girlfriday

Transition: My path to natural labor

noreply@blogger.com (girlfriday) — Thu, 29 Dec 2011 02:50:00 +0000

Two weeks ago today I gave birth to a darling baby girl. She arrived in three short and (two) agonizing hours of labor. Now I know I am capable of giving birth naturally when six months ago I knew almost nothing about natural childbirth.

Our firstborn came after 19 hours of difficult and frightening labor. I yielded to every intervention short of a c-section. The waterfall of intervention one of my friends calls it. The doctor started a Pitocin drip around 7 AM. After six or seven hours I took some narcotics that rather than giving me some rest made me loopy. (Half conscious and calling my husband a name is funny memory though.) Essentially stuck in bed and (on my back most of the time) as a result of fetal heart monitors the doctor requires with the administration of Pitocin, I couldn't work through the growing pain. An epidural that only half-worked was next and it was dimness and fear and even pain for the hours that followed. Insensible to the pressure of my contractions I had to ask when to push. In the end, with the help of an episiotomy and vacuum extractors, my son appeared.

It was days before I recovered from the shock. I've blogged a little about that here. It's still true that I'd do it again...and more...to bring him into the world. But I didn't want to do it that way ever again.

It turns out many women share my experience with that labor and delivery: tons of medical intervention, confusion, disappointment, disillusionment. Uninformed, untrained and unhelped by their providers. Consequently they determined not to let history repeat itself.

My first indication that something was simply wrong, that there must be real alternatives to my experience, was the total lack of information about the consequences of induction. How is it logical to lie on your back, hooked up to a machine, when you are going to try to manage intense pain that is naturally relieved through walking, bathing or other movement? I was on my way.

Through a little bit of reading and lots of conversations with women, I began to understand that birth is a natural process not a medical procedure. This seems like common sense as I write it, but it was novel to me: Women should have the opportunity to let their instincts and their body's natural process guide them. Pitocin and comfort measures can interfere with this process, sometimes on a huge scale. For the most part, babies should be born on their own schedule, not the doctor's (or yours!).

My mom was the first person I recollect inspiring me to a natural birth. And this year a number of strong-willed friends unconsciously inspired me with their stories. From delivering a ten-pound baby without the aid of an epidural to a home birth with a midwife that produced a little girl after 40 plus hours, every story nudged me toward a natural birth. One friend even said with her usual frankness, "It's not like you're not going to die!" when I suggested that I couldn't handle the pain.

And finally a friend working on her doula certification urged me to use a doula. (A doula is a trained labor coach who, statistically, helps reduce the number of medical interventions during labor.) She went the extra mile and hunted down the name of a woman working locally. Initially I scoffed at the idea of a stranger helping me through what is a very private process. After reflection I realized a labor coach wouldn't be any more of a stranger to me than a roomful of nurses and a doctor that I know, if at all, only on a professional basis! Someone found her for me, and she turned out to be a godsend. Sensible, calm and empathetic I knew she would be a good fit. My husband liked her too, which was important to me for obvious reasons.

And without those two I wouldn't have succeeded.

The pain was mind-bending. Active labor lasted only three hours, two of which included back labor (the baby was posterior). This meant I had little relief between contractions. Crouched on all-fours, I didn't think I could move, but with the help of a highly skilled and persuasive nurse, they talked me into getting into the warm, deep jacuzzi tub. It helped. Every attention was paid to me; concessions were made; suggestions offered. None of these worked their magic like the calm I think you can response to my "I can't do it!"

In the end I didn't feel like I achieved a natural birth so much as it was achieved on my behalf by my husband and my doula. They fought for my birth plan by gently resisting my attempts to cave. Stick to the plan. You can do it. You're progressing nicely. Right down to her blessedly cold hands, which I sometimes found myself unconsciously clinging to, my doula did exactly what she was trained to do: advocate for me against me.

And my husband is my hero.

