The Of COURSE response…

Nov16

“As long as women are isolated one from the other, not allowed to offer other women the most personal accounts of their lives, they will not be part of any narratives of their own…women will be staving off destiny and not inviting or inventing or controlling it.” –Carolyn Heilbrun quoted in Sacred Circles

I recently finished taking a class in Ecofeminism, which makes connections between the exploitation and domination of women and the exploitation and domination of the planet. Naturally, as I also did with breastfeeding as an ecofeminist issue, I made many connections between the theme of the class and birth rights for women. The author of the book Ecofeminist Philosophy, Elizabeth Warren explains that when you are part of an unhealthy social system, you are likely to experience predictable, even “normal” consequences of living in that system: “This element of predictability explains the appropriateness of what I call the ‘Of course’ response: ‘Of course, you feel crazy when men say it’s your fault that you were raped, or that you could have prevented it.’ ‘Of course, your life has become unmanageable…'” we live in a culture that expects women to do it all and to always love parenting. If we look at our mainstream culture of birth as an unhealthy social system, I find the same response is appropriate. You really wanted to have a natural birth and then your doctor scared you into having an induction and you ended up with an epidural, of course you feel like you ‘failed.’ You feel healthy and beautiful, but now your doctor tells you that you’ve “failed” the GTT and are now “high risk,” of course, you feel stressed out and…like a high risk “patient.” You tried really hard to labor without medications, but you were “strapped down” with IV’s and continuous monitoring, of course, you felt like a trapped animal and like you had no other choices but medications. Of course, you feel upset and discouraged that your baby is ‘rejecting’ you and your breast after having been supplemented with bottles in the nursery. Of course, you are crying all the time and wondering if you are really cut out to be a mother, when your husband had to return to work after two days off and you are expected to be back at your job in five more weeks. And, so on and so forth.

“The ‘Of Course’ response affirms that those who feel crazy, powerless, alone, confused, or frustrated within unhealthy systems such as patriarchy are experiencing just what one would expect of them.” What the model of medical birth as an unhealthy social system reveals is that “no matter where one starts on the circle…one eventually comes round to one’s starting point. The circle operates as an insulated, closed system that, unchecked and unchallenged, continues uninterrupted…” How does one break free of an unhealthy system? “Getting the right beliefs by rearranging one’s thinking is an important part of the process, but it is not enough.” [emphasis mine. Here, Warren goes on to explore the issue of rape, but I have adjusted her words to be about birth instead] One can have the “right beliefs” about the prevalence of unnecessary cesareans, one’s rights as a childbearing woman, and the institutional nature of birth in our country and still experience an unwanted and unnecessary cesarean section. One can understand connections among faulty belief systems, language that devalues women, women’s bodies, and the birth process, and patriarchal behaviors of control and domination and still witness the catastrophic impact of this domination. “So, even if one must start with oneself and one’s belief system, one cannot end there. Since the problem is systemic, the system itself must be intervened upon and changed—by political, economic, social, and other means.” –Karen Warren in Ecofeminist Philosophy, p. 211. (emphasis mine)

Sometimes I honestly feel like I am one of the few people who really notices or labels the powerful systemic context in which women give birth in America. A lot of pregnancy and birth books and pregnancy and birth bloggers focus on individual responsibility and “education.” If women are always expected to “stand up for themselves” in the birth room and “get educated” so that they, personally, can prevent themselves from having unwanted interventions, of course our rates of unwanted interventions continue to rise.

“Through the act of controlling birth, we disassociate ourselves with its raw power. Disassociation makes it easier to identify with our ‘civilized’ nature, deny our ‘savage’ roots and connection with indigenous cultures. Birth simultaneously encompasses the three events that civilized societies fear–birth, death, and sexuality.” –Holly Richards (In Cultural Messages of Childbirth: The Perpetration of Fear,” ICEA Journal, 1993)

1000 Words

Nov15

We got new family pictures taken yesterday in the woods behind our house. While I love words very much–very, very much–sometimes there’s nothing like a picture to say what you really feel… 🙂

“For months I just looked at you
I wondered about all the mothers before me
if they looked at their babies the way I looked at you.
In an instant I knew what moved humankind
from continent to continent
Against all odds.”
–Michelle Singer (in We’Moon 2011 datebook)

Guest Post: The Women’s Lounge

Nov14

This guest post is part of my blog break festival. The festival continues through December, so please check it out and consider submitting a post! Also, don’t forget to enter my birth jewelry giveaway. This post falls into the Motherful category and was written by my own mother (I’m the 11 year daughter mentioned in the story)!

The Women’s Lounge
by Barbara Johnson

“Excuse me, there’s veal in your baby’s ear,” whispered the stolid-looking, well-groomed businessman seated next to me on the crowded airplane (who had spent the entire trip trying to project himself into another realm where traveling women with multiple children were prohibited from invading his space). I glanced down. Sure enough, there was a pool of tomato sauce, with veal, in my sleeping 6 month old infant’s ear. I grabbed an inadequate airline napkin and swabbed ineffectually away, while Mr. Businessman began searching around in his brief case – presumably to avoid further contact or conversation with me. I seized the moment of his inattention to duck my head discreetly and quickly lick up the remainder of the mess. Slightly gross, but highly efficient…..This episode apparently unleashed some hidden reservoir of chattiness and my seat partner proceeded to produce volumes of photographs of his family, accompanied by amusing anecdotes. No further mention was made of veal.

