As I described Molly’s birth to her, I felt this warm wave of good feeling and my heart stood up and twirled around as I re-lived those moments last September. When I got up off the hospital bed, after pushing an 8 pound 15 ounce baby into the world, snuggling her at my breast, downing two celebratory and hard-earned percocets, and walked, all by myself, to my recovery room one floor down.

I haven’t felt that victorious, relieved, goddess-like, I-can-do-anything, show me a mountain . . . ever. Before or since.

Which tells me two things: 1) I need a new goal, some big, hard, rewarding thing, and 2) I need to do something in support of natural birth in the world. (even if that starts with something as small as this blog post).

My cousin is getting really close, and I was trying to think how to express my best encouragement. When I was fretting over my inconsistent mental preparations, it helped when Andrea told me her epiphany that there wasn’t any one thing she had to do and do right, but rather, she just needed to experience, to allow, to surrender. It helped to know that when I thought I couldn’t do it anymore, I didn’t have to because it was almost over, and I was already doing it anyway. It helped to know that by the time the pain was something I’d sell my soul to avoid, it’s too late to find a black market buyer. (and it was almost over.)

It helps me now, to remember that night and think: If I can do that, I can do anything. If I can do that, anyone can do that. And the thing about not doing it, but allowing it? That also helps for if things go wrong. If something goes wrong and intervention is needed and you have to allow something else to happen, something that wasn’t in your birth plan, that’s okay, because it turns out that was the thing you had to allow, to experience, to submit to. It wasn’t something you failed to do right, it was the thing that was supposed to happen. You can do this. Or that, or whatever you have to.

Giving birth to my baby, naked, lying on my side and indignant that I had to hold my own knee up and out of the way, feeling every stretch and burn and push and fire and thrust and swell and release, that was ecstatic. That was living deliberately, that was building my cabin in the forest by a pond, that was a luxury of wild nights! wild nights!, and squeezing the marrow out.

That was (every expletive you can think of) amazing.

—

Molly’s birth story

What to read when you’re expecting

Thinking about natural birth after thinking I had miscarried

An old one that shows how far I’ve come

My sister is terrified of having another baby. She has three kids, her new husband has three kids. Their youngest is four now. Being a stepmom is hard; being a wife is easy. None of that’s the problem, anyway, the problem is newborns. That’s not the problem. Newborns are delicious. Even better, they grow into babies in a couple months, and then they are the sweetest thing ever on earth. Ever.

But the experience of having a newborn — or a baby who sleeps in two-hour chunks (or less) is not sweet. It’s the hardest thing I’ve ever done. Not as hard as some terrible things I can’t even mention because then it would sound like I’m trivializing them, but let’s just say: living with and caring for a new baby is hard, hard, hard.

And it’s not made easier by the fact that they are the sweetest thing on earth ever. I mean, it is, of course it is, because you can sit and stare at their chins and smell their milk-sweet breath (which always strikes me as borderline-narcissistic how much I love the smell of my babies’ breastmilk-breath), and when they start to smile it’s a hit of the strongest narcotic each time they do it.

So then you feel guilty, or cheated, or ungrateful. How can you not be full of happiness and sunshine every second when you have this most wonderful being ever created here in your arms to love? This baby you wanted, you prayed for, you chose to conjure into your life.

At my six-week visit after Molly, I took a screening questionnaire for postpartum depression. I’d never been offered or sought one out before. With Avery, I went back to work part-time when she was a month old, leaving her with Tom, no guilt, no regret. With Callie, it was hard. We had just moved back to the States from Egypt, we didn’t know many people, we lived in a small two-bedroom apartment. But none of that was the problem. In fact all of that was fine, great. The problem was that she didn’t like to sleep on her back. At all. She would sleep on my chest, which might have been okay, except I could not sleep that way. By the time Lucy came two years later, we were settled, she slept fine, my mom came out when she was three weeks old and helped us make it through the end of the broken-sleep phase into the getting-enough-sleep-to-survive phase.

I often wondered, especially after Callie, and after the baby shower my new friends held for me after her birth because she was a few weeks early — where I couldn’t feel the normal baby shower happy-anticipation but instead felt bitter and cautionary-tale-like instead — I wondered if what I felt was normal, or if I needed some help, or if I should just be patient, and always just when I was about to ask for help, the baby started sleeping better and things slowly turned around. This entire last pregnancy, birth and fourth-trimester I have been more aware of my options and determined to figure things out, and I was glad that the midwives who were such good birth attendants were eager to address this part of it too.

Here’s the questionnaire in case you want to take it before I talk about it:

Mark each as 1 (Strongly Disagree), 2 (Disagree), 3 (Neither Agree nor Disagree), 4 (Agree), or 5 (Strongly Agree) during the past two weeks.

1. I had trouble sleeping even when my baby was sleeping.

2. I got anxious over even the littlest things that concerned my baby.

3. I felt my emotions were on a roller coaster.

4. I felt like I was losing my mind.

5. I was afraid I would never be my normal self again.

6. I felt like I was not the mother I wanted to be.

7. I have thought that death seemed like the only way out of this living nightmare.

I answered it honestly, except for the last question. Really, death is the only way out — ask Penelope Trunk, but that’s not even depression, that’s logic. (unless you’re Elizabeth Gilbert.)

My midwife came in and said, the nurse wants you to take the longer postpartum depression questionnaire, you’re borderline, but I wanted to ask you how you feel about it. I said I thought I was just doing normally, as well as could be expected, that I had better days and worse days, and that, most important, I knew it would get better, it always does. The baby grows up, sleeps longer, seasons change, la la la. She said, that’s what I thought, I thought you were okay, but if you want to take it, you can. I said, not for now.

Here’s what I answered (I always want to know the specifics):

1 -4, 2-2, 3-4, 4-4, 5-4, 6-5, 7-2

That was a score of 25 (where 7 would be the “healthiest” and 35 would be the most troubled). If I’d answered number seven as I wanted to, it would’ve been a 27-28. But even in that six week postpartum fog, I wasn’t totally sure that life was a “living nightmare.”

So I went home and did things I knew would help. I walked regularly with my friend, I tried to sleep when the baby slept (and was usually in bed by 10 for the night), I let myself drink Mountain Dew again because even though caffeine is not a long-term solution it cheers me up, I wrote about keeping a can of formula in the cupboard as a backup plan (it didn’t surprise me that we never used it after I wrote about it — having it was enough to make me feel not squeezed by the responsibility of being the sole provider). I let myself breakdown in front of my husband and kids, scaring the kids and making Tom think I was crazy, which served the purpose of convincing him I needed help around the house at least.

I got library books and a new iPod Touch so I could read and be online easily while holding and nursing the baby, I had my comfortable nursing chair positioned just so in front of my sunny window. I ate well, drank a lot of water, took my vitamins.

And still I felt something off. I don’t get the nothing or really sad; I get the deep seething rage. My mom told me she remembers the deep seething rage, which is hard to imagine, because she is very calm and affectionate. I do remember her yelling rarely, but I also remember that I deserved it when she did. I get anxiety and anger, and then guilt and self-loathing.