With my son's eventual birth, it was shock and confusion. I couldn't get up. I couldn't hold him. I missed his first bath. I resented the pain I'd undergone. This time relief and elation were immediate. It was over and she was here. I had undreamt of energy. The baby was in my arms immediately. I held her for hours before we gave her a bath. Photos of us in the hospital show me in my own shirt and blessedly free from wires and tubes.

After just a day, the memory of the pain was already fading to black and white. We left the hospital the next day, relatively strong and rested. I remarked on this incredible difference to my doula and she said it's amazing how we can feel when we don't have a bunch of drugs in our system. Combine that with an incredible sense of awe and accomplishment and you begin to understand why some women value a natural birth so highly.

It's best not to lie about these things: Labor is painful and not sexy or beautiful in the conventional sense of the word. Next time around I'll probably long for the epidural again. I'll whine that I can't do it. (More children? Never! Natural childbirth? Crazy talk!) An epidural might ease the pain, which is not nothing, but it might also prolong labor and result in unwelcome medical interventions. These things can, as they did in my case, lead to regret.

Today I am still on a high from the outcome. It was unspeakably difficult and painful but the reward was instant and long-term joy. No regrets. No bad memories. No fear. My body did its job and now I know that it can.

The Now and the Not Yet

noreply@blogger.com (girlfriday) — Wed, 02 Nov 2011 03:46:00 +0000

A friend of mine recently spotted the huge, laminated bank check made out to the nonprofit I used to manage. It's perched conspicuously on a shelf in our garage. What was it about, she wondered.

"I can't get rid of it. I'm so proud of the money I raised." And then I found myself nearly adding, "Believe it or not I used to do something productive and worthwhile in this world."

The implication of that unspoken thought...I shudder.

Today I am parenting a toddler and nurturing a future toddler in my womb.

Instead of clinic management it's whether or not to read a book, do "crafts" or schedule a play date that consumes my thought life. No more the preoccupation with soliciting our piece of the financial pie by positioning our small clinic as crucial to the health and welfare of Idaho's underserved. Brain development, spiritual development, physical development, and when my next nap is coming: these preoccupy my time.

I'd join the chorus of "moms have thankless jobs" except it isn't true. We know instinctively that we're doing something important and the thanks we get are the chubby, outstretched arms, the attentive look, the shared laugh. No one else snuggles with me the way my son does.

Knowing this, I still felt the tug to my old life and all its attractions and tangible rewards. In my secret soul, it felt like more productive work than marriage and parenting. My feelings (sight) was bumping right up against my faith. I suppose that rubbing will go on as long as I walk this earth in these shoes.

A funny thing happened in a casual email...

noreply@blogger.com (girlfriday) — Fri, 07 Oct 2011 17:11:00 +0000

This week my brother started an email thread about the new Nampa (ID) chief of police, LeRoy Forsman, a man one of my parents taught in Sunday School roughly 200 years ago.

That email quickly turned into a series of "Remember whens" between us kids and our folks. The conversation centered around the four or five years we lived in a trailer.

Yep, we lived in a trailer. Two of them in fact. And those years compose some of the happiest memories of my life.

"Remember when we camped outside and listened to "Wind in the Willows" on the tape deck?"

"Remember when we had been warned there wasn't much money for Christmas, but mom and dad still managed to give us each a huge, warm fuzzy blanket that we still cherish today?"

"Remember when this sister fell down the stairs and had to have stitches or this brother was chased screaming back home by a horde of angry wasps or the baby would walk around with her thumb in her mouth and her hand in her diaper?"

Eventually we stopped camping outside. Our new house didn't have air conditioning, but it was cooler, so no more nights of mom spraying a mist of water over us and telling us to imagine we were at the beach. Four bedrooms meant I didn't have to share a room with my little sisters any more. We got older and started babysitting and mowing lawns and giving our own gifts at Christmas, many of them forgettable plastic trinkets.