I managed to extricate myself (holding sleeping baby girl and an insanely oversized diaper bag), my two –year-old high-needs son (understatement), and my two older daughters (ages 9 and 11) from the plane. I was met by an airline representative to be transported to our connecting flight gate. This had been carefully pre-planned, as I knew I had only a 25 minute layover and many small bodies to transport. I was smugly proud of my maternal organizing skills, never reckoning on the embarrassment of hurtling through the Salt Lake City air terminal, honking warning sounds at innocent travelers. We were crammed onto the hindmost seat, facing backwards with our feet braced to avoid being thrown out on our faces every time the vehicle accelerated. The cart reeled past all manner of passengers, including many people certainly more in need of transport that we were. A young man pushing 2 occupied wheel chairs, an elderly woman with a walker, and a blind man with a cane. My humiliation mounted as we beeped them out of our path.

The diaper bag was a massive affair, having been carefully selected for maximum capacity. Its depths contained not only diapers, but boxes of juice, a variety of snacks, my purse and personal items, as well as activity selections for 4 age groups. Oh, and my book that I had been carrying with me for 10 years, hoping for random opportunities for quick reading (hah!). Toys, crayons, tiny cars, stuffed animals, granola bars……It weighed a ton. The relevance of this information will be revealed later.

I could have saved myself this ride had I bothered to check any of the departing flight monitors. They would have told me what I found out upon my jubilantly prompt arrival at the gate. My connecting flight was delayed. Well, that’s not so bad! We can surely occupy ourselves for a while in the airport! No problem! Since there was no departure time listed, I parked the kids in a waiting area and lined up to ask a few questions.

Traveling companions circa 1990

My organized-traveling-mom-with-four-children veneer cracked a bit when I heard that the plane was delayed for 6 hours. This was not good. Must make the best of it! Not to worry! I’m a 24 hour a day parent! A woman of the 90’s! I can do this! No problem!

I returned to my gang, suggesting that we tour the airport and see all the fun sights, like airplanes taking off and landing over and over, and expensively fragile gift shops. Everyone was tired of this after an hour, so I broke out the snacks. Not good enough – the restaurants and vending machine items looked vastly superior to the eyes of my children, but not to my traveling budget.

My 2-year-old son began to melt down. My daughters needed to use the restroom, but I had an irrational and paranoid fear regarding restroom perverts, so we all had to shuffle in together (including the burdensome diaper bag). Exiting the facility, my toddler spotted a candy machine and hurtled headlong towards it, shrieking and maniacally pulling knobs. The baby in the backpack was pulling my hair while bouncing. The big girls were totally loaded down by the diaper bag (it took both of them to lug it around). We were a public spectacle! Oh, the shame! There were still 5 loathsome hours to wait in that sensory-overloaded airport. It was too noisy, to bright, too loud, too hot and too stinky for any sane person to endure for that long! Argh!

There was a gentle tap on my shoulder and I turned to look way up into the face of a burly security officer. Was I to be arrested for disturbing the peace, or possibly vandalizing the candy machine? I cringed.

“Excuse me, ma’am”, he said. “Did you know there’s a women’s lounge over there?”, and indicated a door near the restroom that had a small plaque reading “lounge” on it. I, in my ignorance, had supposed such doors thus marked to be solely for the secret use of airport personnel, and certainly NOT for traveling mothers. But no, apparently I was allowed to enter! The large and kind officer hoisted the diaper-bag-from-hell and led the way, tipping his hat politely at the door as I staggered through it.

An amazing oasis in that desert of chaos greeted me. It was a small, cool sitting room with a couch, table, several chairs and a sink (with paper towels! Oh joy!). As I removed the baby pack, using the handy counter, and collapsed into a chair, a woman of greenish-white complexion emerged blearily from beneath a blanket on the couch, offering weakly to make room for us. “No, no!” I gushed. “We’re fine! There are plenty of chairs. Just settle back down!” She gratefully did. We exchanged stories while I nursed the baby and passed out snacks. She had been compelled to actually miss her connection due to motion sickness, and was actually too ill to continue. Well, that was certainly not fun and possibly worse than my situation. At least we weren’t throwing up. I like to use the reverse psychology of “it could always be worse” to comfort myself under adverse conditions… “Have a cracker?” I offered. She took it and actually seemed improved. Maybe the diaper bag was worth it after all.

The door opened, admitting a cacophony of airport noise, along with a desperate-looking young woman loaded with a rotund infant and a crying 3-ish girl, clutching her stomach. She thrust the infant into my arms, saying “Would you mind holding him? She’s going to throw up!”, and ran out. The baby and I stared at each other. I offered a cracker, which he solemnly accepted, and I hoped was acceptable to his mother. Actually, she looked harried enough to not even notice or care. He was content to merely hold it and watch my kids as they played.

