potty performance anxiety

Function: noun
: the sense of fear and concern that overwhelms you as you lead a house guest to the bathroom in your home, uncertain as to the age and responsibility-level of its last inhabitant. Did my daughter flush? Did my son aim well? Oh. Dear. God.

[I never intended this blog to turn into a “birth” blog.  Certainly, I knew I’d have birth stories peppered here and there to reflect that very big part of what I do these days.  But, I certainly intended (and intend) to continue posting the every day minutiae that would continue to make this blog, well, me.  Obviously, that hasn’t happened lately.  One day I’ll get my groove back.  In the meantime, more birthy stuff from me.)

I’m in the middle of reading Pushed: The Painful Truth About Childbirth and Modern Maternity Care, by Jennifer Block.  Published this year, it includes the most up-to-date information on our modern birthing culture.  I picked it up just because it was so new, and I wanted to see what fresh research was out there. (Mind you, I actually keep up on the research; I just wanted to see what was being published about it.) I began reading it the other day.

Thing is, this book just published? It reads much like Born in the USA, by Marsden Wagner, published last year.  In fact, it reads a lot like The Thinking Woman’s Guide to a Better Birth, published in 1999; like Birth as an American Right of Passage, published in 1994; like Open Season, published in 1991; like Silent Knife, published in 1983; and like Immaculate Deception, published in 1977.  1977.

That’s what’s so troublesome.  The critiques of our maternity care system?  Age old.  The data to back up the need for change? Likewise, as old.  Things are broken, and that’s not an opinion.  But things aren’t changing.  They aren’t.  So the problem is bigger than just making note of what the research says and implementing it in day-to-day practices.  The problem is cultural.  It’s doctors being concerned, legitimately, for their practices and financial well-being.  It’s generations of women missing a history of normal birth, missing the wisdom — and confidence — that comes from stories passed down, from births witnessed and shared.  It’s a generation of technology, and know-how, and pictures, and tests, and science — all for our benefit, for our improved well-being, for our civility.  It’s all of this, and more.

I’m not stating anything earth-shattering here.  I’m not.  What’s earth shattering will be the answer to the question, “So, what will it take?”  What will it take for women to once again believe in their ability to give birth to a child?  What will it take for women to understand that they are not broken? What will it take for women to embrace — not fear — the power they have within them?  What will it take for care providers to acknowledge that birth is a natural, normal process that — for the most part — needs little intervention?  What will it take for those same care providers to sit on their hands, watch, and wait?  What will it take?

I don’t know the answer to these questions.  For me, the answer was the research.  It was quite convincing.  For me.  I’m not saying this in a patronizing manner:  I’m educated about the issues.  You’re not.  The information has been out there — for years.  1977.  2007.  Yet, for so many people, the information and the research hasn’t been the answer.  The research and the information aren’t making the change.  So, my question really isn’t patronizing.  It’s honest and open.  I want to understand.  I really do.  What will it take?  What will it take for you?

“I’m not interested in getting in to this sort of thing,” I’d said, more for my own convincing than hers. “I just need a little help re-stringing this:” I held up the contents my hand to show her a rather homely home-made necklace that I’d picked up at an antique store for a dollar. The hand-made paper beads had caught my eye and I’d been smitten with them instantly. Strung together with cotton string and some really unfortunate silver and gold beads in between, I just knew it was a diamond in the rough. Now, at the local “beading” store, a place that I’d purposely avoided for fear of falling in love, I was there to bring those quirky rolled paper beads to their full potential. I just needed a little help.

An hour and fourteen dollars in jewelry findings and beads later, my homely little necklace had become the necklace, bracelet and pair of earrings I’d envisioned upon first laying eyes on it:

All I needed was a little help. Unfortunately, I now think I’ll be needing a lot more help. Ahh, addictions…

I’ve always found it to be near-criminal, the presence of a clock in a room with a laboring mom. Too often, we are run by that clock. We time contractions: When did that one start? How long did it last? We time the labor: How long has it been? How much longer will it be? We look to the clock to give us answers, as if it has knowledge deeper than our own. We look to the clock to guide us in times uncertain, seeking the predictable in the orderly minutes and seconds running around and around and around again. All of this reliance on the clock ““ misplaced. The answers aren’t there up on that wall. They never will be. So I try to hide the clock or at least diminish its importance. I ignore it. And I encourage my Moms and Dads to do the same.