Several Fridays ago I was ready to quit by the time Tom got home from work, just quit it all. Tom suggested (without believing I’d really take him up on it, I think) that I take the baby and spend the weekend at my parents. They live an hour away. My dad said it was a great idea and of course they’d love to have me, when I called Saturday morning. Which was good, because I was already on my way.

I stopped at the mall on the way, saw a movie, nursed Molly on the comfortable mall couches, people-watched, and by dinner time I was ready to go home and face the four other people who like me to cook for them at regular intervals.

The next weekend I took Molly to the movies again. Anyone who thinks it’s sad to go to the movies by yourself has never been a mom.

When Molly was four months old I was back at the midwives for something else and I asked to take the depression questionnaire again. I think I’m doing better, I told them, I just want to make sure, and see for myself.

This time I scored 20, and I was surprised by the wording on some of the questions. I hadn’t looked at it since the six-week checkup, and in my mind, even though I knew I felt better overall, I expected to answer more similarly, because it was still me taking the quiz. I expected my honest answers to specific questions to be more “true” and less variable.

Had I ever really thought I was losing my mind or would never be my self again? And when I said I wasn’t the mother I wanted to be — I meant towards all my kids, not towards the baby, who I’ve been a terrific mother to (so far). I don’t swear at her, after all.

So I know several things. One, having a newborn in the house is the hardest thing I’ve ever done. Two, it changes how I see myself and reality, it puts me in a place where I can’t think objectively or rationally, even when I think I’m stepping back and being philosophical and agreeing that things are getting better and are normal “enough,” I am actually not capable of seeing things clearly through that fog. Three, I’m going to back-down on the guilt and self-loathing over the yelling and swearing. Yes, I should stop, and yes, I will keep working on it, but it’s not all me doing that talking — some of it is the baby mean reds talking. And four, I don’t, at this time, need medication or therapy (of course I would benefit from therapy, everyone could, and if I do need medication in future, believe me I will get it).

Because I am getting better, the baby is growing up, she’s sleeping more, and in approximately three weeks the seasons are going to have to pay attention because I am planting my sugar snap peas on St. Patrick’s Day and I expect the weather to cooperate.

I guess I am writing about it, a little. It was intense, and the whole process of learning about childbirth in general this past year was immensely satisfying and worthwhile. I always have big plans to do courses of study in different subjects (gardening, ancient carpets, the history of Scandinavia, cheese making (which turns out to look like way too much trouble)), and then life gets in the way. But with this there was a physical and chronological imperative, plus a compelling interest. Chrysanthemum, who had three c-sections and went above-and-beyond as a sounding board and pregnancy-and-birth companion, now wants to train as a midwife once her children are a bit older. That’s how convincing and inspiring our discoveries and shift in perspectives have been. ‘

Anyway, these are the books and movies and blogs that I studied. I have to thank Rixa, once again, for getting me interested in the first place, and for sending me a box with several of these resources (and apologies again for keeping them so long!).

Baby Catcher by Peggy Vincent

I’d recommend this book to anyone who enjoys reading, whether interested in childbirth or not. It’s a hilarious, gripping memoir of a nurse-turned-midwife (CNM) in Berkley in the 70s and 80s. It’s totally story-driven and entertaining, candid, and moving. It’s also full of the sights and sounds and movements of natural, normal birth, which gave me a frame of reference for imagining what my birth might be like. Vincent doesn’t shrink from addressing difficult topics like birth injuries and getting sued; it’s not a rosy fantasy about home birth, but a real record of an astonishing array of births.

Birthing from Within by Pam England

I preferred this how-to-prepare book to Hypnobirthing. It makes no promises about being able to avoid pain completely in birth; instead it teaches several coping techniques and gives good advice about how to practice them enough to be helpful. ( I should have trusted the book and practiced more.) England also encourages the creation of birth art. I was skeptical about this; I’m not an artist, and I hate doing things poorly. Then I turned a page and read that sometimes the people who are most resistant to the idea of creating birth art (drawings, paintings, etc) are often those who would most benefit — because if you think of childbirth as art — as something that you only want to do if you can do it perfectly, well . . . that’s not a helpful way of viewing childbirth. You don’t give birth a certain way (or prepare to give birth a certain way) in order to impress people or to do it “perfectly,” and neither should those concerns stop you from doing art — your best art even if it doesn’t turn out “perfectly.”

Ina May’s Guide to Childbirth by Ina May Gaskin

I bought this book on Rixa’s recommendation during the pregnancy that I miscarried last August. I remember putting it down after a few chapters, thinking it was just too hippie and crazy for me. When I picked it up again just six months later I read it straight through, nodding over and over, thinking how obvious it was, how much sense it made. If some of the birth stories in the first half of the book seem far out, skip to the second half which is full of good common sense information. I went back again and again in the weeks right before the birth, reading a couple stories at a time. After a lifetime of being afraid of the pain or hearing so many horror birth stories, it’s good to crowd those out with positive accounts of successful natural births (unmedicated and un-interventioned). Much of the natural birth information is more reactive or “what not to do”  in nature. Balance that with beautiful stories of how it can happen, how it actually does work. And again, this is no fantasy where nothing ever goes wrong, but stories where most of the time everything goes as it should, and when it doesn’t (because this is real life), appropriate medical help is something to be grateful for.

When I set this book down after my first full read-through, I immediately got on the computer to check airline tickets to Tennessee. I would’ve given anything (okay, except going into debt) to give birth at The Farm. One of the most significant testament’s to Ina May’s credibility is her excellent relationship with the hospital and doctors who treat The Farm’s infrequent transfer patients.

The Thinking Woman’s Guide to a Better Birth by Henci Goer

This is a very straightforward and well-substantiated collection of best practices, including advice on how to have the best epidural or best c-section possible if they’re required or desired. It’s a great comprehensive introduction to what and why and how for a first-time mother or an experienced mother who wants to know more about her options and the risks and benefits of each.

Pushed by Jennifer Block

This is an expose-type book about maternity care in the U.S. It’s a quick read and includes fascinating anecdotes, including a section on the disservice done to women in states where home midwifery is illegal. One of the first stories was about a Florida hospital during hurricane Charlie (that was the first summer we lived in Florida). With only minimal power and resources at the hospital, all elective inductions and c-sections were cancelled, and women in early labor were sent home to progress on their own (as used to be standard). When women in real labor were admitted, things occurred in a natural way by necessity and after that experience, several of the labor and delivery nurses changed their employment or career trajectories based on what they had learned.

I skimmed a lot of the middle because by the time I read this, I was already convinced that our maternity system in the U.S. is whacked, it was kind of preaching to the choir. But for anyone who’s skeptical or on the fence, I think this book would be pretty convincing and eye-opening.

Birth Reborn by Michel Odent

I asked Tom to read this book because it wasn’t by a crazy hippy woodwoman — so this is a good book for someone who needs a traditionally authoritative (male, medically trained, hospital-affiliated) take on the safety and desirability of natural childbirth. I liked the historical slant, describing how Dr. Odent and his staff in France stumbled upon several of their methods for improving childbirth and postpartum care in the hospital setting. Recently Dr. Odent has become less and less supportive of having the father in the birthing room, suggesting instead that the mother be supported by women (which is good, of course), but there is no way I would’ve wanted to give birth without Tom.