The door opened again, and all eyes turned towards it, expecting the return of the baby’s mother. But no, it was an Asian woman accompanied by a miniature, elderly woman using a walker. They looked around hesitantly, smiling shyly and bowing. Hmmmm……Ms. Airsick, revived by the cracker, shifted around to make room. The elderly woman inched through the children, avoiding fingers and toys, and eased down with an audible sigh. “Many babies!” said the first woman. “Well, they’re not all mine”, I said. She looked puzzled. “I don’t know this one” indicating the solemn fellow on my lap. “Ah”, she replied. “His mother left him with me because her daughter was throwing up, but I never saw any of them before in my life” I babbled. “Ah!” she repeated, clearly baffled. The tiny raisin of a mother (I guess) barked a question in what I supposed was rapid-fire Chinese. “Ah!” said the woman. They both beamed at me and I beamed back. I asked them if they had a long wait, but apparently our conversation about babies had exhausted their English vocabulary. They did say “Hong Kong, many hours, much trouble”. I could read the rest in their eyes. Without a working grasp of the language and a special-needs traveler on top of that, they were trying to travel home and it was not going smoothly. After a while, an Asian-American airline representative came to fetch them. They bowed away, repeating “Thank you very much! Bye-bye!” I wished I could have understood more of that story.

Meanwhile, Little Vomiter and her mother returned. We discussed various stomach complaint home-remedies. Ginger Ale? May try that next time, but of course there’s none available in the airport – perhaps on the plane? Our babies had birthdays only 2 days apart and before you knew it we were exchanging labor stories. Ms. Airsick looked better. Perhaps tales of other people’s discomfort helped take her mind off her own stomach.

The door opened again, admitting a woman with twin four-year olds who looked miserable. We squeezed together to make room. She was having a nightmare trip in which her flight had been totally cancelled and there was a luggage mix-up causing her bags to be sent to Atlanta (they thought). My paltry delay was beginning to seem like a pleasant gift.

This pattern continued throughout my sojourn in the women’s lounge. Women of all ages and backgrounds took solace there. We helped, comforted and commiserated with each other, waving a cheerful farewell as each departed, knowing only the basic fact of TRAVEL INTERRUPTED. In the minutes of our contact, we each forged a bond. It felt as if we were all connected, and fulfilling some cosmic destiny by being thrown together in that haven to support each other. I never asked anyone’s name or more than their travel destination, but we learned so much about each other anyway. The bond of femaleness and motherhood bound us together, allowing us to trust and help each other. I sent my daughters to the restroom with a total stranger, no longer fearful of lurking criminals. We shared an unpleasant, but not unbearable, travel experience and emerged from it enriched. We were like ships that pass in the night, recognizing our bond in a vast ocean. We were all suspended and isolated in a sea of people sailing towards their destinations.

I passed through the Salt Lake City airport many times in the subsequent years, but never faced another delay and never again sought out the women’s lounge. I picture it still exactly the same, with an ongoing stream of stressed women finding peace, comfort and support. I’ve felt this support before, from family and friends in troubled times, but never before I had I been stranded in such a way. The women’s lounge was a haven for us all. The interesting part of it was how quickly we bonded and trusted each other. We were completely united in our efforts to protect our families from the rigors of the airport, and recognized that it was time to band together – no whining allowed. We took care of each other, but it wouldn’t have been possible outside of that room. That space provide a place for us to focus on the needs of ourselves and our children without the mad, jumbled stimulus of the terminal. Bolstered by the peaceful interlude, we were all able to withstand our delays, gathering strength from each other as we prepared to travel onward.

Barbara Johnson was a homesteading, homebirthing, homeschooling, traveling mother of 4 when this trip happened in 1990. Her children are now grown and married, and she enjoys spending time with her 3 grandchildren. She is the director of Shannondale Craft Camp in southern Missouri.

Guest Post: Motherful at Midlife

Nov13

I was happy to preview Peg’s book earlier this year and enjoyed receiving a post from her reflecting on being Motherful at midlife…

Motherful at Midlife

by Peg Conway

“Life is so unnerving
for a servant who’s not serving.”

These opening lines from “Be Our Guest” in the musical Beauty and the Beast popped to mind during our daughter’s recent fall break from her freshman year in college. The departure of our oldest son two years before had certainly impacted the household, but with both of them away and the youngest now a licensed driver, the house feels like the empty castle that Belle happened upon in the story. A sense of expectation surfaces, waiting for . . . what? Like a phantom limb, my routine was accustomed to more coming and going, more conversation, just more people around.

The Sunday when Kieran was home, we planned a brunch for after church. As Joe and I worked in the kitchen together to put the meal on the table, a sense of having donned a familiar garment came over me. “This feels like ‘us’ in a way I haven’t known in a while” I said. Although our family table has long anchored our life, especially through the busy teen years, something didn’t fit quite the same way. Providing a nourishing meal was not creating the same satisfaction as before. In early September, my life felt unnerved by fewer nurturing tasks to perform. Just six weeks later our adaptation became clearer, with Kieran home on a weekend when I was booked with several activities related to ongoing commitments I have made. I had less time and energy for the style of nurturing that had been an essential part of my life for a long time, and I didn’t mind.

