Losses.

This week I've been doing some remembering. October 15 is Pregnancy Loss and Rememberance Day, which means, I spent a good part of Friday remembering. And remembering. And remembering. And remembering. And as I sit here in the wee hours of yet another no-sleep night watching my one very healthy son sleep, still remembering. Especially since a friend of mine has been asking for advice on how to help her friend and neighbor cope with her impending loss. I'm glad to be able to offer advice, though I wish I had no experience in that realm.

I have had several losses. Early in my adulthood I was thankful when it happened, felt it was God's way of looking out for me in my college years. Then I felt it was God's mercy in my first (and unhealthy) marriage. Then after that marriage ended and I found myself with my current husband, and things just seemed right. In 2006, I was doing triple-duty: working the bank, the store, and pursuing my MBA. I was forty pounds lighter than I am now, stressed, not healthy at all... then I came up late. Figured I was just too stressed, and good ol' mother nature would make her appearance soon enough.

About this time it seemed like everyone in my world was turning up pregnant. Three women at the store, several people at the bank, classmates, friends elsewhere in the world. Then I was. Then I was terrified- how on earth was a temp/part-time employee of two companies and the sole breadwinner of the household with no health insurance going to be pregnant? I was further stressed out, but couldn't talk with my husband (then fiance') about it because he had his own issues to work through. He had recently become unemployed (a condition that continues still today) due to his disabilities and was only receiving $250/month from the VA for said disability (that's improved a bit). He was also getting to know the VA medical system on an intimate level. Very bad timing indeed.

Then one morning, I was queasy and crampy, and suddenly not as worried as I had been. I was only a month and a half late. I was wracked with lower back cramps and passing clots the size of quarters. Three days I didn't go to work. I couldn't face the gathering horde of women who I simultaneously loved and hated as their bellies grew. As thankful as I was that it wasn't happening for me because of my circumstances, I was somewhat bitter that it wasn't happening for me, because I've always wanted kids. I left my first husband because he asked me to 'get fixed' (among many other things which may end up in another post). I kept quiet because I didn't need to scare the pregnant women and didn't need pity or advice. I felt alone.

Fast forward to 2008, when we bought our house. The first thing I said the night we put in our offer is that this house would be where my babies would be born. By this time, my husband and I had known each other three years, been married for a year and some change, and things were stable. We decided that winter after we moved in that 2009 would be the year of the Parent for us. So, we made plans, and started charting. February 28, 2009 we saw those magical crosshairs on a test and told the world on March 4. We made an appointment with our midwife. We had waited for so long and were ecstatic. We even started calling our little embryo 'Peanut'. Then, about a week and a half into this magical adventure, my body did what it always seemed to do. I woke up to spotting and cramping Saturday, March 8, 2009. I tried at first to not get worried since my husband had the car torn apart in the garage that day and had enough to deal with... disassembling and reassembling a Volkswagen Cabrio is not an easy task. Being an emotional wreck would not help either of our causes, but as the day wore on and the spotting grew heavier and redder, I finally involved my husband (after the car was reassembled) and we ventured to the local emergency room.

We endured 45 minutes in the waiting room at the hospital where a young mother was ignoring her two toddlers as they ran amok. We endured nine hours in the actual room. I had blood drawn. I had a pelvic exam. I had a violent intravaginal ultrasound with bladder catheter. I probably cried a liter of tears and my nose was fully raw from tissues. I had a misogynist OB/GYN who came down to say 'oh, another one? What is this? Some sort of epidemic?' and 'well, it's probably not a miscarriage, but it could be. Don't get too attached anyway- pregnancies really aren't a sure thing until 20 weeks anyway.' They ruled out ectopic (though looking back, I think it's possible that's what it was by the symptoms...) through the ultrasound. They saw nothing. By this point there should have at least been a little sac, but no. The lights were on and no one was home. But they gave me a tiny glimmer of hope that maybe my dates were off. Maybe I really didn't know by my charts what day I conceived. Maybe in a few weeks there'll be something, so maybe we should just check in with an OB in a few days for a follow-up.