When we got more, we lost something. So why have I been preoccupied with my own "stuff"? A new piece of art, shelving for all our books, storage for the baby's clothes, even a new house? I ought to be re-learning how to make much out of, well, quite a bit. I can't really say we have "little" especially compared to what we had those five years.

Our family shouldn't need a lot to build a happy home and create a memorably happy childhood for our kids. The trailer park stories are my evidence.

When we had nothing, we had it all.

girlfriday: Check your familiarity at the door

noreply@blogger.com (girlfriday) — Thu, 25 Aug 2011 16:18:00 +0000

"Familiarity Breeds Contempt."

I've always thought this translated that if you got too comfortable around folk you would come to resent them.

What if it means instead that to treat people in a too-familiar manner is to breed contempt?

You don't have to belong to the Dear Sirs crowd but email leaves us especially vulnerable to the temptation of over familiarity.

I have some whoppers of examples. Do you?

The Truth?

noreply@blogger.com (girlfriday) — Fri, 24 Jun 2011 03:36:00 +0000

I love that my husband is such a man's man that it's a constant struggle getting grease and dirt stains out of his nice slacks.

If I were to lose him, I'd miss his refusal to try anything new in the way of toothpaste, shaving cream or shampoo.

I'm happy that he's not a woman. I didn't marry a woman. I married a man and even if I harumph around, I wouldn't have it any other way.

noreply@blogger.com (girlfriday) — Wed, 06 Apr 2011 03:18:00 +0000

Reports of my death have been greatly exaggerated.

Look for my triumphant return in coming days.

your

girl friday

Where did everyone go, and other points of contention...

noreply@blogger.com (Onaindia) — Tue, 14 Sep 2010 14:25:00 +0000

When last I visited the Good Ship Girlfriday, there were people bustling about on deck, brass was being shined, and the enlisted was busy sucking up to management. Maybe that was just me. I get confused sometimes.

So, anyway, after entirely too long an absence, I wandered back aboard, shamefaced, prepared to take my lashings like a man (ok, fine. I was going to whimper like a scolded Great Dane), only to discover, well, a ghost ship.

I heard the creaking up in the rigging. I heard the tinny sound of girlfriday's radio blaring away in her cabin, tuned to some random 80's rock station. I heard the slopping and sloshing of water in the bilges. And I heard an assortment of birds, gathered in a cluster on the poop deck (yes, I liked writing "poop deck") and talking smack about Keith Olbermann.

But there is no one here. Le sigh.

Without going into a lot of stupid reasons why (ok, it was mostly simple convenience), I had taken to ranting on Facebook when I had something disputatious to say. What I have concluded, however, is that FB really isn't the place for that sort of thing. I discovered this when I found myself annoyed at something someone else had posted...and then wondered who might be annoyed with something that I had posted. So. I have resolved to cease ranting on Facebook and have resumed ranting over at Moonbat Central, my old and sadly neglected blog. I came back aboard here to tell everyone, but there was no one here to tell.

Instead, I spent some time communing with the birds, learned a few new things about Mr. CrazyRants that have to do with his medications and the lack of supervision regarding their consumption, and decided to leave this note, pinned to the wheel.

Oh. And I ate the cheesecake that girlfriday had hidden in the freezer behind the frozen hash browns. Should have taken it with you or hidden it better, 'cause it was GOOD.

So, anyway, if any of you wander on board here, come on by and see me at Moonbatville. I shall endeavor to be both interesting and annoying. You know. As usual.

Pro-Facebook

noreply@blogger.com (elphaba) — Thu, 03 Jun 2010 16:57:00 +0000

I had no idea GF wrote her last post, when I decided to pimp out facebook and praise its virtues.