But this time, I broke my own rule. “Six o’clock,” I’d said, “She’ll be here by six this morning. That’s my bet.” I found myself cringing as the words escaped my mouth. Too late. I’d broken my own rule.

It was an innocent-enough remark. I wasn’t trying to be arrogant, predicting what can’t be predicted. I wasn’t pointing to an answer up on that wall. I was simply making an observation, extrapolating a logical conclusion based on the pattern of those wee morning hours. And I was reflecting — giving voice to — Mom and Dad’s own thoughts: this was going so fast!

They’d called me at 11. Asked me to come over at Midnight. Arrived at the hospital at 2:00. Six centimeters at 2:30. Eight centimeters at 3:30. Nine centimeters a half-hour later. Each hour, each measure of progress, each rotation of the hands of the clock, was met with the same emotion: surprise. There was no time to reflect. No time to adjust. No time to become acquainted with the idea. It was all happening so fast.

My prediction was not far off. Just before the turn of that six o’clock hour that morning, a little girl arrived into the arms of her parents. Again, at least one of the emotions was surprise. Look at her ears! Her fingers! Certainly, these were natural moments of discovery. But I sensed, too, that sense of surprise. As if it had all happened so fast — too fast — for those ears and fingers and sweet, sweet toes to actually be a reality. Surely, there had not been enough time to make this all real.

Only hours before, they had been at dinner. Now they held a little girl in their arms. Had the time in between been enough? Was there enough time to know how to be this little girl’s parents? Was there enough time to know what to do? How to act? How to love? The clock on the wall can’t answer those questions. But I think they know. They’re ready. And then they’re not. They’re prepared. And then they’ll find themselves unprepared. You see, it’s a funny thing, the reality of this parenting. It’s about having all the time in the world, and never enough, all at once. That’s the reality. And there’s no clock in the world that can reflect that kind of  time.

It’s hard to describe a birth that occurs entirely naturally. Certainly, every birth is different. But even though they’re each unique, these births share a kind of intensity, a kind of strength and power that belies any kind of description. There’s no preparing for it. There’s no painting a picture of it. There’s no knowing it, until you actually experience it.

She was so close; we all knew this. All of us, that is, except Mom and Dad. How could they? Mom said she couldn’t do it any more. And Dad tried desperately to help her. We heard them. We really did. But the help they asked for would take time, of which they had precious little remaining. So we helped them, for the moment, in the only way we knew how: with our words.

“What you are about to witness is the most intense, powerful thing you have ever seen. Nothing can describe it.”

“But, is this…is this–,” he said, pointing with heartfelt concern to his wife, “…normal?”

“Absolutely. Normal. And Intense.”

Intense. Is that really a fair description? I’m not sure. Birth is intense. But it’s also overwhelming. Fierce. Formidable. Shocking. And it’s beautiful. Wondrous. Breathtaking. It’s all of this, and more. So, somehow, intense does not capture it all. It falls utterly short. Dad was about to witness just how very short, indeed. A vocabulary lesson, of sorts.

In the meantime, Mom herself had lost the need for thoughtful description. She’d passed the point of needing to know. Doubt, fear, unknowing — all of it, gone. No longer concerned that she couldn’t do it, she was doing it. Quiet and resolute, her words and questions just stopped. Turned entirely inward, withdrawn from the world around her, she found her purpose — in pushing.

Then, a sweet baby boy was born. Placed on to Mom. Caressed by Dad. Welcomed in to the world.

And then she said it. It certainly wasn’t the first thing she said. There were the intimate hellos and sweet coos first, but when the moment came that mom was once again aware that there was a world beyond herself and her newborn son, she looked around and said to those who had been with her, “You guys were amazing!” In her voice, there was gratitude — for our presence, for our support, for our guidance. But there was awe, too. I heard her, surprised — and saddened just a bit — that she felt that way. Her sense of awe? Entirely misdirected. Entirely.

Dad found new meaning in the word intense that day. Forevermore, he’ll understand that word in a different light. So, too, I hope Mom found new meaning in the word amazing, for she was the very definition of it that day. The very definition, indeed.