Birth as an American Rite of Passage by Robbie E. Davis-Floyd

I probably wouldn’t have pushed through the heavy academic chapters of this book if not for our electricity fast, but it was fascinating, and reminded me of being in college. The exploration of birth as ritual and rite-of-passage and as a way for society to initiate women (and their husbands) into a technocratic worldview (where we trust and revere technology over nature) was well-thought out and effectively cautionary. I did feel severe cognitive dissonance by the end — because much as I want to say and believe that I “trust” nature over technology, I chose to give birth in a hospital — obviously core beliefs are more deep-seated and changing a whole philosophy requires more than a summers’ reading.

Birthing the Easy Way by Sheila Stubbs

Back when I was first interested in birth, I titled (and never finished) a post: “Breastfeeding is my gateway drug” about how my enjoyment of and success in breastfeeding was what made me think maybe I could do birth more naturally too. It’s also just about the only facet of attachment parenting or natural family living that fits me (well, that and composting). So I was delighted to see a chapter in this book called “Everything I needed to know about birth I learned from breastfeeding.” Now I could almost make the argument that “Everything I needed to know about parenting I learned from birth”: be patient, you’re not in control (of natural processes), you can take control/be autonomous (of “the system”), surrender, be patient, be flexible, be patient, after great pain comes the reward, be patient.

This book is also great for those interested in VBAC and/or HBAC. Stubbs describes a progression from c-section for CPD (baby “too big” for vaginal birth) to homebirth attended by a doctor (this is in Canada several years ago) to unattended (accidental bec. it happened so fast) homebirth.

Oh, and one of the things I liked best about this book in particular was that Stubbs doesn’t intend “the easy way” to imply “easy” as in “without pain” (more like “simple” or “straightforward”). She emphasizes several times that her births were painful and that if she could handle it, so can anyone, because she’s a self-described wimp.

Rediscovering Birth by Sheila Kitzinger

This book explores birth art, beliefs, and practices around the world and historically. Sometimes the author’s disdain for the West and modern birth practices frustrated me, especially when she was unwilling to criticize “native” beliefs that are pretty clearly dumb. Like the culture (now I can’t remember where — Africa?) where babies are wet-nursed for the first week of life because colostrum is thought to be poisonous. If we can ridicule Americans for our crazy ideas, surely we don’t need to excuse “natural” superstitions that are just as unsupported. But I would still recommend the book, especially for people curious about other cultures. The illustrations alone are well worth a look.

Hypnobirthing by Marie F. Mongan

I know several people who swear by this method. I think I should practice the relaxation techniques for everyday living, because a quick temper is one of my problems, but as for avoiding pain in childbirth? Not buying it.

Birth Without Violence by Frederik Leboyer

This is a weird, stream-of-conscious description of labor and birth from the baby’s perspective (culminating in the soothing Leboyer bath). I checked it out from the library and thought — if this is what people envision when thinking about home or natural birth, no wonder it seems too New Age-y. On the other hand, it was a quick read, and it is interesting to think about birth as the baby experiences it, especially in light of the new in utero studies.

Mothering the Mother by Marshall H. Klaus

I got this for Chrysanthemum and me to read; it’s all about the benefits of having a doula, a female birth attendant who is with the mother the whole time, provides non-medicinal pain relief (massage, etc), and helps her understand and make decisions about interventions suggested/required by hospital personnel. It makes a strong case that if you’re attempting a natural childbirth in a hospital, a doula could make the difference between success and succumbing to medical pressure or pain in the moment. There’s an appendix that describes a doula’s role and responsibilities that was instructive. I chose not to hire a licensed doula because Chrysanthemum was such a help to me throughout the entire process, and also because I trusted my midwives and had heard such great things about my hospital’s support of natural birth (which all turned out to be justified), but I would definitely recommend a doula for any first-time mother who had less idea of what to expect or what the challenges might be in a hospital setting.

Rixa compiled a similar list of suggested books for a natural hospital birth; see the comments for other recommendations.

Here’s a list of Rixa’s favorite breastfeeding books. I should’ve read some books on this before my first kid, but luckily after a rocky couple weeks, it’s almost always been pure pleasure.

Obviously, I cannot recommend Rixa’s blog enough. I can’t think of any other aspect of my personal philosophy that has changed as drastically as my views on childbirth have since first starting to read her. Here are three posts I wrote ridiculing unassisted/home/natural birth before I knew any better (just to give you an idea of how much my thinking has changed — if I were sure of having that much influence over my kids’ thinking about the world, I’d be a happy lady).

Heather’s blog is also a delight of crunchy wonders. I may not be (anywhere near) as committed to living naturally as Heather is, but I love reading about her latest crazy experiment, and she may be the only person on earth with wider feet than mine. I love how she questions the rationale behind just about every everyday behavior. Like, she doesn’t like wearing shoes so recently she just stopped wearing them. Awesome!

Tom was very impressed with Ricki Lake’s documentary The Business of Being Born (it’s on Netflix instant play, too). Again, they don’t shy away from showing what happens when a baby truly needs medical intervention (there’s a c-section for a growth-restricted baby). The point is, you learn as much as you can, you hope and plan for and expect the best, and you’re ready for anything, just in case.

Orgasmic Birth was a little stranger. Tom said as long as I promised not to roll my eyes up into my forehead like the one lady in the tub who is clearly experiencing what the title suggests. Then, since he was immersed enough in the possible sounds and sights of birth and ready to support natural (messy, loud, strange) processes, he said, “or whatever you want to do is great.” Orgasmic Birth has a lot of valuable stuff in it, even if I still can’t imagine really getting that much happy from it.

The one thing I really wanted to do before giving birth this time was attend a natural birth, and my cousin-in-law Karin was gracious enough to invite me to hers. I got the call from my cousin Jared that her water had broken and contractions were starting on a nice Saturday evening in July that just happened to follow a perfectly horrible day and a half of a perfectly awful stomach bug. So I missed the birth, and that’s my biggest preparation regret, that I didn’t get to be present for an actual live (home) birth. I think that would be an invaluable experience, though maybe even more so for a first-time mom.

I’ve had more monitoring (a couple non-stress tests and an ultrasound to measure amniotic fluid) than hardcore natural birthers would request; my midwives are supportive in waiting till 42 weeks, if things stay as good as they are now. The baby moves, a lot; more than they’d expect of a baby that we estimate to weigh over nine pounds. So there’s no reason, no medical or scientific or objective reason to induce. (Not even to mention whether 42 weeks is really overdue or not).

Why am I doing this, again? Is it because I trust God, my body, the baby? This is a lot harder when it’s me making the decisions. When I’m responsible, when everyone from my husband to my medical providers is happy to do what I want to do. (How do I know what I want to do?)

Also, it felt pretty good when I suggested or agreed or whatever, to be induced with Lucy at 39 weeks last time. It was what I wanted, it was fine. She was out in five hours and two pushes. That epidural worked better than the previous ones because we knew how to get it working on both sides.