I accepted that nothing was going to change the facts, it was what it was. It didn't make me feel any better about the situation. The worst was yet to come. Arriving home after the hospital, I wrote about it, then went to bed. I missed church. I woke that afternoon to more cramping, heavier bleeding. Clots. I broke down. I called my friend. I consulted with my due date group and my TTC groups online. I called off work. I wrote this:

"I don't know how to make sense of this situation. I'm not sure I even have the words to do more than awkwardly convey what the emotional rollercoaster has been the last three days. There probably aren't words even made in this language beyond screaming, shouting, tears, and an overwhelming sense of helplessness and rage against whatever defect I possess that would make this happen again. I dread going back to the bathroom because I don't want to see it happening.

Last week was awesome. No doubt about it, it was awesome and so packed with joy. I was facing motherhood and things were going well. I felt okay, I was gaining weight appropriately, and every home test I took (every couple of days) was darker than the last. We even had a nickname for the little embryo and had picked out names for the big day in November.

We knew this was a possibility from the beginning though. Maybe I should have been more pessimistic than optimistic. How could I not feel some surge of optimism though?

My dad wrote me last week and warned me that if it happens, it's not the end of the world... but now that it is happening, I have a hard time believing that. There's a grave injustice in this world when crack whores, high school and middle school students, and people who in general just don't want a child can carry one to term with no complications. I quit drinking three years ago to prepare for this. I changed my lifestyle completely. I prayed so hard for that moment to come when the test went positive... and it did... then this happened. How is it that I can do so much for this very wanted child, and not be able to keep it?

I'm not fishing for sympathy. I just feel hollow and so very alone right now. It's a different kind of alone to go from two people in a body to just one. Why can't this just happen to the people who don't want kids? I don't want their kids either. I want my own. I'm selfish like that. I want to give birth to my own healthy, whole, and pink little infant. Maybe it's in the cards for the future. I'm trying to find that bright spot. Right now, however, it's very, very, very hard. "

I didn't have answers. I didn't know where to go with it. I felt as though the God who was so generously looking out for me in the beginning was now just a big meanie in the sky who was out to get me, and after three days away from work I had to go back. I didn't get bereavement time for it, it was considered a sickness, not a true loss of a child... and my co-workers had all chipped in for a dozen white roses which were sitting on my desk on my first day back.

For anyone who knows much of anything about me, I'd rather have seeds and live plants any day of the week. It's part of my love of gardening. In this situation especially... seeing twelve cut flowers sitting in a pretty glass vase, I was seeing twelve empty uteruses. Twelve lives cut short before their time. Premature ends. It made my soul break. Not my heart, my soul.

I was angry, bitter, and confused. I felt alone, damaged, broken. I was almost certain I would never, ever be the parent I had dreamed of being. I was a porcupine in human form.

I fought with my mother about how I needed to be medicated in the couple weeks after the event, or needed to go see 'a real doctor' for any future pregnancies. I alienated my husband who was allowed to stay home through the duration of his grief while I had to return to work and put on a brave face. I was so wrapped up in my grief I felt I would never heal.

The sun kept coming up. The moon kept coming up. My broken body kept going through its routines. Two weeks later, a true miracle... I conceived again. I grew a tenacious little boy this time, one who made it through to a wonderful homebirth. I cautiously embraced my pregnancy, wanting to revel in every sensation, enjoying even the nausea because it was proof of life. So thankful for every day we were pregnant, but every day we were pregnant was colored by prior experiences that I feel almost as though we were robbed because every cramp and spot brought back my fears.

If you're suffering through a loss, I offer my wholehearted prayers for your heart and soul to mend. It's tough. There will be people who completely downgrade your grief, though your grief is valid whether you've been pregnant a day or a whole 40+ weeks. You need to make a space for yourself to heal, even if it means stepping away from the outside world for a bit. Surround yourself with loving people, supportive people. Ask for help from your partner, family, friends. Be kind to yourself. Rest. Pray if you're a pray-er. Talk if you're a talker. Write if you're a writer. Paint if you're a painter. Let it out. Do not hide your grief to make others feel better. This is a powerful experience you're having. It's a hard concept for others to deal with unless they, too, have felt loss on your level.

If you have a friend suffering a loss, one of the best things you can do is just BE THERE. Be the shoulder, be the ear, be the extra pair of hands around the house, be the extra set of legs for errands. Consider also this link: http://www.diaperswappers.com/forum/showthread.php?t=832479.

-L.

Pregnancy, birth, and gardens.

