Men aren’t the most empathetic of beasts. Don’t get me wrong — men are capable of empathy, and when they show it, it’s almost always powerful and strong and supportive and comforting all at the same time. But, in general, empathy isn’t usually the first reaction a man brings to a given situation. For them, empathy isn’t so much instinctual as it is a learned behavior — and one which must almost always takes a back seat, or at least plays second fiddle, to practicality.

This observation has never been so clear to me than it was this morning, as I was helping my son put on his shoes.

“Ow!” he complained, as he accidentally hit, with his shoe, the toe that he’d just injured the night before.

“Oh, I’m sorry, hon,” I offered empathetically. See, there was that female instinct rearing its head.

And in less than a nano-second, Evan replied, revealing his own instinctual bias, “But you didn’t do anything, Mom. Why are you saying sorry?!”

Such. The. Man.

Weeping Willow trees aren’t an every day sight around here. Our climate is just about at the edge of their comfort zone, and these days, it’s just too damn dry to support their voracious thirst. So, while there are Weeping Willows in the area, you might have to go looking a bit to find one.

Leave it to Zoe, our resident detailed observer, to spot one on the road the other day as we were driving to swim lessons. After a few a few miles of descriptions on her part that failed to bring to my mind the species of tree she’d seen, I was forced to turn around and drive back by in order to shut her, er, identify exactly what she’d seen.

“Oh, that’s a Weeping Willow, Zoe,” I explained as I drove past the tree a second time.

“A Weeping Willow?” she asked curiously.

“Yep.  See how the branches are drooping down?  It looks like it’s sad and crying a bit.”

“No it doesn’t!” she protested.  “I think it’s reaching down to give me a hug.  I think it’s a Hugging Willow.”

A Hugging Willow.   Some horticulturist sure missed the boat on that one.  I’m glad I have Zoe to set things right.

It’s an indescribable landscape, really. Doulas, midwives, and doctors know it as the place where women go — really, really go — to give birth to a baby. We speak of it as a place, as if it could be located on a map, as if it could be navigated with simple directions including lefts and rights. But there is no map. When you’re there, you’re almost always alone. You can’t see anything in front of you. There is no horizon to speak of, no edge, no end. And although it’s desolate, it’s not at all cold. It’s yours. Your landscape, your walk, your journey. You go there only when you’re safe, only when you’re sure and only when you’re brave. You walk that landscape, your entire world at the time, with the sublime combination of will and acceptance, of strength and faith. You go there as one; you return as two. Labor Land.

Eyes closed, hand held by her husband, her own hand caressing and speaking wordlessly to her soon-to-be-born son, she walked out on to that landscape. Mom was in Labor Land.

Thirty-six hours. Forty-two hours. So Long. She never once complained. She never once questioned. She never once doubted. Not once. I watched, amazed as always, stunned by the beauty and power she displayed in those long, long hours. Finally, I was compelled to sit by her side and tell her what I truly felt. Grace. Patience. Acceptance. This is what she was bringing to her labor. This is what she brought to her Labor Land.

“I don’t know why it took so long. It wasn’t what I’d expected,” she’d said as we sat talking that day a few weeks after she gave birth. “It wasn’t what I wanted.” No, not at all. “But, maybe one day I’ll understand why it was that way for me. Maybe one day.”

I’ve often talked about the mystery that is birth. Every birth I attend builds on that mystery as much as it chips away at it. I understand mom’s sense of mystery for her birth. I understand it, deeply. And while, for me, the mystery will continue always, I would like to offer mom an answer — if not a complete one — to her personal mystery.

All that time, all those long, long hours, you never once complained. You never once questioned. You never once doubted. Sincerely amazed, I had told you then what you brought to your labor: Grace. Patience. Acceptance. And now I’ll tell you this: Grace. Patience. Acceptance. This is what you brought to your labor. This is how you painted your Labor Land. And this, I believe, is what you will bring to your role as a mother.

What a beautiful place in which to be raised.

* AKA: All that, AND I can start a wicked fire. Who wouldn’t love me?

The question came up quite naturally.  There was a logical segue to the query, certainly, and the tone behind it was nothing short of friendly.  We were two dear friends sharing an afternoon of poolside conversation, flowing freely  from children’s eating habits to tattoos and topless sunbathing, with a good dose of protective mother-child exchanges peppered in between.  Nonetheless, the question landed like a bomb in my lap.