Yet at the core I remain a mother. The emotional and spiritual transformation wrought by the physical processes of pregnancy, birth, and breastfeeding feel permanent. What does this mean? Does one cease to be motherful when the children are grown? Or rather, how is one motherful at midlife and beyond? Physician and menopause specialist Christiane Northrup advises that the hormonal changes as childbearing wanes cause a shift in women. We truly are less nurturing than when we were caring for young children, but what emerges in its place can be creative, powerful, and immensely fulfilling. Rechanneling motherfulness, women’s midlife initiatives may arise from old passions re-discovered or the pursuit of new paths. I know several women who have entered politics, local and state-wide, now that their children are grown. Another started a school for young children to implement her unique vision for learning. Someone at my church took up pottery making and donates the proceeds from sales to charity. I can think of two other women who have started consulting businesses.

My own standard for future endeavors is the deep satisfaction I derived from homeschooling, especially being part of a weekly co-op where I team-taught writing and history with other mothers. I have struggled to articulate just what made it so rewarding, but I think it has a lot to do with community, forging relationships with a diverse group while engaging in a project of personal importance. Of course my enjoyment also related to spending generous time with my children, but I have had to accept the finitude of that experience. Grieving and letting go are significant motherful activities at mid-life.

Professionally, I’m still finding my way, but writing is figuring prominently. I started a blog two years ago, and last month realized a long-held dream by publishing a book, Embodying the Sacred: A Spiritual Preparation for Birth. Involvement in several local non-profits is helping me discern further. I’m also discovering that simply being present to young people is a motherful mid-life outlet. Recently I began spending delightful time with my 2-1/2-year-old niece. We read books, take walks, play with plastic food and dishes, dolls, and blocks, talking all the while about what’s happening then and there. I also savor moments with my young adult children as they become companions present to me. The memory that endures from my daughter’s visit is not the food that I cooked on Sunday morning, but the hike we took together with our dog on Monday afternoon…

Peg Conway is a writer and community leader in Cincinnati, OH. She blogs about life and faith at pegconway.com. As a childbirth educator and doula, she was certified with Birthing from Within, Doulas of North America, and BirthWorks. She earned degrees from Xavier University and Northwestern University. Peg is in the process of becoming certified as a celebrant through Global Ministries University.

Call for your experiences – the impact of birth trauma and beyond | Rebecca A. Wright

Nov11

http://rebeccaawright.com/

An online friend and sister birth professional, Rebecca Wright, emailed me recently to share some information about an important new project that she is launching:

I’m planning to write a book on birth trauma that will centre on women’s voices and experiences. It’s not going to be so much dwelling on birth trauma (though there will be an element of that as I want people to understand that whether an experience was ‘objectively’ traumatic or not, it can have an enormous impact – and I think a lot of women say to themselves, ‘my experience wasn’t as bad as some others I hear about’ and so don’t feel able to validate their own feelings and experience). What I really want to focus on is a) the impact of birth trauma (or of ‘difficult’ birth experiences) on mothers, babies, partners, families; b) the many individual paths to healing from birth trauma that people have walked; c) rediscovering your power in birth and motherhood following a difficult or traumatic experience.

She’d like to reach out to mothers, but also their partners, and doulas (midwives, nurses, doctors, etc.) and she’s also interested in hearing from practitioners of whatever sort who work with women and families around these issues.

Full details are available on her blog:

I want this book to be made of women’s voices (and men’s as well). I want it to be a place where the unspoken is spoken clearly and openly. I want it to be a book that honours the sacredness of each birth journey, and each path to healing. I want it to be a book that opens doorways for those who are feeling lost or alone so that they can find hope and a way forward that is suitable for them personally. Most of all, I want it to be a book that shows that it is possible to reclaim your personal power in birth and mothering following a difficult or traumatic experience in birth.

via Call for your experiences – the impact of birth trauma and beyond | Rebecca A. Wright.

Make sure to check out her project and see if you can lend your voice to what sounds like a beautifully healing book!

And, speaking of birth trauma, a while ago, I also received a question via Facebook asking for recommended resources for healing from traumatic birth. Check out the series on Giving Birth with Confidence about traumatic birth prevention and recovery. Or, look into Solace for Mothers.

Recipe: Cocoa Butter Belly Balm (and all-purpose stretch mark soother)

Nov9

Flame detailing…
Racing stripes…
Tiger stripes…
Battle scars…
Striae…

Stretch marks. By whatever name you call them, most pregnant women and many adolescents will experience the addition of at least a couple skin customizations before their developmental transition is complete. I felt lucky during my own pregnancies to experience very few of them and never any on my actual belly—with my first son I got two marks one on the underside of each breast, not during pregnancy, but nearly immediately postpartum. Hey! With my second son, I got a couple of light marks, again not on my belly, but on my rear end! Hey! And, with my daughter, I got a series on my left hip and some new ones on my bottom. Again with the HEY!!! During each of my pregnancies, I was diligent about applying cocoa butter belly balm every night. With my first, I used a purchased version, but with the others, I used my own homemade version. I had a nice little nighttime ritual where I would rub the balm into my belly while singing, “cocoa butter for my Lannbaby…” 🙂

Here is my super simple recipe:

Cocoa Butter Balm

2 oz cocoa butter
10 large TB coconut oil
8 squares beeswax (approx. 1 large tsp each)

Melt together over low heat. Makes 12 ounces of balm. Excellent skin soother, scar softener, stretch mark nurturer, overall moisturizer.

