Mary's Birth Story: What Matters

So often when we get caught up criticizing each other, bemoaning the typical standard of care in hospitals, and talking to death what evidence-based maternity care looks like, we are overlooking something big. For the eons that humans have walked this earth, women have been having babies. Many women and babies died; many did not as evidenced by the current world population. We are moving backwards in maternal outcomes in the United States, and a disturbing number of people think it's normal if not acceptable.

I love to read birth stories in general, but this year I felt like I had an inside joke with the long-deceased mother of Christ. Mary's story is a birth story. How funny that two thousand years later millions of people recount and ponder the moments in which she experienced what is one of the most profound moments in a mother's life: birth, the process by which our babies move through our bodies and into our arms. I'm not going to delve into the spiritual side, which I do believe exists, but the human side. For those of of faith, one of the biggest mysteries of that faith is the fact that Jesus was fully divine and fully human. Whether you're following that train of thought or believe that the story is a slice of history or a myth, thanks for reading and bear with me. References to follow once I have all of my bookmarks and books at my fingertips.

She was likely lonely and afraid, not as the mother of the Word made Flesh, but as a teenage girl away from home about to give birth in a strange place without her mother, sisters, or aunts to serve as her guides. I bet I was the only one in church last night imagining what laboring on a donkey would have felt like, imagining what might possibly be going through this girl's mind.

Did she pray? Did she cry? Did her fiancée wipe her brow and hold her? Odds are good that she was not lying on her back with her knees pulled into her chest as the shepherds counted to ten. I'd guess she was drawn instinctively to the warmest, darkest corner of the stable or space. She probably lifted her dusty skirts and squatted just like any good ancient would to defecate. Her baby probably gently landed on cloths, straw or Joseph's waiting hands. The sound of his first grunts and cries were likely the sweetest thing she'd ever heard. Nobody rushed to clamp and cut the cord, no overly anxious nurse whisked him to the other side of the room to be weighed and measured. She probably waited, took that moment to exhale, and reached for him. She probably sat back and opened her garment to place him on her chest where he nursed his fill and slept.

In those days, I can only imagine that a woman prayed to survive pregnancy, give birth to a live and full-term child, not to die of infection or blood loss postpartum, and to remain healthy and nourished enough to breastfeed. In Mary's case, I guess I should add in not be stoned for a forbidden pregnancy it of wedlock. That's a pregnancy concern that has never worried me. There were no prenatal tests or checkups. There was no "deadline" after which a greedy, lazy, or overbooked care provider would arbitrarily schedule a birth. Cesareans weren't an option when desperately needed, much less purely elective ones for frivolous social reasons. An obstructed labor meant at least one would not survive. In many cases, there was no one but another woman who'd had a baby to provide support. They just wanted to live and for their babies to live.

Have we forgotten that ultimate goal? It sure seems like care providers who casually intervene in otherwise normal, healthy pregnancies have. They are risking lives inducing, augmenting, and performing more than twice the cesareans WHO has recommended since the 80s.

The birth plan choices we have are privileges as many women in the world still struggle to survive and produce offspring who will survive. Abuse and overuse of tests, procedures, and interventions intended for rare problems disgusts me. It should disgust you too that over 20 countries are ahead of us in terms of maternal and infant outcomes.

There is good evidence to support that more interventions in labor do not produce a healthier baby. Why do it, then, if it is a fact that maternal morbidity and mortality increase as those interventions increase. There is a direct correlation. Have we lost sight completely of the thing the human race has been struggling for thousands of years to do--bring more women healthily to and through labor and enable them to hold and nurture their healthy newborns?

We have reached a new low in maternity care when maternal mortality has risen for the first time since blood banks and antibiotics became widespread. Yes, the actual number is small, but maternal mortality has doubled in the last 10-15 years. Doctors don't seem worried about that, but they sure are worried about those numbers that say twice as many babies die in utero past 42 weeks. It's a smaller percent increase than our maternal mortality rate. Let's compare it to the number of non-medically indicated inductions that end in cesarean, the number of women whose fertility is affected by a cesarean, or the number of women who suffer from 3rd and 4the degree perineal lacerations. I don't see shifts in practice there regardless of piles of studies.

Chances are nobody will be telling my birth stories or yours in two thousand years, but I'd settle for moving towards a way of mother making that truly values the lives of both mothers and babies, nurtures the unique dayad that is created, and seeks to lessen number of challenges we must face to get our babies here safely.

Kitchen Sink Granola

In all fairness, I only measure out the oats, nuts, and applesauce.  Everything else gets the family recipe treatment--a handfull of this, a pinch of that, sprinkle, drizzle, glob, etc....  The trick is to be sure to get the wet ingredients evenly onto every bit of the drys and bake watchfully until perfectly golden. Thanks again to a dear friend of my mother's for posting her delicious Hippie Granola recipe without which I wouldn't have a this to share or a container full of homemade granola in my cabinet.

