There’s a fine line you walk as a doula. Actually, there are a dozen or more fine lines to walk: balancing childcare on a moment’s notice without wearing out your welcome with friends and neighbors, squeezing in prenatal and postpartum appointments in the evenings without taking away too much family time, and tending to the needs of a laboring woman while keeping your own health and stamina up. All of it, trying. All of it, an art as much as a skill.

But the finest line to walk, the thinnest and most difficult, is that line between respecting and supporting your clients’ decisions and respecting and supporting your own values and passions. Most of the time, if you’re lucky, there’s little difference between the two tasks, and there’s no line upon which to teeter. But, sometimes, these two things do oppose each other. And, when they do, I find balancing those two equally important goals to be among the most difficult tasks of my job. Because, teetering between falling into a chasm of hypocrisy and tumbling into a pit of judgment is not a comfortable place in which to be.

This is where I find myself, right now, as I attempt to write the birth story for a client. I’ve always offered to do these stories for my clients, and, up until now, it’s been a pleasure. No, I don’t always say everything that’s on my mind when I sum up my experiences with them in a story, but, most of the time, I’m able to write a fair approximation capturing my true reflections from their birth that’s at the same time “presentable” to my client.

Not so, in this particular case. I’ve struggled for days to write something, and I just can’t.

I just can’t write a reflective piece about a couple that lost patience. About a father that said, in an almost bullying manner to his wife, “No, we’re not waiting any more. I’m ready for our baby, and we’re not leaving here without her.” I can’t write a reflective piece about a mom who clicked on the computer, closed business deals, and tidy-ed up last minute details during labor. I can’t write a reflective piece about a dad who watched an offensive movie, whittling away the hours of boredom while he simply waited for that which he’d demanded hours before. I can’t write a reflective piece about a birth when the parents couldn’t be reflective about it in the first place. It was just an ordinary day to them. So why should I try to make it out to be any more than that? I can’t, and I won’t.

I’ve had some conversations recently about the uncomfortable entwinement of passion and judgment. It’s hard to hold strong beliefs without at the same time appearing to judge others who don’t hold those same beliefs. Appearing, I say. Because, is it judgment? Or is it a fundamental disagreement? You see, a funny thing happened on the way to writing this entry. I visited this particular Mom and Dad. And we had a nice conversation. It was warm and funny and enjoyable. They were warm and funny and enjoyable. And that’s my point. I disagree — heartily — with their choices. But that disagreement doesn’t change who they are to me, for good, bad, or indifferent.  The difference is slight, but it’s significant.

I still am very uncomfortable about that day’s events and my participation in those events. Very. Uncomfortable. Not recognizing and honoring that discomfort, and instead glossing it over with a nod toward the supportive role to which I’m committed, would be falling into that chasm of hypocrisy I fear. I just can’t do that. So I won’t.

Uncensored? You betcha.  Balancing a fine line?  I sure as hell hope so.

Today is technically Zoe’s first day of Kindergarten.  Technically, I say, because where we live there’s this interesting phenomenon called “staggered entry” for kindergarten students whereby each child goes to school only once the first week of school and then ramps up to full time in the second week of school.  I can see the value in it — sort of — but the result is one very befuddled mother who’s trying to decide if she should technically be all verklempt today or wait until next week when it really means something.  But, I digress.

My daughter is very much like a teenager in the sleep department, and getting her out of bed in the morning is quite the task.  We’ve been practicing these last few weeks, trying to get her accustomed to the seven o’clock hour.  Zoe, meet seven o’clock.  She is your friend.  Really, she is. But today was the first day when it all came together “for real.”  Wake up, go potty, get dressed, brush hair, come to the table for breakfast, yadda, yadda, yadda.  Efficiency, Efficiency, Efficiency.  (Never mind the hobgoblin of small minds business…)

“I don’t like getting up early,” she complained, not surprisingly.  Her eyes had barely opened for the day when those words came out of her mouth.  In an empathetic but all-too-adult-like resigned way, I simply reflected, “Zoe, welcome to the first day of the rest of your life.”  As soon as the words were out of my mouth, I kind of regretted it.  Who’s to say it doesn’t have to be that way?