—
Options
You can leave out the beeswax and it will still work. My experience is that it is of a “grainier” texture though then.

Feel free to experiment with proportions and amount of beeswax until you get your own perfect blend. You will often need less wax in the winter (particularly if you live in a cold house) and more in the summer.

You can substitute some safflower or sunflower oil for some of the coconut oil.

You can use more cocoa butter and less oil. I’m cheap and cocoa butter isn’t, so I skew my proportions to more coconut oil.

You can use cheap Louanna coconut oil from Wal-Mart (Thanksgiving is a great time of year to find this)

Hobby Lobby often has 1lbs blocks of beeswax. Melt it all and pour it out on a lined cookie sheet and then break it into nice, useable chunks.

Family Dollar sometimes has real, no additives cocoa butter available in the makeup section in handy two ounce tubes. This recipe was created based on their existence!

Once I starting making this to sell and also including it in a homemade body care products class, I started buying cocoa butter in a 5lbs bucket from The Chemistry Store online.

I like packaging the belly butter in brown glass jars from Specialty Bottle.

This balm is kind of greasy—I recommend applying at bedtime, or in clothes you don’t care about, or walking around with your belly exposed until it has been absorbed.

Don’t be fooled by commercial cocoa butter lotions. While they might look or smell nice or be named Pure Cocoa Butter!!!!(TM), most contain almost no actual cocoa butter, but instead an assortment of various ick, including known carcinogens and artificial scents. I like using only products on my skin that I could actually eat!

Personal tip–don’t only treat the baby to this balm application, remember your hips and buns too!

I found this picture via google images when looking for a different one that I had in mind. If anyone knows who it belongs to, please tell me so I can ask appropriate permission! (or, take it down)

Guest Post: Don’t Touch Me… Don’t Even Look At Me

Nov9

This guest post is the first in my blog break festival. The festival continues through December, so please check it out and consider submitting a post! Also, don’t forget to enter my birth jewelry giveaway. This post falls into the Motherful category…

Don’t Touch Me… Don’t Even Look At Me.

by Veronica of Mormon Monkey Mama

Being a monkey mama isn’t all it’s cracked up to be sometimes. My kids still cry. I still have to discipline and direct my 3-year-old. Yesterday was especially difficult. Squirrel Monkey, 3 years (SM) is getting sick and Owl Monkey, 5.5 months (OM) is still sick. When SM is feeling sick, she is very testy. So, yesterday, she kept doing things she knew she shouldn’t to get my attention, acting out her physical feelings. She didn’t want to eat anything I gave her, she was whiny, and she mostly wanted to watch TV all day. So by the time my husband, Gorillaman, got home, I. Was. DONE. But I can’t be done. I have a nursling. And though that is often very zen… it wasn’t yesterday.

We put the girls to bed at 8:00. That never happens here. SM is usually up until 9:00 or 9:30. She went to bed easily. But OM, who usually goes to sleep pretty easily, was fussy because she couldn’t breathe.

So the mother abuse began…

FACTS:

*Baby toes are like a velociraptor‘s. I have bruises on the insides of my legs from OM taking her big toes and digging them into anything she comes in contact with. Most of the time, especially when we are nursing lying down, that is my leg, groin, or stomach, as she writhes around being frustrated about her inability to breathe easily.

*It’s especially uncomfortable, verging on vomit-inducingly painful, when the baby goes from nursing peacefully to clamp-and-twist in 0.2 seconds. It’s even worse when you have a recurrent plugged duct because of said baby’s latch. I know from experience… a lot of it.

*Babies have unbelievably strong fingers… the better to pinch you with. I have bruises on the insides of my arms and the tops of my breasts from aggravated little fingers that find purchase and CLAMP DOWN! Hand wrangling should be a class for pregnant moms.

*Toddlers/preschoolers have sharper elbows than the coffee table corners we protected them from a couple of years before.

My normally sweet and gentle Owl Monkey has become a baby badger. Ow. Add that to the bone crushing antics of a testing toddler, well, is it any surprise why I avoid any sense of intimacy on a day like yesterday? By the end of the day, when I have been poked, prodded, pinched, and pummeled by tiny hands, feet, and toothless gums, I don’t want to be touched. By anyone. I don’t even want to hold hands. My lucky poor husband, who has been away from his doting family all day, wants to come home and have some sort of physical closeness, even if it’s just to sit together on the couch and watch our show. It’s not fair that our jobs give us seriously different needs. But such is life so we both make sacrifices. So sometimes I snuggle, though it makes me feel like crawling out of my skin. And sometimes he takes a cold shower. 😉 Such is this life of parental bliss. And bliss it is. For just as you think you can’t handle any more, your 3-year-old crawls into your arms again and needs you to snuggle her to sleep. Your 5.5 month old flashes that gummy, milky grin. And suddenly your heart is full again, the bruises don’t matter, and you hug your husband that much closer knowing that only the two of you truly understand…

It’s all worth it.