Place into a large mixing bowl and stir well to combine:

• 5 heaping cups rolled oats
• 2 cups raw, unsalted almonds, very finely chopped*
• 2 cups raw, unsalted walnuts, very finely chopped* 
• 1 cup raw, unsalted pumpkin seeds
• 1 cup raw, unsalted sunflower seeds
• 1/4-1/3 wheat germ 

*It takes forever to chop the nuts by hand.  Put into a big ziploc bag 2 cups at a time and smash with the smooth side of a meat mallet.  Works like a dream and gets out some stress if you are like me and fail to paste on a perpetual smile a la (please play along and imagine an accent grave over that "a") June Cleaver whose real-life inspirations likely enjoyed their daily Valium as was the 50s housewife way!

In a smaller bowl or 4 cup measuring cup and stir until all incorporated:

• 3/4-1 cup unsweetened applesauce
• 1/3 cup molasses
• 1/3 cup honey
• 1 generous tablespoon pure vanilla extract
• 2 tablespoons oil (safflower or coconut works well)
• 1/4 cup brown sugar
• 2 heaping teaspoons ground cinnamon
• 1 teaspoon ground ginger
• 1/4-1/2 teaspoon nutmeg 
• 1 teaspoon sea salt

Set racks in upper and lower thirds and preheat oven to 300 degrees.

Spread mixture into two large rimmed baking sheets or deeper baking pans.  You may have to bake a bit longer in the deeper ones.  If you are using dark or nonstick pans, please line with parchment paper to keep the granola from overcooking around the edges and bottom.

Bake 10 minutes, stir well, and rotate pans.  Continue baking in 10 minute intervals, stirring, and rotating pans for about 30 minutes, 40 minutes total give or take.  If you need to stir and rotate more than 3 times, watch it carefully as the edges overcook quickly.

This is perfectly baked and will dry crunchy

 Remove from the oven once it is light golden brown throughout.  It should look very different from the raw oats covered in the darker wet ingredients.  Let it sit to cool.  It gets good and crunchy as it cools.  Only add in dried fruits once completely cooled.

This is the super big Tupperware size

Serves many and keeps for several weeks in airtight containers.

I recommend only 1/4-1/3 cup servings at a time.  It's so nutrient, fiber, and protein filled that you'll be satisfied--no joke here, Frank might eat 1/2 cup after the gym, but that's pushing it.  We love it with milk (vanilla coconut is my favorite) or yogurt (plain Greek for even more protein and less sugar than flavored) then topped with fresh fruit or maybe chocolate chips for a treat.  We do add-ins and toppings by the individual serving since it makes such a huge batch.

First Week of Advent

First Week:

1  Detox Yoga #3 from was challenging.  There is no way I can get into the cool arm balances (well, except for Bakasana/Crow), bind my side angle, or take those optional pushups en route to Adho Mukha Svanasana/Down Dog.  Lots of twisting and hip stretches--tight hips, back, and shoulders needed it.  I stuck with it and stayed calm even with the kids alternating between giggling and howling as they ran around me and the dog and a cat or two parking on my mat staring a few times.  Being still is hard.  I'll work on Savasana--the iPod skipped to some, er, uncensored rap song and broke my focus.  Okay, I dropped an s-bomb.  It happens.  Not very mature or reverent, but I'm being honest here.  I found a chill yoga song, though, and at least laid still for a few minutes to end.  It was good.

2  First Sunday of Advent; Hope candle lit today. Jivamukti Yoga 1.  Shaky, falling out of a couple, and skipping headstand for lack of a free wall (more lack of ab strength to hold myself up sans support).  Classic flow of standing poses to gentle inversions.  The Sanskrit chant that opened and closed this one was really perfect: "Lokah samasta sukhino bhavantu" which translates to something along the lines of, "May all beings everywhere be happy and free and may the thoughts, words and actions of my own life contribute in some way to that happiness and to that freedom for all."  If that's not pushing myself to be more Christlike, nothing else is.  I don't understand Christians who fear yoga philosophy and see it as a threat.  I am calm, content, and feeling like jello at the moment.

