People smile and tell me I'm the lucky one, and we've just begun,
Think I'm gonna have a son.
He will be like she and me, as free as a dove, conceived in love,
Sun is gonna shine above.
And even though we ain't got money, I'm so in love with ya honey,
And everything will bring a chain of love.
And in the morning when I rise, you bring a tear of joy to my eyes,
And tell me everything is gonna be alright.
"Danny's Song" -Loggins & Messina
Let's pretend I didn't take a month off from my blog. Shhhhh.....I was busy ushering an amazing Summer into, what I hope will be, a stellar Autumn. A million bazillion things happened. My son graduated from the super secret squirrel organization (no, he's not in the Illuminati). My BFF daughter-in-law and my precious angel granddaughter moved way way far away to be with the secret squirrel. My oldest son looks startlingly like a duck-call maker. His sweet little brilliant girlfriend still adores him (winner, winner!)...and I refinished enough commissioned furniture to float a fleet of boats. But enough about me. Ok, actually a little more about me. This just in! My forever BFF's daughter reached out to me to ask me a question or two about home birth. Months upon months ago, another precious little relative asked me for my birth story.Today, I made my first batch of Switchel. I read a news article recently that referred to Switchel as the Gatorade of the 1800s. I LOVE it. So, I laughed at myself and pondered over the other things I'm drawn to that are strangely from another time and place. And, I started thinking. Should I? Tell my story, that is? Major market tease (not). Duh, of course I should. Isn't it GROSS when old women who haven't had a kid in 24 years offer up a Madden worthy play-by-play of how little junior made his appearance into the world? Right? Well, for this day, that gross old woman is moi. So pull up a chair, cause I owe a couple of people a good 'ole birthin' story, Miss Scarlett!
My first child entered this world in the most ordinary way. It was the 80's. I was 19. Take a drink of wine. I was already married & had been for over a year. It was planned. Yes, I know you're wagging a finger, eviling an eye, and tssking me from one end to the other. You go right ahead. There are MANY things in my life I know I effed up. Being someone's mommy is not one of them. It is the one and only thing I know I did AMAZINGLY well. Did I make mistakes? Gosh yes. Daily. Did I scar them for life? I better have. Are we all better citizens of the world as a result? Yes, yes, and hell yes. But back to the matter at hand. At the tender age of 19, in the ruralist of rural hospitals, I had a baby. 1986. Insurance didn't cover sonograms because they were "experimental". I went into labor with what I thought was a 7lb baby of either gender only to welcome a 9lb 7oz small man into this world. He was healthy and gorgeous and I was on top of the world. As the next few days evolved, however, I developed a BITTER taste in my mouth for the uber rural Texas birth experience. Allow me to explain....
Once upon a time, a birthing class was mandatory. At least I was naive enough to believe the person who told me it was mandatory. So, my baby daddy and I went to each one. We paid attention. I took notes. My ears perked up when I heard things like "no enema", "don't let them shave your nether regions", & the ever popular "you should walk until you need to push." So I showed up at the podunk hospital with a WRITTEN BIRTH PLAN (cue laugh track). Nurse Ratched promptly looked me over, rolled her eyes, snarkily sigh-laughed, and said something along the lines of, "Shave her, strap her in the bed, & give her an enema. STAT!" That's how I remember it, at least. I have NEVER been so scared in all my life. My baby was blessedly beautiful and precious. The experience, though, left a scar on my heart.
Fast forward. I was the mommy of an 18 month old. I still lived in uber rural Texas, but I worked in a call center way far away in a ginormous city. I was going to school at night. I was pregnant again. Gulp. Hello, early 20's. Due to an unforeseen annihilation of all home construction in the state of Texas, baby daddy (I only have 1) moved 1500 miles away to tackle a huge construction project. I would join him. Post baby. In 8 months. I have never been one to do what I'm told. I am most definitely a rules girl, but when my back is against the wall, I can initiate fisticuffs like the best of 'em. So, at the 4 month mark, I took the toddler and one of those awesome potty chair thingies that lock onto the top of a big toilet and hopped on a Greyhound bus bound for Nothern Virginia. Sure, I almost missed the switch in Memphis. Sure, I feared for my life a few times. Sure, I used a pocketknife to cut off some nasty training pants at one point. But, guess what? We pulled into Manassas as one confident mommy and one toilet trained toddler. Fast forward 2 more months. Little Texas girl lives in a DC suburb. I am 6 months pregnant. I am a college dropout. I am unemployed. I have no health insurance. Virginia has no Parkland hospital. We have a home, but we are surviving on carrots, tap water, and fried bologna sandwiches. I have 3 months to get my sh%t together. It's time to birth another baby. It turned out to be one of the best times of my life!