Veronica is a semi-crunchy stay-at-home mom to two girls and a sweet English Bulldog boy. She is passionate about breastfeeding, gentle parenting, co-sleeping, and babywearing. She spends her days chasing her 3.5 year old with her 23 lb 9 month old on her back! She hopes to encourage and support other LDS (Mormon) moms as they embrace the mommying counterculture and parent instinctively.

Originally published on Friday, July 13, 2012 at Mormon Monkey Mama

Jewelry Memory

Nov8

Those of you who know me in real life may know that I really like jewelry. You may or may not also know that I often use jewelry to mark significant moments in my life, to communicate certain messages, and to remind myself of things or serve as touchstones. For the last couple of days, I made sure to put on three significant necklaces and the order of the necklaces told a story. The first was my baby-in-my-heart pendant. Unfortunately no longer available for sale anywhere, I very much connected to this pendant and bought it as a connection to the baby in my own heart. I used to even sleep and shower wearing it and wore it continuously until midway through my pregnancy-after-loss in which I then felt like putting it away. Now, I wear it on certain meaningful occasions like on Noah’s birthday or on holidays.

The second is a pendant I bought right after my second miscarriage. It is a small medallion style piece with the words, “believe in yourself” on the back. I wore it throughout my pregnancy with Alaina, including in labor. Now, I wear it when I need encouragement, courage, or strength. I have a tradition of wearing it to the first night of every class I teach. It serves as a reminder for me and helps me feel strong.

The third pendant is the dancing goddess logo from SageWoman magazine. My husband gave it to me after Alaina was born in 2011. It reminds me of my Happy Birth Dance feelings of relief and joy at her birth. I still wear this one almost every day.

Together, obviously, the three in a row tell a story of loss, hope, and joy.

Lann took this picture of me a couple of days ago on Nov. 6, the third anniversary of the day we found out the baby had died and I was going to have a miscarriage.

[Side note: Jewelry is significant enough to me that there are still birthy necklaces I haven’t worn since my miscarriages because they represent a happy point of pre-loss naïvety to me and I now feel uncomfortable wearing them. I put many of my very favorite necklaces away after Noah was born, because I couldn’t even stand to look at them and be confronted with the joy they had previously represented, and even though I am no longer in that dark and distressed place, I still don’t enjoy wearing them. Their association for me has permanently changed.]

Noah’s angel bear and my necklace on the priestess rocks yesterday afternoon.

Do you have jewelry that is especially significant to you? Do you wear it when you need to tell the world something or remind yourself of an important moment or experience? I’d love to see a picture of it!

I also felt inspired to quickly make a new birth art figure—this one incorporating the “baby in my heart” image that I found so valuable. And, it also connects to the persistent feeling I had for months after he was born (until I reached his due date really) that I was going to be, “a little bit pregnant” with him forever.

Miscarriage and Birth

Nov7

Last month a fellow birth professional asked a question about whether it was possible to have postpartum depression after miscarriage. My response was as follows:

I think it is crucial to remember that miscarriage is a birth event—sometimes a very, very, very early birth event, but reproductively speaking that is what it is! Since we don’t have a better vocabulary for pregnancy loss in our culture, socioculturally speaking we tend to class it as “something else,” but in most ways it isn’t. A soul (or fertilized egg) touches down in a woman’s womb. Her hormones and all other physiological systems are impacted and feel its presence. The embryo/fetus/baby stays for a time and when it leaves her body, the uterus must contract and the cervix must open and the woman’s body must open to allow its passage. Her body, mind, emotions, and spirit are all affected (to varying degrees). In this way, miscarriage and full-term birth simply exist on a continuum of possible birth outcomes and are all birth events whether the pregnancy lasts five weeks or forty-two weeks.

Miscarriage as a birth event is one of my “pet” subtopics within the wide range of reading about miscarriage and quotes that respect the birth-miscarriage relationship always catch my attention. After the birth-miscarriage of my own third baby three years ago today, I found the following quote in a back issue of Midwifery Today:

“Miscarriages are labor, miscarriages are birth. To consider them less dishonors the woman whose womb has held life, however briefly.” –Kathryn Miller Ridiman

It meant so much to me and I returned to it again and again. I believe I was also responsible for introducing the quote to the internet, because since I first typed it up, I’ve now seen it floating around on many other websites and blog posts. And, in a full circle moment, my own miscarriage-birth story was published in Midwifery Today in 2011. I also latched on to a quote from the book Wild Feminine saying, “though it is not always recognized as such, miscarriage is a birth event.”

Christine Moulder in the book Miscarriage: Women’s Experiences and Needs quoted another mother: “Although I had a miscarriage technically, I don’t feel this. I went through labour. It was incredibly painful but my husband was with me and it was almost a happy occasion.” I agree, with my own birth experience feeling just as “legitimate” as either of my prior labors or my subsequent birth. I And, actually even more so in that Noah’s birth became possibly the most defining moment of my womanhood. I would also describe it as a spiritual experience or “awakening” of sorts in a way that has profoundly influenced me, shaping my future work with women and my life goals. I return to this experience again and again and continue to draw both strength and insight from it.