“My son was born with thick meconium.  They whisked him away with all sorts of neonatologists scurrying about.  How could that situation have been safe during a home birth?”

Again, my friend wasn’t being particularly doubtful or skeptical.  She wasn’t feigning interest while remaining steadfast in her belief that home birth was nothing short of insanity.  I believe she was truly curious.  Still, I needed to take a deep breath before answering.  This wasn’t some highly doubtful, holier-than-thou anonymous exchange on an Internet chat board.  Those exchanges far too often lead to nothing but further entrenchment of divided camps.  This was my friend.  And perhaps this exchange could lead to something different.

So, I took a deep breath and offered my answer.

“Well, in two ways, probably.  In the case of thick meconium being present in the waters, there would have been a conversation well before the actual birth about the prudence of continuing the birth at home.  Perhaps a transfer to the hospital would have occurred in your case, but certainly not under immediate emergency circumstances.  There would have been time to act prudently.”

Ok, that was the easy part.  Now, the more difficult part.

“Secondly, there are some things that occur in hospitals that make things appear to be incredibly dire and emergent, when, in actuality, they aren’t.  In the case of the presence of meconium in the waters, the science and research doesn’t actually support some of the actions they take in the hospital.”

There, I’d said it.  As gently and tactfully as possible, I’d basically told her I felt her beliefs were wrong.  What would come next?

“Oh,” she replied with a bit of a pause.  “All that hustle and bustle was a bit of a self-important show, then, huh?”

I smiled and just let the conversation end.  She could make what she wanted of it.

Talking about birth is a bit like walking through a land mine field.  Talking about home birth?  Nothing short of stepping on a land mine.  Too often, the conversation goes nowhere, with one party convinced the other is sacrificing the fundamental safety of her child all for an “experience,” and the other party believing the first to be uninformed about and deaf and blind to the harsh realities of the hospital birthing culture.  All of it, judgmental.  Yeah, that’s productive.

So, while I believe passionately about informed birthing practices,  whole-heartedly endorse home birth, and am vocal about both here in this blog, when it comes to face-to-face conversations, I tread particularly lightly.  I’m doing neither myself nor my “cause” any favors by alienating people.  I meet them where they are, and I talk.

Whispers.  Hints.  Respectful dialogue.  And room for thought.  Somewhere in there is a place where women can birth at home and not be seen as being selfish.  Somewhere in there is a place where women can birth in the hospital — and yes, still have an epidural available to them — with deserved respect and evidence-based care.  Somewhere among those conversations, those poolside encounters, somewhere in there, I believe, is change.

I have always described myself as someone who doesn’t have a lot of friends. I’m no misanthrope, mind you, but I’m just not the gregarious girl juggling lots of girlfriends, large gatherings, and grand festivities. I stumble through life with a few close friends, and I find that is all I need.

So it isn’t often, then, that I find myself sitting down for coffee with someone and carrying on the equivalent of a first-date conversation. Where are you from? What do you do? Where’d you go to school? I’m just not the one to make new friends. But that’s precisely what I did today.

The coffee was hot and strong, and the day was blissful. We sat on the deck in the shade as our children played together in the back yard. The conversation was light — the moment it slipped toward a potentially awkward topic, it veered with nervous laughter to a less demanding subject. Our shared revelations were generally more lightweight than earth-shattering: Cheez-Its are far superior to Cheese Nips; Heinz Ketchup is the only real ketchup; quesadillas are the new grilled cheese. But with each small discovery, there was a certain fortification of a sense, an intuition — born from countless smiles and brief exchanges of casual hallway conversation — that there’s a friendship to be had here.

My daughter’s been singing songs from her end-of-year school program these days. Make new friends, but keep the old; One is silver and the other gold. I couldn’t help but think of that song today as I sat at the table over that hot cup of coffee and warm, inviting conversation. I’m not trying to sound mawkish or effusive; certainly, I’m not describing school-girl fireworks flitting in the sky after a first date. I’m just saying: it was a nice day. Making new friends is something that I don’t often do. But, today, I did, and it wasn’t all that bad.