3  Hip Opening Flow #3.  Got up early, drank a cup of coffee and got right to it.  Mornings are tough but quiet.  I'm stiff, "all stove up" as my grandfather used to say, but my mind is quiet.  The vinyasa flows had my arms and chest protesting, but it was pretty gentle.  I had a 4 year old silly yogi watching and talking to me for a few minutes, fixed her breakfast, and came back to finish up.  My balance was pretty rotten in Eagle and Warrior 3.  Stuck a tripod headstand with my toes barely off the ground, but it was air nonetheless.  Got loose enough to give Wheel 3 good goes and feel lifted in it.  I am already noticing more calm throughout my day with less effort.  I feel more sincere and am seeing the coming of Christmas through my children's eyes--after last year's grinchiness (on my part alone), I never dreamed I'd experience that childlike awe as an adult.  Preparing for Christmas was more spend and stress, less spiritual.  The contrast is proof that there is always hope--hope for more joy, newness, an open heart.

4  Advanced Forest Yoga is not all that advanced.  Ended my day on the mat.  Frank was too sore for another Crossfit workout this am or pm, so he did it, too.  Pretty gentle, holding some poses, nice stretch with a little heat and shakiness.  I missed doing it this morning, but Isabelle came to our room in the night.  She wakes up when I get out of the bed no matter what.  I'm in the phase of life where I can either exercise well in the am OR have fixed hair, put on makeup, and wear real clothes.  Those 4 things rarely happen together.

5  Got up early, had a cup of coffee, and did Power Vinyasa Flow 1.  Felt great, but backbends and hip openers are tough in the am.  Stuck both of the Tripod Headstands and Bakasana. Nice way to start a rainy day.

6  Yoga for Strength 1.  If yoga begins when you want out of a pose, it began for me before my practice had even begun today.  It reminded me of runs in days past where the hardest part was getting out the door and pushing though the first mile or so.  I did the whole thing and was able to get deeper into downdog and forward fold than usually possible in the mornings.  Waiting until later makes it harder in my head and easier in my body.

7 Finally quelled the feelings of inadequacy and tried an Ashtanga class, Dharma Flow.  It was good to get into some basic modifications of deep opening poses like full Eka Pada Rajakapotasana/Pigeon and Bhujapidasana/Shoulder Arm Balance--nothing impressive going on in those, but maybe by the end of the month I'll be able to rock them.  I'm already feeling stronger in my arms and core.  Dedicating time to daily practice has also helped to keep my mind from racing throughout the day.  Me slowing down = kids slowing down = Frank not coming into a crazy, overtired, stressed house at the end of the day = improvement.  I wouldn't go as far as saying that I have the yoga blissed-out feeling all day, but I am certainly more content.  I've also gotten up early (even on days when I didn't get to my mat early) and read an Advent devotional, filling another empty spot in me.

7 down, 24 to go.  Namaste 

Advent: Cultivating Calm

Since early this past summer, I've been psyching myself up to do yoga daily for a month, a whole month.  It always starts at the end of one month, and I think to myself, "This is it.  I'm going to do it."  In my mind's eye, I see the it happening: The house is silent and dark.  I wake early and come to my mat to begin the day in sweaty devotion--devotion in the sense of emptying myself of judgement, restlessness in mind and body, cultivating calmness, and making room for something greater than myself.  I envision my hour or so of daily asceticism that is at the same time indulgence.  When else will I get to take this flow once I get myself wound tightly and slip into the modern mantra of "busy is productive" and striving for purpose and organization that looks (and feels) more like a frenzied mess?  I always have more to give when I begin the day with that take for myself.

Here it is December first.  I've yet to stick to my plan.  It fizzles every time.  I guess my intention isn't very set, maybe just not very strong.  As soon as a kid is sick, we're up late, or I'm just tired and lazy when the alarm goes off, I'm off track.  A day skipped ruins the whole thing. 

So, this yoga for a month thing and Advent.  It's a nice fit put together.  Finding a way to refocus the Christmas getting and giving for my kids has been on my mind.  We'll do the Advent wreath, read simple Bible verses with them, and hang an ornament for each week leading up to lighting the Christ candle.  What about me?  I need preparing, too.  What better way to open my heart for the greatest Gift than spending an hour or so getting my cluttered thoughts out of the way, slowing down to listen and ground myself, and doing so with gratitude to God for the gifts in my life and a commitment to bettering myself physically and spiritually.

First Week


 

Morning Glory Muffins--Preserved for Posterity

Blogging between batches with a Lazy Magnolia in hand.  Lovely Sunday afternoon--pumpkins on the porch, the sounds of football and a whirring washing machine in the background.  This is a favorite recipe of mine, well for the whole house and many friends actually.  Supposedly it's from Broadstreet Bakery in Jackson, MS.  It may have come from a Mississippi Magazine years ago.  Maybe.  Regardless, they are delicious. 

My dad's mother, my Grandmother Jo, had her substitutes.  You must reread that with your most Southern, Lowah Alabamah accent in mind: "Suuubh-sti-tuhoooo-ts."  Really.  She was such a dear, dear lady, and I promise she spoke that way.  My grandfather "got" diabetes.  Rather, the decades of overindulging in salty, fried, bacon grease seasoned, and sweet foods caught up with him.  Rather than changing their usual diet, my grandmother sucked all of the fat and sugar out of her same old recipes.  This is where the, "Suuubh-sti-tuhooo-ts," come into play.