For anyone who knows me well, you know that I get antsy about January-February when the first seed catalogs come out for the year. I spend hours poring over them and dreaming about how the plants will grow in the garden, how the garden will have to expand to allow for one more variety or how the weird heirloom varieties will taste. I dream of planting. I begin planting indoors three months before it's warm enough to put them in the ground outdoors. I plan and plan and plan. It's a sacred thing.

In years past I believed that you had to apply pesticides to every plant to keep the bugs and such off of them. I bought broad spectrum sprays to kill aphids and probably (shamefully, I admit) did my share of damage to the local bee population because I didn't know there was anything different. This is what I knew, and it worked, and I was okay with that. I had a friend who shared a book with me on companion planting after seeing my arsenal of chemical warfare, and I began to see not only a natural way of increasing my yields, but it gave me a way of fitting more and healthier plants into the garden bed by letting them work the way they were made to work with one another, complementing one another's weaknesses with a strength. They protected each other, and brought beautiful fruit into my garden, and I left them alone to do it. It was magical in many ways.

This year, in keeping with the new and natural (normal) way of gardening, I planned, I planted, and let the plants be. They weathered storms with their companions and I waited in childlike anticipation for the first fruits to be ready to share with my family... then came mice from the vacant house next door. They nibbled on each partially ripe tomato one night, making the first dozen or so ripe ones inedible for humans. I was sad, but still determined to do nothing because gardens are a gift from God and surely I couldn't have eaten all those tomatoes myself... so for a week it went that as a tomato became ripe, just slightly ripe, the mice would chew holes. I was frustrated, and decided to do something I rarely do. I started plucking every mildly pinkish-orange tomato off the vines before the mice could get to it. We bought mousetraps and placed them between each plant, then resumed the picking schedule to get to them before the mice could... even after the mice stopped nibbling. I slowed down though when I realized that I was essentially doing to my garden what Western medicine is doing to pregnant women, that line of thinking I nearly accepted back in the day.

Four years ago I was content to believe that babies were born in hospitals. I had spent hours watching "A Baby Story" on TLC with my dorm-mates in college, I had four hospital-born siblings, and the one homebirth I had ever heard of was horribly tragic- the little boy's heart wasn't working properly and he had ended up with a severe case of cerebral palsy. I was secure in the belief that babies were born in hospitals, and that's how it was done. Birth was terrifying and filled with doctors and emergencies, because that's what the TV showed me. (Perhaps this is why I had to wait as long as I did to conceive a baby with the tenacity to go full-term... I do believe things happen for a reason.) Then I got to know K, a vibrant, snarky, weird, wonderful, earth-mama hippie-type, who was going to have a home birth. My goodness. HOME BIRTH!! She wasn't going to see the doctors. She wasn't going to be part of the machines. No needles. No prohibited activities. Her midwife looked at her as a human, not a collection of possible calamities. Unheard of. I thought she was crazy... at first.

Then she had a beautiful, healthy baby girl at home. Safely. No interference. She was fine. Her baby was fine. Nobody had to release her to do anything, she just laid down in her own bed to rest afterwards and her family was already there to be with her. Hmmmm... then I read her birth story and I was hooked. I already had a pretty healthy fascination for birth in general (though I have no idea why, I just naturally stalked pregnant people, maybe in hopes their fertility would rub off on me, maybe it's just because they're doing one of the coolest things on the planet), but then I began to read the birth stories out there and learn about the REAL normal. I understood that there was a time and place for the hospital, but that for every woman the hospital was neither the place nor even a good idea... and that for me, I was not a hospital woman.

The problem I see with the hospital is that the doctors treat women not with the honor, respect, and normalcy that they deserve in birth. Instead, they are treated like my tomato field- they must be plucked early- get them in out of the field before *something* happens. So, women are bullied into inductions or C-sections they neither need or want because they *could* have a big baby. They are told that their bodies aren't going to work for them as designed because there's just so much at stake... what if you go to term and something bad happens, but you could have avoided that bad thing by just doing what you're told now?

I hear from these women later that their babies are just fine, and for the most part they are. If you discount any bonding, breastfeeding, or emotional issues mother and child may experience from this method of birthing, yes, everyone is fine. Everyone has a pulse, that's fine. Everyone came home, that's fine. The doctor saved the day he or she helped create, and that's sorta fine.