Reading all those books and practicing pain management and relaxation — that all felt so empowering a month ago. Now, overdue and second-guessing, waiting, waiting, waiting, this surrender to a timetable I can’t begin to guess at — this doesn’t seem empowering at all.

It makes me wonder what other areas of my life I allow, encourage, accept others to make decisions for me, and do I do that out of fear, or ignorance, or laziness, or apathy?

If she’s born on Wednesday she’ll go to school a year later than if she’s born tomorrow or Tuesday. Does God care what day we’re born? Does He care (do I care?) if my daughters are old or young for school? If she’s born tomorrow, I can decide in five years whether to send her early or late. But wait until Wednesday and it’s not a choice. Do I trade this choice for that choice?

One thing I do believe — it’ll be easier to labor and birth if I’m not induced — even if it means her gaining another pound, so that’s not an issue. Another — even a “mild” induction (breaking my water but not hooking up pitocin unless things weren’t moving along after two hours, which is their limit and seems a really short time) would most likely set off a cascade of interventions that I would have no control over, and perhaps rightly so, having taken that first step of relinquishing autonomy.

Perhaps this is only cosmic justice, meant to be, the only way it could ever have turned out once I decided I wanted to do things a certain way. Oh really? You really want to do it your way? Good luck with that. Are you sure? How sure?

The longer it goes (and I know nine days isn’t the record or anything, but holy crap it seems a long time), the more surreal it seems that we will ever have a baby, a new person in the family. It felt this way before each of the other births, like we couldn’t really believe there was a whole separate person floating around in there, but this time it seems even more so. It’s easier to just accept that I’ll be pregnant forever, because all evidence points that way.

I’ve always been fascinated by why we do what we do. It was part of the motivation for the electricity fast, part of the delight in living in Japan and Cairo and New York City. Part of the simple pleasure in moving furniture, painting walls, changing things. If we change this or that, will we change? Does anything ever change? Will it make a difference in ten years, to me or to the baby, if I choose this or that? Will I feel empowered if I surrender? To what? To who? To myself?

Can you live deliberately if you stop making choices? (Why does everything have to be a choice?)

—

Does it matter how you give birth?

Birth Plans

In some ways I’m still doing things conventionally — like having the Group B test at all, but a) I’d like to know if I am positive, and b) at least this time I did a couple homeopathic things to reduce my chance of getting a positive (I took Vitamin C and acidophilus supplements every four waking hours in the two weeks leading up to the test; you can be a lot more aggressive in preventing/treating Group B, but I had both of those on hand, and they’re good to take anyway, especially for, uh, digestive tract health, if you know what I mean). I don’t think I was ever positive before my three other births, but as an example of how much I relinquished responsibility, it’s possible that I was positive but wasn’t told or didn’t give it any thought because I had epidurals with each, and so always had IVs through which the antibiotics could be given without any disruption to my plans.

My appointment was with one of the midwives I hadn’t met yet, which isn’t ideal of course; ideally I’d fly to The Farm this week and give birth in Ina May’s shadow next week, but all things considered I’m happy with this group of midwives and I don’t begrudge them the life-convenience of sharing call, especially since it is their habit to stay with the mother for the entire labor. I reviewed my plans and hopes and fears with this new midwife, and after telling her how quick Lucy’s birth was (6 hours) even with an induction and epidural at 39 weeks, she supported me in staying home as long as possible but encouraged me to be prepared for things to go quickly and to maybe go from hanging out one minute to being ready to hop in the car the next (it’s a 30-minute-plus ride). Of course, anything could happen; I could be in labor for three days two weeks after my due date, but hopefully not.

Either way, it’s probably time to start getting ready. I have a lot on my To-Do List:

1. Write my birth plan (mostly a list of stuff I don’t want done, like an IV (I’ll sign a waiver to forgo the hep-lock the hospital requires in case of emergency; given my low-risk history my midwives are comfortable with this), taking the baby out of my arms (much less to the nursery) before I’ve had an hour to bond and breastfeed, cord clamping before it’s stopped pulsing, continuous electronic fetal monitoring (I’ve agreed to the initial twenty-minute baseline by telemetry which allows movement, then 90-second checks at 30-minute intervals).

I’m still researching the eye ointment and Vitamin K shot business; since Tom and I are life-long monogamists there should be no need for the eye ointment and since I’ll be producing tons of colostrum for a full-term baby the Vitamin K should be unnecessary too. On the other hand, these are relatively minor things (I think) and I don’t know how strongly I feel about them. Things like enemas, shaves, and episiotomies aren’t routine, but maybe I’ll include them just in case. 50% of the women who see my midwives have an epidural, and I plan not to — what I need instead is praise and encouragement, offerings of physical and emotional support, NOT of drugs (I know what’s available and can ask for it if I need to; Tom knows it’s his job, if that happens, to remind me that I want to wait 15 more minutes and see how I feel then, repeatedly, if necessary). Things I do want to have happen are harder to write down. I want things to go how they go; I want to feel comfortable in vocalizing (loudly if I feel like it), moving, bathing, drinking (I probably won’t want to eat if I arrive in active labor/close to transition), squatting, etc).

2. Pack a bag (with my own nightgowns, music on the iPod, a birth ball, juices and light snacks, a note for the door and maybe some cue cards for Tom and Chrysanthemum from Birthing From Within, stuff for the kid, 3 or 4 versions of Pride and Prejudice to watch (you know, the usual); Mockingjay if it’s after August 24th).

3. Wash some onesies and blankets, buy some diapers and a nursing bra or three (any recommendations? I was never very happy with my previous ones, and I’m bigger this time around — 38DD and not looking forward to engorgement).

4. Arrange babysitting, though Avery (9 /12) has expressed a lot of interest in being present. I’d like to have her there, but a lot will depend on the timing (and how I’m coping; I’d love her to see a natural birth, but not if I would scare her).

5. Finish reading the books and watching the dvds Rixa sent me (The Business of Being Born is available for instant play on Netflix,and I think Tom was surprised how interesting it was). Right now I’m practicing the stuff in Birthing From Within; it seems more helpful and realistic than Hypnobirthing, though I’m sure they could be complementary.

6. Finish cleaning and organizing the house. I’m not overdoing things; I nap most days and my blood pressure was a nice 107/67 yesterday. I mostly want things clean and organized because I feel so much calmer when they are. If I’m lost in reading or writing, I can ignore clutter or dirt for weeks. But if I want a soothing, comfortable environment for early labor, I know I’ll want things pretty clean and minimally distracting. This will be just as important in the sleep-deprived newborn months, especially with school starting for Avery and Callie just five days after my due date. Part of my organizing is a chore-training campaign with the girls. They’ve always helped in the kitchen and in caring for their personal space and belongings (though not terribly consistently), but now they’re old enough to do more, and more independently. Mom, if I whined as much as these hooligans do sometimes, all I can say is, I’m being sufficiently punished for that.