Today, I decided in a Grandmother Jo moment to healthify this one.  There are not many changes to the original recipe, but every little bit counts!

If I wash my hands and touch it again or drip on it, it could be bye bye muffins.

Morning Glory Muffins

1 1/4 c sugar

2 1/4 c flour--1 1/4 c wheat, 1 c all purpose

1 heaping Tbs cinnamon

2 tsp baking soda

1/2 tsp salt--sea salt

1/2 c coconut flakes

1/2 c golden raisins

1 large Red Delicious apple, shredded (leave the skin on and shred on a cheese grater)

2 c carrots, grated (this is usually about 2-3 large carrots)

8 oz. can crushed pineapple, drained

1/2 c pecans (I always leave the nuts out if they will be shared)

3 eggs (room temperature--you MUST do this!)

1 c applesauce (you could use pumpkin puree or the puree of your choice, really)

2 Tbsp coconut oil, liquified

1-2 tsp vanilla

Preheat oven to 375 degrees.

Sift together sugar, flours, cinnamon, baking soda, and salt into a large mixing bowl.  Add the next 6 ingredients and  stir well to combine.

In another bowl, whisk eggs, oil, and vanilla.  Pour into dry ingredients and mix well.  Spoon batter into greased or papered muffin tins.  Fill to slightly above the rim or to the edge of your paper.  Bake for 28 minutes or until a toothpick comes out clean.  The original says 35 minutes, and I find that using oil instead of the applesauce/coconut oil combo does necessitate longer cooking time.  Just watch them.  They are supposed to be a soft, very moist muffin. 

Let cool for at least 10 minutes, then turn out onto a wire rack to cool completely.

Yields 18-22 muffins.

Confessions of a Fabric Hoarder

I like to sew.

I LOVE fabric.

Really.

Here's a little song about it.  It must be sung to cadence rhythm:
"I got a lotta fabric under my bed / Might not be quite right in the head."

If she who has the most wins, I may be in the running for grand prize.  I need to revamp my approach to buying--"Oh, this is pretty.  I'll take two yards."  I need to go with pattern in hand, size and style selected, and buy only the specified ingredients.  Where's the fun in that. 

Of course I do pick out fabrics for slings intentionally, but then there are the scraps.  Ah, yes, the scraps...

Sorry, I drifted off thinking of what I could cobble together, put elastic in, hot glue to a barrette, add a ruffle to, cut out to quilt (and never piece together), and it goes on and on.

Back on track.  I do love making slings.  Everybody can enjoy wearing a baby--especially the baby.  Those I sew to sell.  Then, the small bit of remaining scraps are all mine--that few inches of width not used or the top from a generous snip at the cutting table.

There is something thrilling about the creative possibilities of a pile of fabric.  Even if I'm not making something really neat and unique, I know I could.  It's the "could" that gets me.  My head starts spinning when I pull it all out.  Ruffle pants and placemats and coffee cup cozies, oh my!

So you'd think that my whole house is sewn and my kids wear nothing but fun and funky stuff I make, right?  Erm, no.  Not yet at least.  It's fun to dabble and play, but it's hard to pull out a lot of "pretties" with kiddos running around and expect to get a lot done.  Kids and cats love to help.  All I have to do is pull out the ironing board, and boom, there are two cats asleep on it by the time I'm back with the iron.

For my crafty friends--you know it's not always bunnies, butterflies, and baskets of roses.  Sometimes, you are breaking needles left and right no matter how you adjust your stitch or thread tension.  Sometimes you forget to eat, drink, and go to the bathroom because you're unhealthily "into" it.  Sometimes it's a miracle you don't drive to the nearest bridge or cliff and throw your machine over the edge.  Sometimes you snark at your children or your husband because you don't want to be interrupted.  Not a good plan (remind me I said this)!  That's when you need to put it away, have a glass of wine, and let it go.  There's something to the intention with which something is made.  That said, I'm pretty sure the person who made the clothes I'm wearing wasn't sending me happy thoughts as they whirred it through their industrial machine.  I'm talking about our handmade, one-of-a kinds.  Put love into it, and it means that much more when gifted or worn/used by your family.