My tomatoes ripening in the windowsill are fine, too... but I wonder as I stare at them sitting there, could they maybe have been better than fine if I'd left them alone and let them decide when they were going to be ready? If I had just accepted that nature happens and that not every tomato makes it out of the garden unscathed, maybe those tomatoes could have not only been fine, but outstanding, awesome, amazing, or other great adjective.

So, I guess there's a parallel between my love of green and growing things and my fascination with birth and pregnancy. If we learn to just leave things alone, maybe we'll come to expect that the unexpected is amazing, and amazing is better than fine.

-L.

Circumcision, or "your son's going to hate you when he's older."

So, being a new parent is fun. I've heard it said that veteran parents view a new parent as a dangerous idiot with a small person who needs to be protected by their advice. I've already been subjected to the clucking of tongues and shaking of heads for some parenting decisions I've made out of sheer research and being a part of the counterculture of birth and child rearing.

If I were to give myself a grade thus far, I'd give myself at least a B+ for being able to weed through the BS and smile and nod through the conversations with older, experienced (read: my children were born 30 years ago and this is how it should go) veteran parents try to give 'time honored advice'. I realize the accessibility of information was not as high a generation ago as it is today, but some advice is just plain awful.

From my mental reject pile: "oh, you should have been giving him rice cereal at two weeks to help him sleep! (random stranger)" "don't hold him too much, babies shouldn't be too dependent. You'll spoil him. (my birth mom)" "you gotta let them cry until they stop, my doctor told me so and you turned out fine (mom)." "you can't let them sleep with you, that's just wrong (random stranger)" "formula is so much more convenient than breast feeding (coworker)" "you HAVE to get a boy circumcised. Have to. He'll give his wife yeast infections and other problems... (co worker)" "If you don't get your boy cut, he'll hate you when he's older and the other boys laugh at him.(from several people, actually.)" I could do a post on each of these, and who knows- if I'm feeling frisky I just might. The one that concerns me most right now is that last one.

See, a few days ago I was having a light-hearted conversation with my dad (something I really need to find a way to do more often) on the phone. He wanted to know how E was doing and whether or not he'd peed on either of us yet. Unless you consider the couple of overflowing diapers we've had in the morning, nope. So, innocently I said, "He's uncircumcised so that's not a problem. It slows the flow and points it down instead of everywhere." Quite pleased with my own answer and not realizing that this was about to spiral into something, I smiled at my son wiggling around on the floor.

Dad: "What? Why the hell not?"

Me: "well, it makes sense. It's not MY penis. It's his."

Dad: "You really should have gotten that taken care of. He's going to hate you when he's older."

Me: "If he wants it when he's older, he can get it when he's older. Where I gave birth, it's not

part of the package and insurance feels that's cosmetic."

Dad: "your insurance sucks. Maybe you should look for better insurance."

Me: "they repaid me 60% of my birth cost. I think I'll keep them."

Dad: "You still should have gotten it done when he was little and he couldn't feel it."

Me: "Seriously? Yes, he would have felt it."

Dad: "Maybe. He wouldn't remember it though. Later he'll remember it and it'll hurt more."

Me: "So, I should have had a third of my son's penis removed so he wouldn't have remembered

it and couldn't have pain meds to deal with it other than tylenol or motrin?"

Dad: "He'll be embarrassed about it later."

Me: "aaaaaanyway... he's doing good. Growing. He's a happy kid."

Originally, I was leaving the decision up to my husband. I figured that the other person in the house with a penis would ultimately make the best decision on what to do with a penis. I don't have one. Well, technically I could say I had one for the better part of nine months while I was baking a boy, but generally speaking, the other twenty eight years of my life I have not had one and don't know what to do with one in terms of ownership and maintenance. I didn't put much research into it other than to read a few posts at peaceful parenting halfheartedly, I just figured I'd squirrel away the money for the procedure (what it would cost outside of insurance) since he wanted to have it done so his son would not have to worry about women or other guys laughing about his intact penis later on.

Then he was born. Things changed.

