

It was a pressure cooker. And just when the gauge hit red, my body decided it was time.

The Bathtub

This was never planned as a home birth. It just… happened.

There was no time to think, no time to pack a bag, and certainly no time to get to the hospital. One moment I was managing the digital chaos of school; the next, I was in active labor.

I ended up in the bathtub.

Outside the door, my older children were right there. Listening. It was near Fajr time, so most of the small ones are sleeping. But the older ones, they heard the raw, primal reality of their mother bringing life into the world. There is something about that moment that is hard to put into words—it was intense, unfiltered, and deeply sacred. Allahu Akbar.

And then—he was there. Born right there in the water.

I remember holding him in a state of pure disbelief. Did that really just happen? The irony wasn’t lost on me: this was actually my second unplanned home birth. It’s both unbelievable and, somehow, very “on brand” for my life.

Just to be clear—this wasn’t reckless. I had doula education, I was in contact with a midwife friend, and the hospital was only 10 minutes away. But my babies don’t wait for hospitals. He arrived with a speed I couldn’t outrun.

The Most Surreal Car Ride

Everything after that was a blur of adrenaline. I cleaned myself up as best as I could. We wrapped the baby in layers of towels and blankets. We knew we had to go. Now.

No ambulance. Just our car.

My husband drove while I sat in the middle row, clutching my newborn to my chest, still trying to process the last hour. Next to me sat my eldest son.

In his hands, he held a bucket. Inside it was the placenta—still intact, still attached to his baby brother by the cord.

I still struggle to process that image. My son—so calm, so steady at nearly 21 years old—holding something most adults couldn’t handle. He stepped up in a way I will never forget. That car ride felt like a movie, except the stakes were our actual lives.

When we reached the Emergency Room, the world shifted again. The staff rushed toward us. My baby and I were placed on the same stretcher—still physically connected, a tangled mess of blood, towels, and new life.

We were wheeled inside through the bright lights and the masks of a hospital system already terrified of COVID. We had survived the birth. We had made it to the doctors.

But deep down, I knew the hardest part was still coming. The quiet part. The part where, for the first time in this chaotic journey, I would have to be alone.

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A Thought for You Have you ever been in a moment where your body simply took over and you did what you had to do? Later, when the world was quiet again, did it even feel real? Or did it feel like a story that happened to someone else?

I’d love to hear your “survival” stories in the comments.