7. Get a priesthood blessing from my husband and maybe my father too. I read this call for stories about spirituality in birth, and realized, again and anew, how inadequately I prepared for birth previously. One of the tenderest moments of my life was when I asked for a blessing from Tom in Cairo before my first miscarriage, but I did not even think about asking for a blessing before my three deliveries. I hope this doesn’t mean that I’m not a very spiritual or faithful person, but the alternative, that I viewed childbirth as something that would just happen to me, something that would be “done” by my doctor and therefore not anything I needed help in “doing” is just as incompatible with my vision of who I am.

There are two things I’m worried about as the birth gets closer. I’m worried about the pain, and I’m worried about feeling inhibited in acting instinctively/naturally and asking for/receiving comfort measures for the pain other than a socially-acceptable epidural. Despite the numerous reassurances I’ve received from almost every single woman I’ve spoken to who has some experience (as a laboring women, nurse, or midwife) with the hospital I’ll be at — that it is a natural-birth-friendly institution, I can’t forget the things I’ve heard and read about the  significance of the fundamental decision I’ve made to give birth in a hospital, despite being pretty convinced after extensive reading and research that both the baby and I would be more comfortable and just as safe at home.

Still, that’s the decision I’ve made based on Tom’s and my feelings/perspective/experience, and other circumstances such as what our health insurance covers and our distance from a hospital in case of true emergency, etc. It’s a bit disconcerting (in a cognitive dissonance sort of way) to read (and believe) a book like Birth as An American Rite of Passage and still plan to give birth in a hospital, but no other compromise presents itself to me as more reasonable given all the specific factors of my present life and understanding.

I feel lucky to not be worried about my body’s ability to give birth vaginally. Especially after reading Birthing the Easy Way and talking to my cousin who’s had two c-sections and three homebirths, it’s clear that many natural-childbirthers have more logical reason for concern; I admire their courage. I got lucky three times: despite welcoming any and all interventions, things went as well as possible. So it’s not my body I’m worried about, but my brain’s ability to turn off, surrender, relinquish control not to an institution or authority figure but to my own body’s natural wisdom and design.

I’m thinking of names, and, since it’s easier and just as fun, her blog name: Scout.

After the ultrasound I had the best “doctor’s appointment” ever, with one of the midwives I see. It was my first time seeing her; she’s an older-ish lady. Comfortable, calm, confident, and what she told me was exactly what I needed to hear, exactly what I need to do mixed in with all the other preparation I’m doing. She talked to me (and Tom, who was wrestling Susan and Spot), for an unhurried twenty minutes or more, answering all my questions and allaying fears I didn’t even know I had. She thought it was nonsense (related to H1N1 fears) that AF hospital is no longer doing tours. Said she would look into it, and that in the meantime I should call them up some day when they are over there delivering and come tag along.

Sometimes when I talk to people (or even think about) my hopes for a more physiological birth this time, I get the impression (even hear voices in my head) that people wish I’d just go along, do what I’m told, not make this any harder than it has to be, be a good girl, why are you making a fuss,why are you being so difficult, just let the experts do their thing. It’s really disheartening, discouraging.

Talking with this midwife was the opposite of that. She was like a modern-day wise woman, a believer in women. She asked what books I was reading, nodded, said that I could take time to stop thinking, to meditate, to practice being in the moment, not allowed to think about the conversation I had that morning with my mom, or to think ahead to what I’ll make for dinner, but to listen, to feel, to be, right then. She thinks I can smile between contractions, because I’ve gotten to where I can rest, relax, enjoy the peace between when there is not a before or an after.

Maybe this sounds prescriptive, and maybe if I were in a different stage of preparation or experience it would’ve felt like “should,” but instead it felt exactly right, like something concrete I can do right now. I wish I’d thought to tape our conversation. (And that is not something I’ve ever thought before after time spent at the doctor’s.)

The truth is, I’m not entirely sure, although one answer is that I have gotten over my post-collegiate disinterest in learning anything new, and, having settled back in the state I call home, I have time and sensory receptors available to explore things other than the sort of forced (though exciting and welcome) exploration and coping that comes with moving regularly to different cultures.

Also, while my births were just fine, my three epidurals were not magical (though the pain relief eventually was blessed), and my only non-induced birth was better than the other two. Also, my babies didn’t get bigger and bigger each time as we assumed. Sally was 9 lb 3 oz at 41 weeks. That was some painful pushing. Susan was 7 lb 13 oz at 37 1/2 weeks, so we induced with Spot at 39 weeks. She was only 7 lb 5 oz. It probably wouldn’t have hurt anything to let her cook a little longer.

On the other hand I am not a hater or fear-er of doctors and hospitals. All three of my daughters were delivered by female obstetricians that I liked, respected, and trusted. I always felt that my wishes were being carried out, that nurses and doctors were listening to what I wanted, so in that sense, what more could you ask for? Breastfeeding was always easy to establish right after birth (besides the expected awkwardness/uncertainty with my first). I never felt that my babies were drugged or adversely affected by my epidurals or the Pitocin.

And speaking of the hospital setting in general, one of my earliest memories is going to visit my dad at the Camp Pendleton Navy hospital in Southern California. I was five. Dad was always happy to see us, happier it seemed than when we saw him at home, where he was trying to sleep off his last 72-hour shift. At the hospital, we visited the nursery, pressing our noses to the glass to see the row of wrinkly alien babies. Then we went down to the cafeteria and got chocolate milk and macaroni and cheese. (Those were some good times).

But now birth interests me. Whereas before it seemed merely a means to an end, sort of like ordering takeout (which can be a glorious, glorious thing), now it seems like something I can and should be more involved in, like shopping for (or growing) the freshest, healthiest ingredients you can find and preparing dinner yourself (which I admit is overwhelming and/or completely unappetizing at times.)

Three years ago (just a few months after Spot was born) I found the blog of some friends Tom and I knew at BYU. I think I was looking for an address to send Christmas cards, and instead I realized that they (or at least the woman, Rixa) had really gone off the deep end. I was hooked! I read in that can’t-look-away-from-a-car-wreck sort of daze that you do, and at some point, she started to make sense.

But not before I wrote several osts about how silly natural childbirth (and in particular unassisted childbirth) is. Imagine my horror when for her second birth Rixa had a midwife. As if women preparing for birth should be flexible!