One day, the toddler and I are walking through our neighborhood, picking up sticks and talking about BEAUTIFUL Virginia, the deer tracks, the battles fought there, the mountains, & the snow that stacks up until it's 8 ft tall, turns charcoal gray, and refuses to melt until Summer. At the end of our street, a woman walks out into her yard. She has two kids. She waves. She invites us in. She is the first nice & welcoming person in a sea of not-so-nice people who hate my accent and my Texas hair. She asks me 1 question. When are you due? An hour later we are both drying my tears. She takes my hands. She says, "Listen. It's going to be okay. I had both of my kids here. At home."
There is no such thing as GPS. There is no such thing as internet. There are no such things as personal computers. Cell phones are available. They weigh 10 lbs & I'm so not kidding. I put the toddler in a car seat (they were just declared mandatory). I drive to the closest gas station & buy a map. I stare at it for what seems like hours. I write down what I think my route should be. I strike out in an unknown land. It is time to meet my midwives.
There were 3 of them, these midwives. I recall thinking of Greek mythology and wondering which one was Enyo & would they pop an eye out to pass to the next. Then, we talked. They were ANGELS. I had never seen women who didn't shave their body hair. Relax, I thought. You like Madonna & she doesn't shave, either. Understand, it's still the 80s. One examined me. One held my hand. One held my child. There were many appointments. I was most definitely back in school. Read this. Commit this to memory. Research this. Meet this pediatrician. Pre-register at this hospital. Sterilize this. You don't know what erythromycin is? You do now. That birthing plan I wanted to use in 1986? It's 2 pages long this time. Boil water. Bake sheets. Walk 2 miles a day. Rinse, lather, repeat.
The baby is two weeks late, this middle child of mine. I'm scheduled for induction at the hospital on Monday. It's Thursday. I see the midwives. The baby daddy and I are making that loooong drive home when it hits me like a ton of bricks. "Pull over," I say. "Find a pay phone," I demand. "Traffic is awful. They'd better head out now. I'm about to have a baby." By the time we pull into our driveway, an hour and a half has passed. I cannot remember climbing the stairs to the second floor. My husband is sweating profusely. I'm pacing back and forth in front of my bed, waiting on the cavalry to arrive. He decides to clean out the closet. A relative that made this pilgrimage with us arrives to take my sweet boy for ice cream. Everyone in my camp from Texas thinks I'm a lunatic. It's 7 pm. I remember that we had an iron bed. Full size. My childhood bed. There was an ornate footboard. I white knuckle it. I am in the process of deciding what to do: scream? squat? cry? speak Swahili? Everything seems possible. Nothing seems possible. Finally, my midwife arrives. It's Martha, secretly my favorite. Later I will find out that she wasn't even on duty that night but, hearing it was me, decided she wanted to take the call. The RN I hired as a birth assistant is right behind her. Four hours from that fateful moment on a congested DC highway, little bitty me gives birth to a small elephant. He is perfect. He is huge. The scale on hand maxes out at 10 lbs. He is every bit that and then some. 15 stitches later, the realization of what my human body was able to do truly resonates. Challenge me on how I know there is a God & this is the story I will tell you. 18 hours later, at a pediatrician's office in Herdon, VA whose name I cannot recall, he still weighs 10 lbs. "I'd bet anything he weighed about 10.4," he says. In my head I wonder how it is even possible to birth a baby this big. Or this perfect. Or this precious. Was it the birth experience? Was it the fact that my mortality and that of my child hung in the balance for those precious few moments? Was it all I had learned? All I knew then was what I will tell you now. Birth is a miracle. God is in charge. It can work blessedly well at home. It can all go wrong. It can work blessedly well in a hospital. It can all go wrong. For me, home was where the heart was. I was young. I was often foolish. I threw caution to the wind. I birthed this baby at home. And the next. I am so, so grateful I had the courage to make that decision. It is not for everyone. It was for me.
Coming soon....baby # 3 is born at HOME. Texas. Research the term "lay"midwife. Until then....peace, love, & babies!
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