It had been a long day. The night before, long, too.   Mom had talked often about what was at the end of the journey. She spoke quietly and lovingly to her son, encouraging him to come out, assuring him that she was ready for him. And all the while, Dad was at Mom’s side, quiet and still, his calm demeanor belying the excitement and exhaustion and concern that swirled inside.

Finally, it was time. The shades were opened. Light poured into the room. And, with Dad by her side, Mom began to walk those final steps. She pushed and pushed, coaxing her son into the world bit by bit. Baby was so close. So close. Crescendo.

Dad left Mom’s side, and stretched to steal a glimpse. He peered hesitantly, sorting out and making sense of what was in front of him. In one sudden moment, it dawned on him, his face lighting up as brightly as the sun pouring in from the now-open window. He gasped — with shock, suprise, excitement, and a thousand other emotions. His first glimpse…his son.

Moments later, Mom reached down, tenatively touching what she couldn’t see. Upon that touch, that connection, Mom drew back, the elation burning her fingertips. She, too, gasped — with shock, surprise, excitement, and a thousand other emotions. Her first touch…her son.

I’m both embarrassed and frustrated by my retelling of this story. No matter what the words, I’ll never get it right. Those two distinct moments — his glimpse, her touch — they are forever seared in my mind, and surely theirs, too. But the emotions are too many, too distinct, and too impossibly divine to do justice by mere words. How do you describe it? What is it, even, that you’re describing? A new life, certainly. But so much more, too.

I was once asked to associate a single word with the word “child.” Without a moment’s hesitation, I knew my answer: “potential.” To me, there is nothing more wide-open or more blank-slated than an infant child. Dad didn’t just glimpse his child. Mom didn’t just touch her son. They both witnessed — his eyes gazing upon, and her fingertips alighting upon — an infinite number of possibilities unfolding before them in that one moment. No wonder I can’t find the words. Mom and Dad — and baby boy — will have to spend a lifetime discovering them.

smilence

Pronunciation: ’smI-l&n(t)s
Function: noun
: the sound, as heard by a mother, emanating from behind the closed doors of a room in which two young girls, together for a playdate, are quietly playing.

silengst

Pronunciation: ’sI-[ng](k)st
Function: noun
: the sound, as heard by a mother, emanating from behind the closed doors of a room in which two young boys, together for a playdate, are quietly playing.

geronimOhNo

Pronunciation: j&-’rä-n&-”mO-nO
Function: noun
: the sound immediately following silengst. Usually also accompanied by a thud or a crash.

Getting out of the house is always and ordeal.  Always.  There are books, and lunches, and keys, and purses, and shoes — always shoes — to gather.  If it happens to be cool out, add to the list hats, gloves, jackets…you get the idea.  It’s an ordeal, with a capital “O.”

So this morning when we were headed out of the house, I didn’t find it particularly unusual to be traipsing around the house trying to find the same damn things I try to find every day, multiple times a day.  After much effort, I was at a point where I had collected everything we needed — except Evan’s shoes.

I ran from room to room and then back again, but to no avail.  I simply could not find his shoes.  I was getting frustrated and annoyed and downright angry.  Why won’t my kids put their things where they belong?!?  Just then, it dawned on me.  I walked calmly into Evan’s room and opened up his closet door.  There, on the shoe rack, were his shoes.  Right where they were supposed to be.  Placed there by him.

This demonstrates two things: one, how much I entirely underestimate my son, and, two, just how much damage my children have wrought upon my logical thinking skills.  Look in the closet for shoes?  Who in the hell would do that?!?

Microeconomics: the study of economics as it plays out in individual decisions.

Macroeconomics: the study of economics as it plays out in whole systems.

Granted, these two definitions are over-simplified, but, they’re sound enough to help illustrate my point.

I got in my car this morning and drove the better part of twenty miles to go to a well-woman visit. On my way, I undoubtedly passed countless numbers of physicians’ offices, many offering the same services I was driving so far to receive. The difference? My appointment was with a midwife — at the only freestanding birth center in North Carolina. I spent the better part of an hour — not waiting in the waiting room, but with a midwife discussing my health and well-being. Well-woman care. It was my small, individual, and conscious choice to support the kind of care that I believe in. And it was worth the drive.

When I am with a woman in labor, so often — too often, in fact — I witness the spread of misinformation, half-truths and outright lies. I watch, angrily, as practices based on tradition or fear of litigation, not sound science, are perpetuated. And I cry silently. Nothing is changing.

But it is. That woman I’m with? That single, individual woman? is hopefully experiencing something better — even if it is just a bit — than she would have experienced alone. A difference, indeed.

I am not going to change the whole system of maternity care with my work as a doula. I can’t do so any more than I can ensure the financial well-being of the birth center with my one well-woman visit each year. But my choices and actions, deliberately and consciously made and performed, do make a difference. Drops in a bucket? Perhaps. But drops make ripples. And ripples make waves.

Yesterday was A Day to Blog About War.  Just today, I’m getting to it.  And I think that’s quite appropriate.