Suddenly I cared very much about what happened to this little guy's parts. Suddenly it didn't matter that I didn't have one of my own to maintain, but it DID matter to me that he did. It was his, and he should have a say in what happens to it. Also, I couldn't afford it since I was taking extra time off work, and most of our tax refund was going into house repairs and debt repayment. So, I never made an appointment with the good doctor. Time passed, our son grew, and grew, and grew. At no time in the last eight months has he requested that we remove that skin. He's not had a single infection, he's not hosed an entire room, he doesn't know that daddy's penis is different, but he does seem to know that it is his and that he likes having it attached as diaper change and bath time usually involves me repeating over and over "please let go of your penis." Can we interpret it as gratefulness for having it still there? Perhaps.

So, in eight months of learning about my son and his intactness, here's what I have to say on the matter.

We as parents are put here to teach, look after the best interests, and to protect our offspring from trauma and danger until they are old enough to go off on their own to do things their way. God delivers them to us in one piece and we're supposed to try to keep them that way even when they seem bent on self destruction once they learn to move on their own. It's counterintuitive to accept the responsibility of parenthood, then to reject it completely by handing over your new and confused baby boy to your trusted doctor of choice and saying, "just a little off the end there, doc!" How are we to build trust and security for our babies by doing this?

While some religious sects advocate for the removal of a boy's foreskin, not all do. Now it is done routinely and 33% of all US newborns are circumcised (down from 50% a few years ago)... but how often are parents fully informed about the risks of such a surgery or even have a good reason to do it? It is a fallacy to believe that a newborn can feel no pain, yet many people still believe that they cannot (http://www.sciencedaily.com/releases/2009/09/090927130048.htm). It's a fallacy to believe that circumcision prevents STDs- no, proper precautions such as condoms or simply abstaining does (www.intactamerica.org). It's a fallacy to believe that a son should resemble his father in that respect, because no two circumcisions look the same. It's not going to protect him from bladder infections, ridicule, or anything else. It's not going to be any easier to 'keep clean' if you have it removed.

Removing it is however going to put your son at risk for permanent damage which CAN make him hate you later. A botched circumcision can affect his sexual performance later in life or ability to urinate (infocirc.org). It can damage nerves and sensitivity which will affect his level of enjoyment... that may not matter to a mom or dad right now- it's hard to imagine your sweet, innocent infant as a grown man with desires and 'needs' right now, but you might want to consider it. The worst possible outcome is a life-threatening hemorrhage. There are very important blood vessels in that area, and snipping one could very well bring your new parenting bliss to a screeching halt. Yes, death is a possible outcome of circumcision as with any major surgery, because newborns are tiny and it doesn't take much. What would be a mere flesh wound to his mommy or daddy is dangerous for him, but we risk it anyway for reasons that make no sense (http://www.drmomma.org/2010/05/death-from-circumcision.html).

For parents who have already made this decision, I know it can't be undone and I also know that you likely didn't have access to the information at the time. I almost decided to do it despite my midwife cautioning against it and an awesome birth instructor having a very open discussion about it. For those expecting a boy, or recently blessed with a boy, please consider before you do it. If you need a little extra help, take a gander at this- prepared by doctors. http://www.doctorsopposingcircumcision.org/pdf/shortguide03-04.pdf

-L.

International Breastfeeding Week.

I had one of those oddly awesome encounters this evening with one of my neighbor ladies. We were out for a little family walk, husband, son, and myself. One of the long-time residents was out enjoying the mosquitoes and early lightning bugs and came over to the sidewalk to say hello to the boy and to us. This is pretty common, really. The ladies love my son, and my son, in turn, loves the ladies. Anyway, she recognized us as the 'folks who live in that big stone house on the corner over there' and launched into the tale of how her husband had wanted to buy this house when it was for sale, but she'd lived long enough in their current house that if she was going to move it would have to be MUCH farther... and hey, how old is that there baby? He reminded her of her first born, a whopper who came home from the hospital at over 10 lbs. The other three were little nine-pounders like our guy, but that first one, boy. Big. (This is the part where my husband the home birth activist chimes in with "Our kid was born in our HOUSE!! It was awesome!") Upon hearing about our homebirth adventures she brightened up and said "Well, you know what? What's gone around is coming back around. That's something. Would you believe that when I brought home my first boy and was breastfeeding it was taboo. Now women out and about just flip 'em out anywhere and pop their kids on. And you guys. At home? Now that's something." I grinned. I don't even know her name yet, she was more excited to talk than to learn names tonight, but I love her spirit. I love that I was talking to another fellow renegade who just said 'no' to formula, despite its popularity and social acceptability and gave a great gift to all four of her kids. She did this before there were lactation consultants and La Leche League. She did it before it was okay to nurse kids wherever and whenever they wanted to be nursed, and against the approval of her mother. That's big.