Returning to Moulder’s book, later in that section, the author says:

“With the exception of women who have a late missed [miscarriage] there will be a baby that has to be born. The baby may or may not have died prior to the miscarriage. As with full-term birth, the waters must break, there will be pains and contractions and the cervix must dilate for the baby to leave the womb. Of course the baby will be smaller, in some cases much smaller, but it is essentially the same process and this comes as a great shock to many women.”

And this is absolutely true, but also not something that is mentioned in very many miscarriage books. This shock of experiencing miscarriage so clearly as a labor and birth rather than as “something else” is what led me to describe my wish for miscarriage doulas on my now-complete miscarriage blog:

On a pregnancy loss message board that I read, a mother posted asking if she was the only one who experience her miscarriage as painful (because no one mentioned it being painful in the stories she had read and she was very shocked by the pain involved). I had a couple of thoughts in response to this question. I also shared my “favorite” miscarriage-birth quote: “Miscarriages are labor, miscarriages are birth. To consider them less dishonors the woman whose womb has held life, however briefly.” (Kathryn Miller Ridiman).

I do think the amount of physical pain probably depends in part on where you are in the pregnancy. Since a lot of women experience very early miscarriages (less than 6 weeks), I think that is perhaps why you don’t hear them talk as much about pain because the baby is still so small. OR, because a lot of women end up having D & C’s and thus do not go through the “natural miscarriage” experience, perhaps that is why pain doesn’t figure heavily into narrative. Or, maybe because there is so much emotional pain involved as well, the physical pain gets overshadowed? That said, my 6-week miscarriage was not physically painful at all (not that it couldn’t be for some women, of course). However, my miscarriage at nearly 15 weeks was indistinguishable from a full-term labor. It was just the same, except with the addition of MASSIVE blood clots following the baby. I value his birth as another birth experience in my life, but at the same time I am SHOCKED that miscarriage is so often overlooked as a birth event that requires tenderness and support (where are the miscarriage doulas and midwives?! While in a way, I feel proud of myself for have an “unassisted” birth-miscarriage, I could have used the care of a knowledgeable, caring woman rather than to just be left on my own trying to gauge how much blood loss is normal, etc.)

So, what about “miscarriage doulas” as an idea? I have seriously thought about becoming one. I am trained as a birth doula, but have no interest in actually working as one, but being a m/c doula does interest me a lot. I feel like adding a section to my business website (I’m a childbirth educator) that says, “having a miscarriage? Call me and I’ll come over and rub your back and bring you things to drink…”

I decided two things shortly after my first miscarriage: one, that I was going to write a book specifically about how to deal (i.e. “what to expect when you’re having a miscarriage”), because I felt very betrayed by having this huge wealth of pregnancy, birth, and midwifery books all around me and NONE of them had the information I was looking; And, two, that if anyone was ever to tell me she was in the process of miscarrying I would go to her right away (unfortunately, it seems like people feel like they have to tough it out alone or don’t want to “bother” anyone and so only tell after the fact). Well, if she wanted me to go, obviously, not against her will. And, that would include going to the hospital with her if she needed a m/c doula there, not just for “home miscarriage.” –Originally posted as Miscarriage Doulas…on June 29, 2010

This interest and post led to the co-founding of the organization The Amethyst Network, originally intended to train the miscarriage doulas I’d longed for during my own experiences. TAN took some time getting off the ground and in the meantime the thoroughly amazing organization Stillbirthday independently arose in vibrant support of women and is now skillfully fulfilling the mission of training loss doulas.

Thankfully, I had already read a long message board thread about, “what exactly do you see with a miscarriage” long before I ever had a miscarriage experience of my own, so I did know to expect mine to be somewhat “like labor” and not to be a “heavy period” (OMG, I wanted to scream when I saw miscarriages described like that in books over, and over, and over again! Though, then when I had my second miscarriage and it WAS, in fact, like the mythical “heavy period,” and so then I understood a little better why that was a prevalent descriptor.)

On Pregnancy and Infant Loss Remembrance Day this October I was out-of-town, but I shared past blog musings on jagged peace, acknowledging that the legacy of miscarriage is profound. I also linked to a friend’s story: Mormon Monkey Mama: A Few Thoughts on Miscarriage and to my own birth-miscarriage story: Noah’s Birth Story (Warning: Miscarriage/Baby Loss).

And, I updated my Facebook status with the following:

Today is Pregnancy and Infant Loss Remembrance Day. Babyloss is part of the spectrum of the childbearing year, and miscarriage is one type of birth experience that a large number of women experience. I appreciate the opportunity to recognize this, rather than to keep a lid on our “negative” stories of grief, loss, and a multitude of complicated emotions. Today I think of my own lost baby N and also my lost babystart. I also think of all the women who do not conceive and birth the rainbow babies they so long for. I also think of a friend whose baby died last month. And, I think about and appreciate my friend/doula from Peaceful Beginnings Doula Services who helped me so much to heal from loss and who has her own babystart to remember today as well.