If I suddenly become a night owl, I'll be posting lots of photos of things I sew.  That wasn't a wish for insomnia.  I like my kids being content, and I like sleeping.  I'll happily sew in the in-between times for us.  It's instant gratification.  Until then, I'll keep on smiling and pretending to be normal, but now you know that my crazy is all boxed up under the bed.

 http://www.etsy.com/shop/MSHippieBaby

...And Then He Turned Two

August 22, 2012

August 22, 2012

                                                                
Two years ago right now, I was beginning to think maybe I wouldn’t be pregnant forever.  It somehow feels right to tell the long version of the story now.  That morning I deep cleaned the downstairs of our house—like vacuum hose to the cracks, crevices, blinds, and baseboards kind of cleaning.  Frank and Isabelle took Clarissa to the vet for her itching feet, something that got progressively worse over that summer.  It was Saturday, August 21, 2012.  The best guess dates we had been able to come up with based on conception was August 12-14.  At almost 42 weeks, it was abundantly clear that baby had other plans.

 

My days were paced by meals, walks, playtime, and Isabelle’s sleep.  I let myself notice the tightening after lunch while Isabelle napped.  My first labor was long, so it seemed like a good idea to rest.  Frank and I snuggled up for a nap.  I am a restless sleeper.  He falls asleep a half a second before his head hits the pillow.  I couldn’t sleep, deciding instead that I’d like to start labor being clean if possible.  Frank stirred as I hefted myself plus 50 some-odd pounds out of the bed and reminded me to take it easy.

The shower felt great.  I pulled on these bright green yoga capris and a maternity tank handed down from a dear friend who’d had two inspiring births herself.  I gathered my comforts around me literally, the things that reminded me of relaxing, releasing, hard work, and those around me who believed in me and in birth.

A few days before labor began.

I don’t remember much of the rest of the day.  At some point I called one of my midwives, though my contractions were still 10-12 minutes apart.  I had not had a single contraction in pregnancy, excepting a day of “irritable uterus” around 34 weeks from being dehydrated.  Walking 3 miles in July will do that to a pregnant lady.  I figured at around 42 weeks the contractions meant something was coming.  I also called my parents 3 hours away and suggested they get gas, pack a bag, and start making a plan.

Back to Saturday--it was skin-scalding hot outside.  Isabelle had just really begun to want to watch a kid show here and there, so we all hung out watching Backyardigins downstairs once she woke up.  I wanted her to sit with me so badly.  I made her a mini pizza on flat sandwich bread and grazed on some myself.  The contractions kept coming slowly and pretty gently.  I didn’t have to stop what I was doing, and it was hard to notice the beginning or the end.

I wanted to do the “last” bedtime with Isabelle as our only child.  She was excited about wearing her “Big Sister” shirt, though at 22 months, she had no idea what a baby coming really meant.  We read, rocked, and sang songs.  She fell asleep on me sucking her paci.  We had weaned at 16 months, because it just hurt really badly.  In retrospect, I wish we’d kept going.  I think it would have eased the transition for her.

It was getting a bit harder to sit still through the contractions during her bedtime.  I was able to be “normal” for bedtime before the real restless early labor stuff started.  Again, there is a big gap in my memory from now until several hours later.  I texted back and forth with the on-call midwife, and the contractions got slowly stronger and closer.  I tried again to rest, and Frank rather hurriedly set up the birth tub in front of the fireplace.  He was very worried about having the “nest” ready in plenty of time in case my labor turned into one of the notoriously fast 2^nd babies.  No such luck!

I was upstairs while he did this.  Even in a big pile of pillows on my side, it was hard to be still and lie down during contractions.  I did this for a couple of hours, moving around as I needed to find comfort.  Maybe I even napped a little between rocking into child’s pose with a pillow under my massive belly and relaxing between the contractions.

I got up and went downstairs to check out the setup and eat something—greek yogurt with strawberries, blueberries, and honey.  Weeks earlier, Frank had helped me string long, gauzy white panels embroidered with delicate silver starbursts from wall to wall.  The living room, which really had my sewing table, some toys, and a stray chair in it opened right into the kitchen, and I knew I’d feel weird laboring with people milling around the rest of the house in my sight.  It created such a sense of privacy and closeness to have those simple pieces of material strung on a clothesline from wall to wall.  Contracting still, I tried out the tub, partly curious to see if it changed anything and partly because I just love a big tub of hot water.  It was delicious.  There is no other way to put it.  It also relaxed me so much that my contractions slowed down.  Not time to get in, yet!  

Frank says I look like I'd been hit by a truck.

We went up to try and sleep again around 11pm—seriously, after 2 nights of no sleep with Isabelle, I was hoping not to start out that exhausted again.  Frank, again, was asleep in no time.  I showed him where to push on my top hip, and he’d wake up enough to give a good squeeze during a contraction.  They were getting stronger, the beginning and ends were more noticeable.  I had a rice sock heated and propped under my belly or against my low back for the crampy, achy feeling.  