But Zoe’s a damn quick study.  No sooner had I offered her the gloomy prescription for the rest of her life, she brightened with a smile of recognition of one of life’s purest joys.  “I can sleep in on the weekends, right?”

You sure can, Zoe. You sure can.  Have a great first day at school, Boo.  I love you.

The other day, a friend showed me this clip on YouTube:

The back story: the two men raised the lion from infancy until they could no longer care for him properly. He was released to a refuge, where he lived as wild as he could. The video clip shows the trio’s reunion, over a year after his release. At the time, I was overwhelmed by the raw power and emotion of the moment captured on that video. My heart warmed and smiled at the same time.

I couldn’t help but think of that video this morning as I headed out the door to a day-long conference. It was early in the morning — just after seven, in fact. Although awake, neither of my kids had made it out of bed yet. I’d hugged and kissed them in their own beds, sharing a special moment with each of them before heading out the door.

As I opened the door, but before I stepped outside, I heard from my son’s bedroom a sweet voice telling me one last thing: “I miss you, Mom!”

Not even out the door yet, and I was missed. At that moment, I felt the complete love and adoration of my son, more powerful, wonderful and awesome than a thousand lion hugs and kisses.

Yesterday, as Zoe settled into the car after a play date with her friend, she said to me, “Mommy, you aren’t as thin as Julia’s mommy.” Ouch. Of course, Julia’s mommy runs marathons, so, even though I do in fact prefer a different body than I currently have, I don’t have any desires to acquire that of Julia’s mom’s, particularly if having it requires the running of marathons. Because, really, why? Still, Zoe’s remark — an innocent observation on her part — hit home a bit and caused me to pause.  That’s what self-consciousness will do to you.

I’m so glad my mood can be so easily swayed by my child. Because, today, Zoe had a different observation. When she whined pined for the beach, I told her to draw a picture of it to help her remind her and bring back good memories.  This is what she drew:

And her narrative?  Goes something like this:  This is the beach.  There is the ocean and the sand.  These are the coconut trees. And this is me and my mom in our bikinis.

Dude, I love this girl.

(And no, I decidedly do not wear a bikini in reality!)

It will be four years on Labor Day that we’ve lived in this house.  You could not have told me at the time we began looking for a home that I would “settle” for a home that had as many cosmetic issues with it as this one did.  But after seven months of looking — and at seven months pregnant — we really needed a home, and this one appeared to have everything we needed, albeit under a bit of extra wallpaper and ugly paint.  We did most of the cosmetic updating early on, in the month between taking ownership of the home and actually moving in, but some things were left for later:  the bathroom;  the other bathroom;  and, finally, the upstairs.  The fire took care of the worst of her problems.  She had been an uncomfortable blue — from floor to ceiling, INCLUDING the floor and ceiling.  With the fire, she got a nice new coat of paint and carpet, tackling the most expansive of her issues.

Now, all she needed was some furniture.  You see, for four years, we only had a couch up there.  Downstairs?  Furnished to a T.  Upstairs?  A little neglected, she was.  For four years, I sat on the couch.  And my husband sat on the floor.  (Sorry, Tim.)  It really was high-time to get ourselves some furniture.  And so we did.  Last week, direct from High Point, the furniture capital of the world, a room full of furniture was plopped into our upstairs, transforming it from this:

to this:

Yeah, Furniture.

Now, about that temporary insanity.

About two weeks before I received my furniture, I received a phone call.  “This is Megan Marketer calling you from the furniture capital of the world.  We would like to sell you blahblahblahblahblah.” Click.  I have no time for sales people.

Except.  She was selling me a stain guard protection for the furniture.  And I wasn’t thinking.

We have had this furniture one week.  And in that one week, I’ve wiped marker, Coca-Cola, and some other unidentifiable substance off of said new furniture.  One week.  Three potential stains.  I’ve been nothing short of lucky, so far.  But at the rate I’m going, I won’t be lucky much longer.

What the hell was I thinking?  New furniture, some of it yellow, at that, and I didn’t purchase stain guard?  Insane.

I’m calling the upholsterer this morning.

1.  Assuming I return to a regular pattern of posting of “every-day” matters (ha!)

and

2.  Assuming I will continue to have birth stories AND birth rants from time-to-time

should I:

1.  Continue on as is, posting both here in this blog and letting folks read what they want and skip over what they don’t?

or

2. Create a second blog, a “birth blog”, to which I post all my birth-related writings?

Thoughts? Insight?