A Trip Back in Blogtime

Weird parenting priorities, cont. (In which I awkwardly introduce Rixa to my blog, and make wonderfully smart statements about elimination communication and co-sleeping. Though I still think those things are not for me, I hope I can discuss them more rationally now. Also, it’s always been fascinating to my dad and I that several of “these things” (cloth diapers, homeschooling, natural birthing, breastfeeding, composting) cluster together. Now I find there is a term/movement for this, “natural family living,” and “attachment parenting” . . . I wonder.) 4-18-2007

“If the Good Lord had wanted us to walk, He wouldn’t have Invented Roller Skates” (Or epidurals.) 4-30-2007

Top 5 ways to know that Unassisted Childbirth is right for you (This one still strikes me as funny, mostly because I put in some of my childhood, though it was my sister’s sock drawer.) 5-08-2007

People I can’t help admiring, much as I’d like not to (Another very sensitive post, in which I finally admit my sneaking admiration for non-mainstream birthers, among others.) 3-14-2008

The Truth about Babywearing, Updated (Reading this, I have the uncommon experience of being really pleased with something I wrote. In the footnote, I say the reason I continue to read Rixa is that she is honest about her fears despite her obvious desire to promote understanding and acceptance of natural- and home- births.) 11-19-2008

One More Less (How unassisted miscarriage seems much more barbaric than unassisted childbirth) 8-22-2009

An Update and Some Thoughts (I’ve now had two high-tech ultrasounds for this pregnancy, at 7 and 12 weeks, to check on the baby’s size and also the sub-chorionic hemorrhage they found at the 7th week ultrasound. Both were reassuring, and also evidence for the unhelpful yet inevitable nature of the intervention cascade.) 1-24-2010

Does it matter how you give birth? (Rixa, my birthing mentor, sent me a box of books and dvds; I’d read a few of them, and been convinced that it does matter, especially how you prepare and plan to give birth — whether you prepare and make informed choices about how to give birth. In my previous post (the Update) I was pregnancy-nauseated and wondered whether I’d be able to do this whole natural thing. Several people left supportive, encouraging comments. In this post I was more “I can do this, because it’s important” and I got several defensive, unsupportive comments (both on and off the blog). 3-02-2010

The burning fervor of the recently converted (This began as an apology and admission that perhaps I was a little fanatic in my commitment to a newly discovered truth, but by the end I’ve pretty much worked my way back around to saying, “This matters.” That doesn’t mean I think less of anyone who thinks it doesn’t matter, but I think maybe they’re missing out. Just as if I loved a fiction book or movie and raved about it for hours and someone looked at me disinterestedly. I wouldn’t think they were dumb or wrong, but I’d wish they could see and appreciate things the way I did.) 3-04-2010

My own personal brand of heroin: the Analogy (The only way I could get my friend Tara to understand why anyone would think it important to learn about natural childbirth (and want to convince others) was to compare it to having a financial budget. Something that she does, very well, and something that I haven’t (so far) been bothered to do. I told my mom it was like caring about where your food comes from (some people do, some people don’t) because she was reading Barbara Kingsolver’s Animal, Vegetable, Miracle last week). I told my husband that it’s like the difference between hosting and tweaking your own WordPress blog and being content to use one of Blogger’s default themes with no widgets.) 3-04-2010

The sad thing about birthing choices, talking about them, sharing birth stories with the ladies at church is that it metastasizes exponentially into this “mommy wars” who’s-the-better-mommy fight. Instead of supporting each other in learning new things, in wanting to do things better as we learn, we automatically assume that one woman’s personal history or present-day interest and desire are a direct attack on the way we have chosen to do things ourselves. And defensiveness is only slight less attractive than smug certainty: both indicate a feeling of insecurity and dissatisfaction with one’s personal commitment to breastfeed or bottlefeed, sleep train or co-sleep, homeschool or public/private/charter school.

Another problem is that reading about the history of maternity care, of birth customs and practices in the West, of how technology is worshiped and science is ignored, it’s honestly a little like finding out that Guess What? Smoking Causes Cancer, and TOBACCO GROWERS KNEW IT ALL ALONG. Maybe everyone feels like that about their personal passion, that the truth about their personal passion should be glaringly obvious to all.

Tom certainly feels that way about the Blogger platform. Sue, who said that unmedicated childbirth was the “ultimate unnecessary martyrdom” feels that way about the poverty-stricken refugees who live in our state. How could we find out that little children are out in the cold without coats and NOT DO ANYTHING ABOUT IT? Easily, I say. Just give me some NCIS reruns on cable, and I’ll forget all about the Haitians and their little earthquake.

Why would I want to change my comfortable life, just because I have learned something new?

(Sorry, Sue, that really irked me, can you tell?)

Here’s another analogy for you. My grandma told me the other day that I should be blogging about political things (she is what you might call a Rabid Republican). You know, I should be blogging about things that Really Matter, making a difference, doing something that my kids would be proud of me someday for having done. And I just stared at her, blankly.

A) I’m not even sure she’s right in her concern for the State of American Democracy (I have a friend who voted for Obama), and B) I just don’t really care right now. It’s not something I’m interested in beyond enjoying my annoyance at the liberal bias in The New York Times and on NPR.

But I’m glad that there are women (mothers) who do care, passionately, on both (all) sides of the political question. I’m glad that it’s something they feel so strongly about, even when that leads them to be smug buttheads sometimes about how right they are and how wrong everyone else is. And I’m jealous, because political affiliation isn’t usually used in the mommy wars. (Or at least it’s cloaked in terms like “hippy” and “conventional” which come to think of it, aren’t much better.)

When I asked: Does it matter how you give birth, I could as easily ask: Does it matter how you vote? Does it matter how you earn a living? Does it matter how you worship? Does it matter how you feed your family/care for the environment/spend your leisure time/leave your affairs when you die/allocate your money/adopt your kids? And someone would be offended because one of those things matters so much that to compare it to something like birth is just an insult.

I still don’t have an answer as to why seeking natural childbirth is so important to me right now, why it feels like the opposite of the “ultimate unnecessary martyrdom,” why it feels like power, enlightenment, female-ism, truth.

The bigger question is: Is it possible to share something you believe in/care about without sounding like a judgemental ass?

I think that is the ultimate goal, whatever your personal passion.

(not your husband) (Pierce Brosnan — younger, like in The Thomas Crown Affair or James Bond) (HOT, oh my) (okay, if I were conscious and choosing these things it’d be Russell Crowe (the Gladiator one, not the puffy Insider one) or Taylor Lautner’s abs — he could wear a paper bag* and not talk, right?) (but it was Pierce Brosnan, a Pierce Brosnan who was also every crush you ever had in your hormone-fueled teenage imaginings) (HOT)

I would probably feel guilty if a) I had not suffered through several abandonment dreams and b) I had not been rudely awakened about three-fourths of the way in. Instead, I feel just a little bit . . .  frustrated.

(also: HOT)

—

*The paper bag is so you don’t have to think about how young he is. Once he cut his hair in that one movie, he was quite presentable.

I think this pregnancy it’s worse. Before I would dream that he had died in a horrible car accident, the kind of waking nightmare you have when your husband is twenty minutes late coming home from work and you’re stirring dinner on the stove and the kids are wild in the background and you wonder how you’d ever cope since he’s surely dead on the highway because he isn’t answering his phone and he hasn’t called to explain that he just had to finish that one application before he could leave his desk.

This time it’s always divorce, and it’s always much worse, and I wake up feeling so sick at heart. I feel, in fact, just like I felt in March two years ago when my mom called me before church and told me that Marcy’s husband had left her. Then, nothing we could say was any comfort. We all agreed it would’ve been easier if he had died, loving her.

Now, my sister is getting married this summer. She is different: stronger, not emotionally insecure. She’s not a doormat anymore, she can tell a guy to take a hike if he isn’t good enough for her, if he doesn’t love her and respect her as she now knows she deserves.