After a while, Frank was snoring, and I was getting really uncomfortable.  A summer thunderstorm had blown up outside, and my labor seemed to match the growing intensity of the storm.  It was taking all of my focus to relax and be open to the changing sensation of the contractions.  With one, I could not stand lying down anymore, so I slid my legs off the bed and sort of slithered onto my hands and knees.  Ah, so much better.  That turned into wandering around our room and bathroom, stopping to lean on the counter or dresser, lean over the side of the bed, or get on hands and knees to sway through.

By 2am, I was not going to rest, and I needed Frank to be awake with me.  The storm had stopped.  We went downstairs.  He checked the water, pumped out some cooled, and refilled some hot.  I really wanted to go outside, so I walked around the driveway for a little while.  It was surprisingly cool after the rain.  We walked around the block (again, on a secure military base) in the dark, stopping to slow dance through contractions.  At some point, Frank told me with more than a little surprise that they were 6 minutes apart like clockwork.  I didn’t care about the time and had not even noticed he was wearing a watch.  It was getting real—I finally had the “maybe this is it” feeling.

We came inside around 3am, and I got in the tub for a little while in the last bikini that fit enough to squeeze into.  Again, the water was delicious, but my contractions stayed strong and steady this time.  Frank asked if I thought it was time to call my midwives to come to the house.  No, I didn’t think so.  I was still trying to think the baby out.  Even though I knew better, I was doing labor math—no mucous plug, no bloody show, not in the “out-of-it” laborland.  It’s going to be a long time.  Maybe I’m being a wimp about these contractions.  Maybe they're going to stop completely.  

I got out of the tub, snacked on something I can't remember, put on a tee shirt, and decided to labor in the bathroom for a while.  Let me tell you about laboring on the toilet.  It’s a good place.  Even in the hospital on pitocin with Isabelle, the only place I wanted to be was in the bathroom by myself in the dark.  Think the basic, mammal part of my brain was looking for a safe, dark cave?  Yep, me, too.  So, the toilet—it’s the only place we “modern” women are conditioned let go of our pelvic floors in the way a baby needs to move down and out.  Immediately, the next contraction was more intense, the pressure increased, and the peak seemed longer. 

  

After a few of those, I wiped and there was a glop of mucous with some blood.  My apologies if this is too much information.  This is a birth story, a real one.  Goo, blood, and bodily fluids are part of birth.  They aren't gross or embarrassing.  They just are. From then on, I had a bit more mucous and consistently saw show.  This is good!  Show means dilation, but again the labor math caught me—so many people pass a mucous plug long before labor.  There’s no way this is active labor.  I can’t be very dilated.  

 The fact was, nobody knew how dilated I was.  My midwives didn’t even ask to do a “check.”  They didn't need to, figuring my first baby came out just fine even with a nuchal arm.  My body knew what to do.  Why make me uncomfortable and increase the risk of infection?  I’ve never understood the point anyway, other than morbid curiosity.  It doesn’t tell you a thing about when the baby will come.  I know two people who’ve been 5+ cm for weeks and not in labor.  Personally, knowing that would have driven me crazy. 

Frank, apparently is better at all math than me, even labor math.  Maybe it's more like calculus than algebra.  He literally slept through AP cal, so that's got to be it.  He saw very clearly the shift in how I seemed, the emotional signposts that say this is active labor, baby is coming.  He did NOT want to have a surprise unassisted birth.  He quietly leaned into the small powder room from the hall and again encouraged me to have the midwives come.  I couldn’t cope with the contractions and argue, so I agreed, even though I really did not think it was time.   My parents were about an hour away and would be to us around 5am, too.

That settled, I waddled back to the tub, and Frank got in with me.  It felt a little silly at first, like toddlers in a giant bathtub together, but the first contraction back in the water was wonderful with his support.  We had a big sponge floating around, and he would squeeze the water slowly across my shoulders and upper back during contractions.  The rhythm the sensation and sound created became something upon which I depended.  He didn’t ask question, he simply followed my lead.   

By this time, I was vocalizing with the peaks of contractions, a low mmmhh on exhales.  My breathing pace comes naturally.  When I run, I count the breaths in my head.  I had no idea how this pre-set rhythm would help me.  I stretched out my same old rhythm as my breath deepened and my exhales grew longer.   

We quickly fell into a pattern together, and  this working together was a whole new kind of intimacy.  It was romantic.  There was nothing gross or scary.  It was simple, powerful, and the oxcytocin was flowing.  In retrospect, the endorphins played a role in this love-buzz feeling, too.