It's totally different than the climate I enjoy today. When I went home to visit my family in December, two weeks after E came into the world- my whole family embraced that the boy would not be receiving anything but breastmilk until he's ready for something more. My grandma even told me stories about nursing all four of her boys, and said "you don't need to worry about a cover here, just keep talking, he'll keep eating." My own mother nursed me, my paternal grandmother nursed four healthy boys, and I get to pass that gift down to my own child. I don't even have to stay home to do it like my neighbor likely had to do. I have a nifty little battery powered pump to take to work with me so I can still provide for my child. I also have laws to protect my rights out in the world as I feed my boy. I have women like my neighbor to thank for that.

L.

Bumps in the road.

A working mom is a woman with three jobs and no time off. There's the so-called Real World work-for-money job, the neverending job of 'wife', and that of 'mom'. The three form a triangle of life for the mom... and sometimes it's like the Bermuda triangle for me. I get lost in the middle as all three pull at me with different strength and direction. They each pull with their own separate gravity. Part of the wife-mom gig is that I run the household, clean, organize bills... the never-ending little bullshit that makes the world go 'round. So, it's wake up to feed the baby-wake up to feed the baby-work-feed baby or pump at lunch-work-cook dinner-hold baby-eat dinner-bathe baby-rock/nurse baby to sleep-chores-sleep-repeat.

Such is my life. I can't deny it, I love being wife and mom. I am however the sole earner in my household for now, and it's rougher than I ever thought it would be because my baby and husband both need me so much some days, and I still have to get out of the car, walk into the cubefarm, and pretend like it's not tearing my heart open to do it.

Sometimes though, the situation requires me to stay home... such as last week when my newly mobile little guy suddenly propelled himself off the bed. My arm couldn't stop him. He was laying there nursing, I dozed off as I often do, then there was that surreal thud and mewling cry. I usually have my arm wrapped up around his body so we're belly-to-belly, but somehow he still found his way out, over, and off the bed... a close to hip-high drop were I standing. I felt sick. I cried. I held him and rocked him and cried with him because I could not protect him from his newfound skills, then I had to figure out the best course of action as his little forehead turned purple and two goose eggs appeared. Run neurological exam? Check. Pupils equal? Check. Call Dr. Jerkwad? Check. Miss half a day of work to make sure he's okay, endanger the financial stability of the family for four precious hours with my son? Check.

This is where the triangle begins to pull. Husband and son need me emotionally and financially. My co-workers need me to show up and do my job. My husband and son need me to be here and be the rock they can count on. They need me at work to be dependable and punctual and productive. My husband needs me to be okay, I can't be okay if I don't know for certain that our son is okay. My son needs a mama to hug and hold until the hurts are gone. All of this bounced through my head when my husband asked me to PLEASE just stay home that day. I felt guilty that my co-workers might need me (and it turns out they did, since a critical piece of data failed and my job had to be done manually) while I'm sitting in my rocker holding my bruised up baby and talking to doctors. I felt guilty about feeling guilty for being where I belonged at that moment in time.

I went back to work that afternoon after it was clear that my son has no lasting damage, after the doctor cleared him, after my numerous neurological tests passed (I've had those tests run on me so many times, I could probably run them on someone else in my sleep... but I'll probably tell that story some other time), after I got him to hold still for ice packs and arnica oil. I had a co-worker tell me I was lucky I missed that morning at work- when the process broke and there was chaos. Was I? I'd rather have a shit day at work any day than to witness my son in pain. I'd rather run manual data entry any day than see my baby bruised and see that fear and to hear the tone in my husband's voice.

-L.

big bullies.

Women are just big bullies.

Yes, that is a sweeping generalization, but it's one that I've been contemplating since childhood- where the obvious differences between me and my more desirable peers was farther reaching than just my big, bulky glasses and protruding overbite... I was an outsider from the inside out, and most of the other girls made sure I knew that. As an adult, it became more and more clear when I became pregnant with my son over a year ago. I was reminded of it again in a blog post I read last week, http://www.birthactivist.com/2010/06/what-we-tell-our-daughters/. After the struggles

we as a gender have endured for equality and everything else, one would think we'd be kinder

to one another. After all, we are women. Shouldn't we support and care for one another?