Her fiance is a very nice man. He’s divorced, also, with three kids, also, and they have lots of other things in common, including exes who make very nice villains of their separate pieces. I have seen him with Marcy’s kids, and he is as good with Marcy’s kids as my husband is with ours, or almost; some of that just takes time. He and Marcy are more alike in the ways that matter than she and her first husband were. I think, in general, that they will have a good marriage, if anyone wanted my opinion on it.

At Thanksgiving (the first time I met him and his kids) Marcy told me she had given him one of my posts to read (the one about how blended families can be beautiful), and she said she liked my most recent post (the one about the snowy day), because it had my usual blend of frustration with motherhood ending in acceptance and [joy].

And then she said that her fiance (who is the residential parent) used his wife’s blog against her in the custody hearings. I quickly joked that Dick wouldn’t ever have to do that — he knows if he ever left, I wouldn’t dream of fighting him for custody.

But I can’t forget that conversation, at 4:18 in the morning when I’ve woken with the copper residue of fear in my mouth and the tearful certainty that in reality my husband would never, ever leave me, and more, if he ever did, that he would never take these words of mine, these words that I have labored so strenuously to deliver, honestly, onto the page.

Because there have been times when I resent my children, when I resent motherhood, when I think what could have been if I’d pursued my other dreams instead. And if I thought my husband, my Tom, who in our first year of marriage, ever since that tender beginning, labored beside me our final year of college, when we holed up, side-by-side, stopping only to eat and drink and talk, once in a while, to share the questions and answers we were so elegantly, passionately weaving into our papers and essays, if he were to belittle and demean the offerings of my heart, however so pitiful and inadequate they are once sprung from my short fingers, I would never be able to forgive him. I would know, finally, that he didn’t understand, that he never would, never had, never wanted to, and how could you ever stay married to someone like that?

Of course divorce is always betrayal, and it’s a better betrayal than the betrayal of self or of the children one swears on one’s life to love and protect, and the question of who betrayed whom first is one that only God and the families of the first-betrayed really care about anymore. And sometimes it is a betrayal forced though the first-betrayed would have forgiven anything if only the betrayer would reconsider.

I remember thinking, right before Tom and I were married, that marriage wouldn’t be such a significant, and potentially joy-giving institution, if it weren’t also such an unfathomable risk. The more of yourself you commit, the more you stand to lose if you are betrayed; if you commit less, there is less to be betrayed, but also much less to make the marriage worth desiring. Total giving of self, of merging of dreams and hopes and plans and subduing of extraneous, give-up-able wants, is vulnerability defined, and also the only hope for making a marriage so good, so life-sustaining, that the thought of losing it, fueled by raging fetus hormones, is enough to make one wish it were morning and no longer night.

I responded by draining our bank accounts (didn’t take long), getting cash advances on our credit cards (also didn’t take long), dropping off the kids at school, and flying to Europe. (I called my mom from the airport to ask her to pick up the girls). Why I thought slumming around Europe was a good idea with a severely troubled tummy, I don’t know. And really I’d never do that. This time of year I’d fly to New Zealand, not Europe.

When I was pregnant with Sally, I dreamt that I gave birth to a seahorse, and as I breastfed her she got smaller and smaller. Another time it was that I was able to take my babies out and look at them, only they were graham crackers, and I lined them up on the floor of my mom’s old minivan, and then I had to yell at Brad for trying to eat my babies.

Anyone else think it’s crazy that on top of peeing four times a night you have to dream about serial abandonment?

Five months before that, I had gone in at seven weeks because I was bleeding, and we saw a potato-shaped lump in there, but no heartbeat.

This time there was nothing. No pole, no body, no heartbeat. I wondered aloud if I was having one of those psychological pregnancies, or if I’d read the home test wrong, after all (I felt heartbroken, and also foolish). We did a urine test, which was positive, and figured my body could have already resorbed the embryo (the “products of conception”) or maybe it was ectopic, or something.

Thirty-two hours later I was at the hospital for a fancy ultrasound. I told the tech, as she led me back, that I wasn’t expecting good news, that we hadn’t seen anything on the machine at my doctor’s office, that this would be my third miscarriage, and that I was okay with it, really.

She turned on the machine, squirted me with the cold jelly, pressed on my belly, and said, “I don’t know what to tell you pumpkin, but there’s something in there, and it’s got a heartbeat.”

A heartbeat of 152, in fact, and confirmation that I was seven weeks and four days along.

(I have a very retroverted uterus, which I knew, but didn’t think of, and also, turns out that you cannot emphasize enough how important a full bladder is for ultrasound imaging.)

Since then I’ve been miserably, gloriously nauseated. Well, more miserably, but I’ll say gloriously for the purposes of posterity. It’s certainly better to be nauseated and pregnant than nauseated and not-pregnant. During the thirty-hours I thought I had miscarried again, I was so angry to be still nauseated. Luckily I didn’t turn to drink or start smoking crack, but I did refuse to take my prenatal vitamin that night. Sorry, baby.

I’ve also been thinking a lot about my desires for a more natural labor this time around. I’ve had three children, three epidurals, two inductions, and until a couple years ago, I thought my labors and deliveries were just about ideal. There were no major complications, no forceps or vacuums or c-sections (and my babies were all healthy, no small consideration).

But my epidurals were never wholly satisfactory. Though I usually started with a “walking” epidural, I have a small scoliosis in my spine that makes the numbness affect only the left side of my body until second and third doses are given and I lie on my right side and then end up flat on my back, afraid to so much as shift or I’ll fall off the bed, I’m so numb. This makes for awkward laboring.

I’ve been thinking, since following Rixa‘s and Heather‘s blogs (and even Dooce‘s), and researching more about the effects of medical intervention on labor, that I would love to have a a less-interventioned birth. More importantly — a more prepared, educated birth, a more aware-of-my-options and in-tune-with-my-body birth.

My two ultrasounds at seven weeks are so metaphoric (illustrative?) in this context. The second, more invasive (including a vaginal wand) ultrasound (intervention) was even more unnecessary than the first ultrasound/intervention, and yet, once I had had the first, I could not forgo the second. I was glad after the first, I told my mom, that at least I had found out early, and that we could do something about it instead of suffering severe nausea and delusional happy baby daydreaming for no reason. And I was even gladder for the second, for obvious reasons.

But I can’t say that I honestly wish I hadn’t had the first ultrasound, or that I would not have an (early) ultrasound with another pregnancy. My previous miscarriages make me unwilling to “trust nature” or “trust birth” to the extent of not needing (emotionally) — medical proof that there is a tiny heart beating away in my belly.

In thinking of my previous labors and births, I have felt ashamed that I took so little responsibility for or control over what happened. That I took as much initiative in childbirth as I did in going for an appendectomy at age fourteen. Why wasn’t I more curious to learn about the actual process, more empowered, more determined to experience, more eager to do it well? Why was I so passive? (I am not a passive person usually.)

So I had a stack of books to read and grand plans to see if I could find a midwife (preferably one who would know of a woman who would let me observe her birth — despite being delivered of three babies myself, I really have no idea what a natural birth would look/be like). Or maybe I would just watch Ricki Lake‘s documentary and listen to Hypnobabies.