Frank went to get my mom at the gate.  Even he figured we weren’t that close to babytime.  The 3-4 contractions alone were harder, still manageable, but not as good as with the simple presence of the person with whom the baby was made.  It’s true that to facilitate labor, make an environment as similar to the one that got the baby in as possible.  More apologies if that makes you blush.  First mucous and blood, now sex--like I said, this is a real birth.  Stop compartmentalizing--birth, intimacy, sex, love, and trust all go hand in hand on a chemical level. 

It was a relief to have my mom there.  My dad went on to the hotel.  I’m not sure if I would have felt as uninhibited with him there.  My dad and I are close.  He is a loving, gentle kind of guy, but he is pretty squeamish, and I wouldn’t have felt normal walking around partially clothed in front of him with Frank following me around with a chux pad.  Mom was so calm and not worried about me giving birth in my living room.  I needed to have Isabelle taken care of, too, to really let go and get into the groove.  By 5am, my midwives arrived.  They were so quiet and careful not to interrupt me other than the occasional doppler on my belly after a contraction. 

As they arrived, I still wondered if I was even in active labor.  I felt a little silly and figured maybe I’d be holding a baby by lunchtime.  They brought in cases of supplies, laid things out nearby, and sat quietly at our kitchen table just on the other side of the curtains.  I got out of the tub again, making a loop downstairs through contractions.  I ate a piece of peanut butter toast over the sink between a couple, knelt on the floor leaning onto the couch for another, and finally ended back up in the bathroom, door barely cracked, by myself.  I needed to be by myself.  It wasn’t lonely like when Frank had to leave.  I knew everybody was right there.  It got so intense.  I made it through 2 or 3 sitting on the toilet rocking and moaning.  I remember Amy saying, “Is she pushing?” so I must have grunted or something at the peak of one.  She poked her head in and suggested that I get back in the tub for the next one.  This was code for: “If you want a waterbirth, get in the tub.”  Midwives, ah, do I love them.  Mine could tell simply from the way I moved and the sounds that I made that we were getting very close to greeting a baby.

Roger that, after this massive contraction I feel coming, I'll be back in the water.  Forearms crossed on the countertop, I started rocking and moaning as it built.  By the peak, I was practically hopping on my toes trying to counter the intense sensation.  At some point I reached down and felt the baby’s head (still inside, not crowning) pushing against my hand.  It shocked me.  It was my moment of doubt—what on earth was I thinking having a baby at home.  This is big and real.  This kid will be coming out of me soon like it or not.  My head had to catch up with my body.  I don’t think I could even verbalize having felt this physically or emotionally at the time.  It inspired me to hurry back to the tub, though, in hopes of some change.

Oh, sinking into the warm water was indescribably good.  I coasted on the relief it brought for a couple of contractions.  The fireplace was turned on, and my hard worked on Pandora playlist was playing chill yoga tunes and haunting Native American flute songs.  I remember Andrea saying with appreciation, “Is that Nakai?”  Our sweet

Clarissa

dog was on the floor by the fireplace, calmly leaned against the side of my tub.

It was hard to get comfortable.  I tried to squat, and quickly got out of it before the contraction peaked.  All that felt right was leaning over the side of the tub, holding the attached handles, with my face buried into a wet towel.  By this time, Frank was doing the magic hip squeeze for all he was worth—and I kept telling him, “Harder.”  I heard Andrea say, “Her sounds are perfect,” and realized that I was saying, “Open,” over and over.  It was a moan, long and low, but I was saying and imagining my body opening and the baby moving down.

It worked.  Every contraction felt very long, even though they were about a minute and a half with plenty of time between.

Yes, the breaks feel that good.

Time gets funny in labor—the contractions felt interminably long, but after maybe 4 or 5 really, really hard contractions back in the tub, my body (without my conscious permission) pushed.  It was the most physically intense and surprising thing I have ever felt.  It felt like I was rocking the whole tub rocking myself through the contraction on the handles.  Afterwards, I looked up to my midwives, who were both sitting on the chaise longue nearby and said, “I’m not ready to push.”  Andrea sort of smiled with a sigh that might have been a knowing laugh and told me to trust my body—if it was pushing, it was time.

I didn’t so much bear down as relax into my body’s work and stop fighting it.  It felt so much better.  Then, in the middle of that contraction, I felt a pop and a great release of pressure.  All I could say to let everybody else know was, “ Ohhhh, pop.”  They knew what I meant. Things were moving quickly, so I wanted to go as slowly as possible breathing the baby down and letting my body stretch.  A couple of contractions passed, and the midwives asked if I felt the baby’s head if I reached inside—how much, dime or quarter?  I felt; Frank felt and said, “Definitely quarter.” 

With the next contraction, I felt the baby’s head move down a lot.  I reached down, instinctively, and put my hand on the little sliver of wrinkled head.  The force of my body squeezing that little body through me would have taken my breath away were it not for Frank’s whispered, “Breathe,” at just the right moment.  I tried to let him feel the baby against me with a contraction, but I had to push him away and go back to my new-found ritual.  My hand was holding the baby in and my body together all at once.  The baby pressed down, then moved back up a couple of times.  