Is anyone listening anymore? Bueller?  Bueller?

It used to be, you could head to the bowling alley for an evening of cheap entertainment, if not a little bit of embarrassment.  This, I know, because often my bowling tab — in dollars — was not much more than (yes, more than) my bowling score at the end of the evening.  And folks, I couldn’t afford much more than ten bucks on a Saturday night.

The other night, I had the brilliant idea of taking my family to the bowling alley.  Nothing like a little cheap family entertainment, I thought.  Yeah, right.

• Four rental shoes (ewww): $20
• Four frames: $20
• Two beers, one hot dog and one plate of nachos: $25, plus tip

That would be one family outing for a whopping $70.  Holy Cow.  Boy, how things change.

Except, of course, in the score department.  Once again, the bill was more than the score.

“It’s MY room! I’ll arrange it anyway I want to!” said my all-too-sassy sixteen five year old girl one day.  She’d decided that her toys made great decorations throughout her room and was quite disappointed when I’d told her to put them away where they belong.  Really, she was just making yet another excuse to avoid cleaning up her room.

“It is not your room, Zoe.  This is my house, and your daddy’s house, and we let you sleep in this room.  But my rules apply in this room.  You will put the toys where they belong — in baskets, and in your pie safe.” (Don’t ask about the pie safe. Yes, I live in the South.)

Grudgingly, she accepted her fate.  I was pleased to have shown her the nature of the household hierarchy, despite the fact that I sounded too much like my father in doing so.

Apparently, though, I made an impression upon her.

“Go clean up your room, Zoe,” I asked this morning, as we were getting ready for the day.

Hardly a moment passed before I was met with the repercussions of my previous authoritative lesson.

“It’s YOUR room, Mom.  Your house.  Your room. You should clean it up.”

Don’t get me wrong, her attitude most definitely needs some adjusting.  But, damn her –  why wasn’t I that smart when I was her age?

Eh. I’m trying to strike a balance. I’m also failing in that regard. But, for what it’s worth, here’s another birth bitch:

I rarely, if ever, participate in banter on my blog — even back in the day when I was posting nearly every day. But Lucky Candice left a comment on my last post that struck a chord, so much so that I felt I couldn’t just respond to her comment in-line. Thus, this post. Her comment was offered respectfully, and I took it as such. Likewise, my response, in the form of this post, is also offered respectfully. Her comment:

I love your blog - so I hope you don’t mind a bit of devil’s advocate here. Many hospitals offer walking epidurals. You can have walking monitors on or take them off. You just tell the nurses you don’t need or want them. If you write in your birth plan that you want the birth to be more natural, most nurses are really really cool about it. Supportive even. Granted, at the hospital you have to stand up for yourself! You have to be in charge and be firm about your wants. I’ve had all three of my kids in the hospital. My doctors (both of them that I’ve had) have been adamant about the fact that they never do episiotomies. You CAN eat, you just tell the nurses you’re going to and they don’t fight it. I guess what I’m saying is this: if you’re going to have your baby at the hospital and want a natural experience - bring a doula or be in complete charge and make it go the way you want it to. Even with pitocin you can walk around, have a room with a birthing tub, request a birthing ball make sure you get the squatting bar. Hospitals have this stuff. People just don’t use it and don’t “shop around” when it comes to the hospital they’re going to use.

Anyway, that’s my two cents.

I’ve heard her sentiments offered often — heck, even I have echoed them at some point in my life. It all sounds nice and good: advocate for yourself, and you’ll get what you want. Except, it doesn’t work all the time, or even most of the time.

Sadly, it has been my work as a doula that has brought me to this conclusion.

Take for example the case of eating and drinking during labor. Honestly, most of the time I don’t see this restriction placed on moms. But sometimes — most recently included — it happens. And mom says, “I know this is bullshit. I should be able to eat.” And I say, “You know, what happens behind closed doors isn’t anyone else’s business.” Yet, still, mom doesn’t eat. She’s been told — multiple times and quite clearly by the nurses and the doctor: nothing by mouth. The unspoken implication being that she’s putting herself — and her baby — at risk. Does this make her a “weak” individual, unable to advocate for herself? Should the blame be placed upon mom? I don’t think so. The blame — and the shame — is on the care provider: for not practicing evidence-based medicine, for unduly using his influence to force someone into submission, and for putting his own self-interests above that of his client’s. The restriction should have never been imposed in the first place.