There are many helpful babyloss organizations and one that was particularly helpful to me was Angel Whispers in Canada. They mailed me a birth certificate for my baby (with an official looking gold seal). It meant a lot to me because it acknowledged that he had lived and was born. It hangs in our hallway and it is amazing to me how meaningful a simple, small act of kindness from strangers can be.

Today we recognize the third anniversary of the birth-miscarriage of our little son Noah. I post not for “sympathy” or condolences, but because memories are important, and because even though he only stayed with us for a couple of months, he shaped our lives and in a very real sense is responsible for the life of Alaina. I share because his birth and the long, slow journey of grief was a pivotal, transformative point in my life as a mother/woman and because he helped change my destiny. And, I share because there are SO many loss mamas out there with stories of their own to tell and I hold them all in my heart and wish them all the love, caring, and wisdom that I was lucky enough to receive, both three years ago and ongoing today! ♥

“There is a sacredness in tears. They are messengers of overwhelming grief…and unspeakable love.” –Washington Irving

“Remember our heritage is our power; we can know ourselves and our capacities by seeing that other women have been strong.” – Judy Chicago

“Change, when it comes, cracks everything open.” ~Dorothy Allison

“She’s turning her life into something sacred: Each breath a new birth. Each moment, a new chance. She bows her head, gathers her dreams from a pure, deep stream and stretches her arms toward the sky.” –from a journal cover

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Related posts:

My memories of this time in 2011: Sand Tray Therapy
From 2010: Pregnancy Update
And memories of the anniversary of the second worst day of my life
And, some past thoughts about Honoring Miscarriage

Ceremony Preparations!

Nov3

My brother got married at my parents’ house early last month and it involved a surprisingly huge amount of work and preparation even though it was a small wedding. Now, we’re getting ready for an overnight women’s retreat at the same location and it feels like almost the same amount of prep work! I’ve been planning and facilitating quarterly women’s spirituality retreats locally for two years. Early this year, we decided to have a special “SageWoman” ceremony in the fall to honor our Queen/Crone members of the circle. It will be similar to a coming of age ceremony for a maiden or a mother blessing ceremony for a pregnant woman. My own mother has already been celebrated multiple times, but the other four honorees have never had a blessingway ceremony—not for coming of age or for pregnancy. (Side note regarding my own mom: she has already been a part of a group ceremony like this for wise women and then through two blessingways during her own pregnancies–I’m one of the only people I know whose mom who was also given blessingways during her pregnancies. I think sometimes the current generation feels like they “invented” them, but there were plenty of awesome women who paved the way to ritually acknowledging the power of the transition to motherhood. In fact, I feel like in many ways, it was my mom who “brought back” the mother blessing to my own circle of friends when she hosted a ceremony for me during my own first pregnancy. Before that, the local women were no longer holding the kinds of ceremonies they’d held during the 80’s.)

We’re having an overnight retreat and planning to have a nighttime ceremony of awesomeness with candlelight and a fire and the deep tones of my new community drum. That’s right, after being totally entranced by the large powwow/community drums at the Goddess festival I attended in Kansas in Sept, I spent way too much money and bought one of my own! We’ve often tried drumming as a group, but just can’t quite get it going. The community drum is going to change all that by involving multiple people on the same drum. Plus, we learned cool chants! I’ve been drumming and singing with my husband since the powwow drum arrived. There is something about the deep sound and the rhythm and the energy of drumming together on the same drum that makes you feel like you are great and could take this show on the road! (I’m not really musically skilled at all, quite the opposite, but the community drum changes that feel of arthymic tone-deafness into awesomeness.)

It is thankfulness-every-day month on Facebook and on Nov. first I shared the following:

Today I’m thankful for a husband that has spent hours and hours this week helping me make presents for MY friends (including a trip to the store today to fix a problem), staying up too late to do so (1:00 a.m. two [three] nights in a row), and patiently persevering when I said I was ready to quit! And, I’m also thankful for a dad and a good friend who spent hours this morning setting up a tipi for us to have a ceremony in this weekend. I guess behind every great women-only ritual are several helpful and awesome men 🙂

And then yesterday, my dad made a beautiful drum stand using native hardwoods (I made the drumstick in the pic, but Mark made four others for us. See what I mean about the awesome, helpful men?! And, unlike popular stereotypes, this is proof that it is possible to be both a feminist and love and appreciate your menfolk :))

Since words and ritual creation are my thing, I’ve been working hard creating what I hope will be a beautiful and meaningful ceremony. I will have the ritual outline to share and pictures of the aforementioned gifts I’ve been slaving over after they’ve actually been presented to my friends. Here are two of the readings I’ve chosen to use:

Womanspirit Rising
(an opening. Call and response)

We have come from years of pondering

Silently and alone
As we nurtured our children.

We have come from long, slow generations of women

Who knew their minds
And would not settle

We have come from the ages of pre-history,
Out of the civilizations of Mycenae and Minos
Of Lesbos and Crete.

Of the Olemecs and the Druids
Of Mesopotamia and China

We have come through the ages

Bearing the children,
Nurturing the community
In search of ourselves

We have come to know that

The rising of the womanspirit
Means the rising of humanity

Now we are discovering and re-discovering ourselves

And creating and re-creating
Our depths and our heights…