One of my midwives, I can’t remember which one, came up and said, “Frank, when the baby’s head come out,….”  He had the deer-in-the-headlights look, but said, “Okay.”  He was still squeezing my hips.  I remember wanting one more contraction to ease the baby out, but at the peak of the contraction, I felt him lift his chin and, pop, there was a head.  After the intensity of the “ring of fire” (yes, it is real, and no laughing matter), it felt great to have a break and rest for the next contraction.  It is surreal to wait with a new person partially born, partially inside you, everyone in the room ready but calmly waiting.  

Sunday, August 22, 2010.  7:03 am.  9 pounds, 4 ounces of perfect.

With a grunt, and one more bearing down, the baby was out and floated gently into Daddy’s waiting hands.  Set, hut!  The moment afterward, I think I closed my eyes and was frozen with the instant relief of his little body leaving mine.  Hearing a rather surprised Frank say, “We have a little boy!” is one of my dearest memories.  We both thought he was a girl, of course either would have been wonderful.  We planned for a baby.  I turned around, and Frank passed him to me.  As he was being born, I heard Isabelle begin to stir and talk upstairs with my mom.  Within five minutes of the birth, Mom and Isabelle appeared.  She saw him, grinned, and said, “Baby!”  

Less than 30 minutes after the first picture was taken.

We sat in the tub for a few more minutes.  Frank hoped out just before my placenta came.  After the placenta, they helped me out and settled me onto the chaise just beside the pool with baby on my chest under blankets.  We sat like that for the “golden hour,” and within a few minutes he made his way to my breast and nursed.  Just like with Isabelle, it surprised me how strongly he latched and suckled that first time.  Amy brought me a big glass or apple juice, a grilled cheese sandwich, and some blueberries while he went to town.  For the coming weeks, he nursed constantly day and night.

Frank said I looked like myself, just holding a baby this time.

The next day.

So, that was all two years ago.  I’ve told the short story a lot and shared pictures here and there, but it felt like time to tell the long version.  My body was so extremely different then, it almost doesn't feel like looking at myself.  I hope my memories may inspire you to believe in yourself or encourage the mothers around you.

 It’s been fun, stressful, exhausting, and trying.  Parenting is much harder than giving birth and caring for a baby.  We’re still figuring out a lot as we go along, but the kids seem to be happy.  Sometimes this life makes me feel crazy, but I do love it.  It’s mine.  My daily mantra is: “This is my life, these are my kids.  Let me be the best mother for them.”  I don't always do that as well as I'd like.

Ten years ago, I had no idea I’d be happily married to Frank, my best friend from highschool, and have these two babies.  I’d laugh if you told me I’d let go of the dream of a glamorous career and let my heart lead me into birth advocacy and serving other women in pregnancy and birth.  I certainly wouldn’t believe that the birth of my son in our home would so profoundly change me.  It more steeled my resolve to change the way our culture tears down mothers and plants seeds of fear and doubt.  It’s not a scary medical ordeal for most healthy people, unless we choose to make it one, sometimes unwittingly with the mentality of "what is must be best."

Birth is as old as time.  The story is never new.  It's been part of daily life since before the written word, before the spoken word.  My story is big to me, but it was simple, really.  Life as usual went on in the homes around ours, and we began our new normal.  I went upstairs, got a shower, put on the nightgown my grandmother sent, and got tucked into my own bed to sleep and nurse my baby.  

From the other side of it, I feel part of something bigger, something most mothers are denied unnecessarily.  I was fully present in every moment, even the hard ones.  The pain and discomfort aren’t medals of honor I wear on my chest.  I chose those moments of intermittent, purposeful pain over weeks or months of healing from a medical birth.  Even the pain was normal—it told me how to move, how to breathe, what sounds to make to get my baby into my arms.  I’m not a member of any special club.  My body isn't any more uniquely equipped for this work than yours probably is.   Our bodies are incredibly designed  to grow, birth, and nourish our babies.  

Messing with the foundation of the physiological process without just cause is dangerous.  It changes the chemistry of your brain and denigrates the ancient wisdom of our bodies.  It chips away at our confidence as mothers.

I chose to give birth in my own home with my loving family and skilled, compassionate midwives paying close attention to safeguard my baby's entrance to the outside world.  My health and that of the baby were at the top of everyone’s list.  I would do it again in a heartbeat.  The chill that ripples through me on a good run as the endorphins begin to flow  is pennies on the dollar to the hormonal high after that birth.

I know if I can give birth, I can do anything.  So can you.

August 22, 2010