Too little, too late.  And, too much, too soon.  We’re in this mess for both reasons  — and that’s what it is, a mess.

I’m not comfortable spouting off the current policy as wrong (although it is), simply because I can’t myself offer up a policy that is right.  But, surely, surely — with all the resources and brains, and power, and strength, and might, and brawn, and moral fortitude that we claim we have — surely we can come up the right amount at the right time.

And just maybe that’s nothing, now.

………………………………………………….

Labor and birth unfold within a complex and infinite web, spun by the mother and by everyone who has ever taught her about mothering, birth, sexuality, pain, control and surrender. All the people at her birth helped spin the web with threads from their histories, beliefs, experiences, and fears.

No single decision, no one doctor, no mother is solely responsible. No one can know all the forces which converged to create the event.

Our challenge — our journey — is to live with ambiguity and come to the paradoxical place of understanding while not-knowing.

– Excerpts from Birthing from Within, by Pam England

………………………………………………….

Mom called me late in the evening. Her voice, her words, uncertain. Nine months of waiting. Was tonight the night? I teased her a bit. She’d been concerned about her “to do” list for weeks. Were the baseboards cleaned? Was the bathroom tiled? If not, I teased, certainly, she could not be in labor. How wrong I was. Labor had indeed begun.

Several hours later, settled in at home, mom and dad shared each contraction together. In their warm, dimly-lit bedroom, they shared time — their last minutes together alone. I stayed back, comfortable with what I was hearing and observing. One at a time, I listened as the contractions grew stronger, closer together. And with each one, Mom rode the wave while Dad held her hand. Mom and Dad were doing beautifully.

Alone downstairs, I looked around the room from my place on the couch. The beautiful pottery selected with passion. The stunning textiles full of memories. And the marriage contract — so personal and so touching. This was a house filled with love. This was a home for a baby. Soon enough, there would be one.

As the day broke, the location changed, but Mom and Dad continued on, working and sharing together. The warm tub, the running water — oh! the running water! Hours and hours of running water! Yet, each contraction was met with grace as Mom instinctively moved with her body and Dad stayed beside her. Rocking. Swaying. Lying. Standing. So much work. Together. If I have but one impression from this birth, it was the undeniable bond shared between Mom and Dad. Every step — until the confusing, unexpected, and miraculous end — taken together.

When everything goes as planned, it’s a fairly straightfoward process to sit down and write out my observations, my thoughts, and my feelings about a mom’s birth experience. When things don’t go as planned, it’s a trickier exercise. I can never assume I know how mom and dad feel about their experience, and often, mom and dad haven’t yet come to understand how they feel about it themselves. I always stress, for all my moms and dads, that their feelings are neither right or wrong; they just…”are.” Owning them and honoring them — good, bad or indifferent — is the only responsibility they have.

At one point during the day, Mom was asked, “Do you have ‘pet’ a name for this little one?” She answered, a little sheepishly, “Frodo.” I personally couldn’t think of a better name. Frodo is tasked with — burdened by, even — a journey. It’s a journey he’s unsure of, a journey he’s frightened by, and a journey that demands his determiniation — which he willingly gives. It’s a journey that takes him to places he could have never imagined. And a journey that teaches him who he is.

I don’t know how Mom and Dad feel about their birth experience. I don’t know why it all happened the way it did. But I do know the beautiful little girl in their arms is nothing but a miracle and a gift, and the beginning of a journey that is bound to teach them much about who they are. I wish you Godspeed.

Edy’s Grand Special Edition Thin Mint Cookie ice cream.

Just when you thought there wasn’t any improvement to be made on the world’s best cookie, Edy’s goes and proves you wrong.

I’m fine with being wrong. Totally, utterly and completely fine with it.

I believe it takes a little bit of loss to give birth. A little bit of letting go. We can surround ourselves with loved ones and trusted ones, but, ultimately, we must give birth ourselves. Alone. Certainly, our loved ones are there for a purpose: to make us feel safe enough to leave, to let go of everything, to lose ourselves, and give birth to another. But to do so, we must go off, alone, into the deepest recesses of our body, leaving our thinking mind behind. There — where there isn’t any thought, where there isn’t any science, or pride, or stress, or even love — there is where we give birth. In that dark and primal place, we surrender to our bodies. It is our bodies that give birth. I truly believe this.

This is one of the more difficult things to which to guide a woman during labor. To do so, you see, is to actually guide a woman off a precipice. We’re such thinking beings. Information and knowledge and science and understanding — it’s what we rely on every day to make decisions and to be able to feel comfortable with them. Even in our modern birth culture, we attend classes and read books and are urged to understand the finer points of informed consent. Yet, to let our bodies give birth, we have to throw all of this away. Jump off a cliff. Leave our minds behind. So counterintuitive. And so very, very difficult.

Mom just wouldn’t let go. She was always thinking a step ahead. The next contraction. The next centimeter. The next song. The next meal. The next decision. The next task. Mom just wouldn’t let go.

Mom won’t let go; Mom’s burdened with emotional conflict.  If I subscribe to the belief that mom must let go, surrender to her body to give birth, then, does it follow, must I believe that a woman is capable of arresting her own labor with her thoughts, her mind, and her control? A recent birth really demanded that I examine this question.