But I have been so sick and snappish, so despairing and disgruntled and unhappy, I have not read a single book or written a single line in my birth plan.

Perhaps I am merely lazy. Thinking of this concentratedly enough to write about it, I remember my former passion to make this birth special, but when 3 pm (or 11 am, lately) rolls around, and with it, the turbulent esophagus, unsettle-able stomach, and general misery, I am sure of two things: that I just want this to be over, and that maybe I should be easier on my pre-enlightened self. Maybe she just wanted to lay down and rest, too. (And who could blame her?)

So we were talking about pregnancy last night, because I wanted an early start monopolizing the conversation. I am sicker this time than ever before, and I weigh a lot more. I weigh more at the beginning of this pregnancy than I did at the end of my first pregnancy nine years ago. Though I am only 8 1/2 weeks along, I feel encumbered when I bend over, out of breath when I climb the stairs, and nauseated beyond belief at food that smelled good an hour ago.

My body image/contentment is at an all-time low, especially as I know how important good health and activity are to my labor/delivery/recovery and mental well-being.

Also, I just feel fat and ugly, and it makes me sad.

I mentioned my friend Beth who is suffering the hemorrhoids at the end of her pregnancy, and how she can’t understand how some women love being pregnant. I love feeling the baby move, hearing the heartbeat, and thinking about the new baby, but I do not enjoy being pregnant.

So my friend who is staying here told me that she liked being pregnant because it was the one time she was proud of her body. She’s pretty happy with her legs and arms in general, but her middle has always been a trouble section, with dips and rolls and when she is pregnant and that’s all smoothed out by the baby bump, she is happy with her body. She feels beautiful.

She is in awe that her body can work so well to grow a beautiful baby, and she just feels happy and proud, Look What I Can Do!

Good point, I thought. It will sound even better in the morning, when I am on the other side of this nocturnal barfiness.

About an hour later Chrysanthemum was here to watch Fringe with us, and we came across a post inviting shocked! outrage! over these Cotton Mother Dolls that Rixa highlighted (very favorably) a year ago.

My friend obliged, saying there was something wrong about that, the dolls are gross, and why would you want your kids to see that? My initial reaction to Rixa’s post was that the dolls were a little scary, but that was a year ago, and I am always ready to disagree, even with myself.

Because life is not as neat as a blog post, I stumbled around, settling with: “Would you rather your daughters played with Cheerleader Barbie who’ll teach them anorexia?”

These dolls are graphic, anatomically correct; they’re probably not for everyday play, though it’s hard for me to articulate why. Certainly they’re better than boob-job, impossibly-long-legged Barbie. Would it harm my daughters in some way to see and hold a realistic representation of a mother giving birth, on hands and knees, to a baby? Or to play with a doll that models breastfeeding?

Why don’t I worry about it when they worship everything princess, sparkly, and fake? Why don’t I cringe when we pass mannequins at the mall with Victoria’s Secret bodies and push-ups?

If pregnancy is the one time you’re proud of your body, shouldn’t that be an image to cherish?

I understand if modesty is the main concern, the feeling that the body (and its form) is too sacred to be played with on the living room carpet by cheerful, irreverent toddlers. But I hate to tell you: our Barbies are more often naked than clothed. And my girls just really don’t need to be seeing that.

I couldn’t honestly remember whether I’d had a period in November, but I do remember one occasion when Dick convinced me to leave things to chance. On Saturday I impatiently bought another box of tests, figuring that the leftover sticks in my medicine cabinet were maybe expired. Turns out it’s helpful to read the instructions, even after many years and five (now six) pregnancies. In case you ever need to know, on the Equate brand pregnancy test, just one line in the test window is a positive.

I am terrified. Weepy, excited, wary, passing regretful for the three-kids-getting-older routine we have. I don’t know if I can handle another miscarriage.

And I have proven (to myself) that morning all-day sickness is mostly psychological. This is the latest that I have ever discovered a pregnancy (not very late: 9 weeks at most, and probably less), and as soon as I did, mild, all-encompassing nausea descended. Smells are smellier, and I am so tired. I feel like lying in bed, abdomen motionless, for the next seven to nine months.

I want to thank you in advance for understanding if I don’t respond to comments or emails as regularly as I would like in the coming months. I have a feeling that my mixed emotions/ambitions for blogging will get even mixed-er this year, but my appreciation for your friendship and your encouraging words are one thing I am not at all mixed about: they mean a great deal to me.

*Movie trivia. Big smacking kiss and restoring of my faith in humanity if you know that movie. (And my family doesn’t count, since we watched it on Christmas Eve.)

It was even easier to shrug off Polly Vernon and Corinne Maier, who have elevated slamming motherhood into a career. I was never choosing between kids and no kids here but between one more and holding on three. And here I have to thank Cameron Diaz (quoted in both pieces) for sounding like an imbecile on one of the Late Shows early in my marriage. Turns out my husband is attracted to my brains a lot more than he was ever mesmerized by your long legs and blonde hair. (thank you).

When I found out I was pregnant I told a lot of people. I also didn’t tell a lot of people. I didn’t tell my sister-in-law who is miscarrying her first (long-longed-for) pregnancy, or my friend from eighth grade, who recently lost her second pregnancy at a late stage. Most people don’t tell until after the first trimester is over anyway. I’ve never been able to wait that long, even though I know that things can go wrong.

I wanted this baby, though maybe not as much as my husband wanted another child. I took my vitamins and slept every afternoon when the exhaustion couldn’t be held back any longer. I thought how different it is to be pregnant at thirty-two than twenty-three. I weigh more than I should. I drink more Mountain Dew than I should.

I made plans for the baby’s room and daydreamed about cradling a squirmy little infant to my chest. About breastfeeding again, feeling the tug and the triumph of nourishing another human being. Sally, Susan, and Spot were excited.

And then at seven weeks I saw the blood. It was mild spotting at first, but I had a feeling. And how barbaric is it that blood flowing from the womb is the indication that all is not well in there? When I miscarried in Cairo, I went to sleep at the hospital and woke up with it all done. Here I am not as far along, and, though I have never been fully convinced of the unassisted childbirth idea, I am facing an unassisted miscarriage (as long as things progress well).

The physical pain of cramping and the material inconvenience of bleeding through my pants seems all wrong. Not a good plan, here. Isn’t the feeling of emotional loss enough? Aren’t the hormone surges enough?

The thing about grief is that it always spills over at the wrong time. I talk to my mom on the phone, and I am laughing or being lightheartedly-cynical about the State of the World, but the server asks if we are celebrating anything tonight and thirty minutes later I am sobbing into my dinner. I forgot my regular glasses at home so I’m wearing my prescription sunglasses, which turns out to be a good thing because I almost feel like I can cry in public, but still I go to the bathroom and try to muffle the sound in a paper towel.

I think, rather hysterically, that I hope Doug Fabrizio is happy now, now that I’m having one less child than I wanted. But what he doesn’t know is that we’ll probably try again.

Maybe.