Now, about those episiotomies. In the area I practice, I too, can say that most doctors don’t perform them any more. “Oh, please don’t be the one to make me do an episiotomy,” they’ll joke, “I haven’t had to do one in two years and I don’t want to sully my record.” Despite the underlying theme of self-interest echoed by these statements, this is a good thing. It gives me hope, in fact, because even as little as five years ago episiotomies were standard practice. If this protocol can change so quickly, maybe, I hope, others can change as well.

But that doesn’t mean that they don’t happen. “You’re going to tear. I can’t tell you how badly, but you will tear. Or I can cut you cleanly and we can have this baby on the next push.” These are the words mom’s hearing. Over and over again, actually. She’s also hearing from me, quietly, “With each push you’re stretching beautifully. A little at a time, just like nature intended it.” But the words from her care provider hold more weight. They do. Is mom to blame? Or is it the care provider? Shame on the care provider, I say: for lacking patience, for not practicing evidenced-based care, and, most of all, for not listening to mom — who’d clearly told him her preference to tear — and, instead, badgering her repeatedly until she finally submits…to his way.

Monitors — just try taking them off, and watch the fireworks fly.  Walking Epidurals — only one of the five hospitals in my area (yes, five) even provide such an option, and you tell me how you’ll be walking the halls with a fine catheter in your back attached to a pump attached to a wall.  A really, really nice nurse — one you’ve gotten by the luck of the draw — just might detach it to let you go to the bathroom, but, otherwise…these walking epidurals are a sad misnomer.  Birth Balls — you’ll get the only one available if someone else isn’t using it.  Squatting Bars — push all you want while squatting, but when doctor shows up to catch, plan on being manipulated into a lying position on your back.   Wireless monitors?  Again, if you happen to be at the one hospital out of five that even offers such an option, you might get lucky — if the two sets available for sixteen birthing rooms are not already in use.  (And, incidentally, the hospital with the wireless monitors is not the hospital that offers “walking” epidurals).  And care providers — for every one in a given practice that you show me who will respect your choices, I’ll show you another one in that same practice who operates on an entirely different playing field.  Which one shows up on the day you go into labor is anyone’s guess, and that’s an uncomfortable gamble, at best.

So, yes, you can make choices.  You can do the research and choose the hospital that has the most permissive monitoring policy, or the hospital with the “walking” epidural, or the hospital with the wireless monitors, or the care provider who you most “love.” You can make all of these choices, carefully and purposefully.  But, in this environment, you can’t guarantee they’ll be respected.  And, that, in the end, is the problem.  You shouldn’t have to fight to be respected during labor.  You just shouldn’t.

Let’s have this baby today! You’re here. You’re a bit past your due date. Why not?

Why not, indeed?

And so, Mom was hooked up to Pitocin. Monitors strapped on. Encouraged to lie still. Oh, don’t move that way, I can’t read the baby! Just stay still please.

Mom denied food and drink. Nothing by mouth! That’s just the way it has to be.

And soon enough, the epidural was in. Why don’t you get your epidural now? It could possibly be hours before the anesthesiologist can get back here.

Then the blood pressure cuff, and the catheter. Wires and tubes and beeps and blips filled the room. And all the while, mom laid there, flat on her back, and hungry. You can’t move now! You’ll pull the epidural out! Sorry, not even broth. We’ll get you something when it’s all over. I promise.

In the end a little girl was born. Covered in vernix, she was a wee little thing — “overcooked” indeed. Mom, exhausted and famished, having eaten her last bite well over 24 hours earlier, wouldn’t — couldn’t — hold her baby for an hour or so. She simply didn’t have the interest. No interest at all in her newborn daughter. Only after she was given the food and nourishment promised to her hours and hours before was she able to provide love and nourishment to her child. Maslow’s hierarchy of needs, illustrated.

But, hey, in the end, mom was fine. And baby was fine, too. Like they say, all’s well that ends well.

Why not, indeed?