Unfortunately, it doesn't seem to work that way.

I work in an office with over 20 women and a handful of men. After years of working in male

dominated environments, it's been an adjustment to work in a heavily estrogenated environment.

It's not necessarily a bad thing. It's just different. Women tend to bite their words and whether

intentionally or unintentionally, we are just unbelievably cruel to one another. I can compare

this to various other disenfranchised cultures, or simply to crabs in a bucket- we just aren't kind.

Back to pregnancy though. I've been un-pregnant now for six months. I admit I haven't been

putting tons of effort into losing the baby weight since my obsession has been feeding my breasts

so they will continue to feed my boy. Amazingly, my supply has made a comeback after its drop

in early May. But I digress. Six months un-pregnant. I still make two or three runs to the break

room for water and tea, like I did when I was pregnant. I still wear maternity tops since they aren't

too tight and they leave room for easy nursing access for little man. I have not put on any weight

I've just maintained. I thought I was looking pretty good for bringing a nine-pounder into the world.

All these things considered, I had a co-worker walk up to me one afternoon and ask me that most

dreaded of personal questions, "are you pregnant?"

I quickly responded with "nope, just fat and unmotivated."

I then retreated back to my desk, the safety of my cubicle to spend the rest of my afternoon

questioning whether I really looked *that* awful.

The same sort of things happen in pregnancy. I had to deal with the constant onslaught of comments

about how large I looked, the horror stories about how awful labor and birth can be, how scary pregnancy

is, that my choice to have a homebirth was possibly going to kill me or our baby, and every birth trauma

under the sun became as common in passing discussion as attempts to touch the growing belly without

permission. When I see a pregnant woman, my first response isn't any of the above. No, my first

thought is 'how much longer do you have?' followed by 'how can I boost, honor, and respect her?'

If we could change the culture of women to begin responding to one another in a positive manner, to

stop pulling one another back into a bucket of negative feelings when we aspire to be okay with ourselves,

perhaps things could be better for all of us. Perhaps women's health care will improve for mamas and babies

because we won't expect that another woman suffer humiliation and fear because someone else did.

Perhaps if we lift each other up we can bring about a better world because we'll all just *feel* better

about being wherever we are.

So, ladies... KNOCK IT OFF. Play nicely. Support each other. Share positive stories, especially

with first timers. We are learning from each other and we are all responsible for teaching the next generation.

-L.

The beginning.

So, it's pretty much official now that I'm not going to be able to afford my certification class this year since our friendly local natural gas company has decided after four generous months of $15/month budget that we can afford to pay $172/month (I'll make it happen, but I'm not sure what we'll be giving up just yet). I wasn't expecting that. I'm more than a little upset about it. Such is life, I'm not going to whine about the financial woes because I do stupid things from time to time that I end up paying for for months and years. I put myself in this hole and I'll find a way to dig out of it! I am however sad that I'm not going to meet my goal for this year... my goal was to be at least working on the certification process by June, which is only a few days away.

Despite all of this I am still thinking constantly about teaching. I want to teach women and their partners about birth. I'm not just talking about that weak hospital kind of teaching either. I dream about it at night. I daydream about it when things are quiet in the cubefarm. Sometimes I daydream about it when it's not so quiet in the cubefarm. I think about it constantly when I see pregnant women on the street. I think about it when I hear women tell horror stories about how their labor was soooooo awful and traumatic. I think about it when I hear about a homebirth that went peacefully as planned. I think about it when I hear that the national rate of C-sections is growing. I think about it when I hear that the rate of homebirths and VBACs-at-home is growing (but not fast enough). I am fortunate though to have a friend who is just as rabid about birth education as I am.

So. We're working with a mutual friend and outstanding birth-worker to develop our own Out-of-Hospital CBE program... and maybe even our own certification process.

I'm ready to teach for folks who want an out-of-hospital experience. I also want to teach teen moms-to-be. I want to talk to hospital birthers. I want to make sure people know that birth is safe, that doctors and other attendants do not in fact lessen one's chances of 'something bad happening'.

I have ideas for what I'd like to teach... but my brain's in a blender right now and I need to think some more, so that's in a future post.