Dystocia: Taken from the Greek word for childbirth, tokos, and prepended with the Latin-from-Greek prefix dys-, meaning bad, abnormal, difficult or impaired, dystocia is technically defined as a slow or difficult labor or delivery. Often, when this word is used to define a woman’s labor, there’s an implied blockage working against nature’s plan. Mom’s contractions aren’t strong enough or coordinated enough. Dystocia. Mom’s pelvis isn’t big enough. Dystocia. Mom can’t push well enough. Dystocia. All of them, placing blame on mom.

Mom wouldn’t let go. Mom couldn’t let go. Everyone around her whispered, “She’s blocking her own progress. She’s too controlling.” Emotional Dystocia. And, certainly, it was tempting. This birth thing is so mysterious, so confusing and confounding sometimes. Here was a mom who was, on the surface, doing everything right. And yet, no progress. Was she doing something wrong “underneath”? So tempting. So tempting. I do believe we must let go…so, does it follow…? To say yes implies that mom is to blame. Unpalatable. To say no…leaves so many questions unanswered.

It has taken me weeks to write this. As I finally sat down to put pen to paper, fingers to keyboard, I still wasn’t particularly certain what I would end up saying. I half hoped this exercise will be an exercise in clarity. That, as each word appeared — crisply and cleanly — on the screen, so, too, would a kind of sharp focus be applied to my beliefs and understanding.

I haven’t been so lucky. Once again, she’s building a mystery.

A husband who will drop everything — including his work — to allow his wife to go off to a birth. He has every right to say “this doula thing sucks,” because it does, for him. But that he still understands that I need to do this and is willing to drop things at a moment’s notice so that I can? Is appreciated more than I can put in to words.

Thank you, Tim. Thank you.

(In which I get a little bit…preachy? radical?  Humor me.  I’m really not all that off the wall.)

The other day, I got tagged by Chichimama for the “International Women’s Day” meme. My assignment? To name my five favorite things about feminism. As much as I believe in the principles and goals of the feminist movement, I found myself surprised by my initial, gut reaction to this prompt. Surprised because my initial reaction was that of indignation. Because, in some ways, I fear that feminism has done women more a disservice than a service.

Do not get me wrong. As I already stated, I believe in the principles and goals of the feminist movement.  I can easily list five (and more!) fruits of feminism I wholeheartedly embrace.  We have, however, borne some strange and surprising fruit, too.

Firstly, and, most obviously, as we’ve worked hard to gain equality in professional circles, to prove our mettle — our worth — in environments traditionally dominated by men, we’ve unwittingly devalued our roles as mothers. By aspiring to greater professional heights and by measuring our standard of success against the traditional masculine model, we’ve, in a sense, implied that the home from which we “fled” is a lesser goal, a less-worthy accomplishment. I am happy to know — to truly, truly know — that I can obtain any professional goal to which I aspire. But that, for many, being a mother is not considered a professional (read: valued by the masculine standard) goal — one capable of providing intellectual, social, and spiritual fulfillment — is an unfortunate by-product of feminism.

(I’m not advocating that all mothers stay at home with their children. Hardly. What I’m advocating for is a culture in which the respect paid to a mother — or father — staying at home with her children is equal to that paid to anyone showing up for work each day, and a culture in which a new family is given the respect and honor befitting it, including a maternity (or paternity) leave allowance that isn’t the laughable farce we have today.)

Secondly, less obviously, but more importantly in my mind, feminism has borne surprising fruit in our birth culture.  For me, feminism’s negative impact on our birthing culture isn’t about what it has done, but is about what it has failed to do. Feminism, in all its efforts to emphasize equality and sameness, has failed to recognize — and celebrate — the very differences our biology bestows upon us.  Birth is decidedly feminine, and decidedly…unequal.  The definition of inequalty dictates that one entity has a greater value than another entity; yet, somehow, in a perverse distortion of values,  feminist calculations on birth fail to celebrate the greater value we own in this “inequality.”  Instead, following from a history of trying to prove our equality, we end up trying to measure our biology against a masculine standard.   In doing so, we come up with a result that deems birth as messy, painful, degrading, and — ultimately — broken.  Something that needs to be fixed.  (That some women are practioners of the obstetric model of care, by definition a system that believes in the pathology of birth, is, to me, the ultimate insult of feminism.)

To get it right, feminism must embrace our “inequality” and refuse to measure us against a masculine standard.  We must foster, in ourselves and our daughters, an ownership, pride, and fundamental trust in our biology.  To get it right, feminism must celebrate birth not as messy, but as beautiful; not as painful, but as powerful; not as degrading, but as ennobling.  And not as broken, but as entirely…feminine.

For so long, feminism has advocated for equality and a measurement against an equal set of standards.  In too many cases, though, the “equal” set of standards defaulted to the masculine set.  These strange fruits borne from feminism are the result of applying  standards for measurement that do not, and cannot, make sense.  Triumph will come when redefine those standards entirely.