I agree that it is all how you use and/or abuse it. In this case I used it to record my son opening a present from an out of state relative so that she could see it happening. This is, in my opinion, the BEST use of facebook. It helps you stay easily connected with folks that you rarely ever see. They can participate in the minutia of your life - the parts that are little but make you feel involved and the major events as well. Do these cyber interactions blot out some more traditional and arguably more thoughtful correspondence? (snail mail, phone calls, etc.) Yes, but the benefits outweigh the deficits.

For example.. I will get probably get about 4 actual birthday cards today, but I will also get about 10 times that in facebook birthday greetings. Plus, I am, by nature, far too bogged down in what I should ideally be doing anyway, so then I can tend to constantly live in a shroud of guilt about what I think I should do versus what I can realistically do. Facebook helps me at least extend a birthday greeting on that person's wall and then maybe send a late card, instead of nothing at all. Is that a "give them condoms because they are going to have sex" argument? Ha ha.
All that said.....this one's for you, Aunt Vicki!

Friend Me!

noreply@blogger.com (girlfriday) — Mon, 24 May 2010 02:20:00 +0000

For a while I've been thinking up a long and nasty post about the problems with Facebook.

Then I realized the problem with Facebook is me.

If I'm not being uber freaky, obsessive, annoying, opinionated, possessive, curious et cetera, et cetera...then Facebook becomes email. Text. Telephone. I make it what it is.

Ahhhhh.

Be Mine.

noreply@blogger.com (girlfriday) — Mon, 15 Feb 2010 03:20:00 +0000

I miss my mom on Valentine's Day.

She was one of those mothers who gave her daughters valentines. There is something unpseakably precious to me about this. My mother's mother must have given her valentines, and that magic, unlike the woman, was never lost to her.

And so it is not lost to me.

I carry those simple or elegant or candy-flavored love tokens in my heart and bring them out for a good airing every February 14.

If God gives me a sassy, affectionate, hazel-eyed girl or two, I'll blow the same loving fairy dust on them and tell them about the valentines I used to open from the amazing woman they call Nana.

The Agony and the Ecstacy

noreply@blogger.com (girlfriday) — Tue, 02 Feb 2010 04:55:00 +0000

My mother used to say that childbirth hurt like hell, but then it was over and you forgot the pain.

For a full three days after I gave birth I didn't believe her.

After the pain and trauma washed over me like a bloody wave, I never looked back.

The dimly lit room. The hands of strangers clawing at the heart monitors. The firm, steady hand of my husband. My mother massaging my legs. My absent-minded but wise doctor. The incomptent tech. The able young nurse with the timely exortation to "breathe out the pain." And finally, miraculously, unexpectedly, the presentation of a curled up little boy who had been beating out his urgent cry for release.

One year later I remember it all with a thrill.

I'd do it again and more to get you into my arms, into this world.

God Bless the Man Who Gave my Friend a Free Cookie

noreply@blogger.com (girlfriday) — Wed, 16 Dec 2009 13:53:00 +0000

Being recognized by the man behind the counter after the third visit is no small thing. What an inspired gesture.

Some have entertained angels unaware [they were working in coffee shops].

To Cherish You is to Breathe

noreply@blogger.com (girlfriday) — Tue, 15 Dec 2009 05:28:00 +0000

I get a lot of advice to "cherish" the time I have with my growing son. They grow so fast! The days do fly! With apologies to the dear people who have offered it, I find the advice grating.

Yes, there are moments of extreme irritation, when World's Cutest Baby becomes, inexplicably, World's Fussiest Baby. Sometimes there are sad moments, when I realize I am never, no, not ever, going to get back the miniature, dependent newborn that catapulted me from just another person to Mother. And it's true that it can be annoying to be depressingly unproductive because you are busy entertaining a kid who mostly just wants you within arm's reach.

But never do I find myself not cherishing the soft, kissable cheek; the dirty, clutched hand; the tender stroke while I nurse; the untiring curiosity; the funny twitch when he's caught headed for the dog's water bowl.

And when I fail to cherish, I remember that I must cherish. The days do fly by! They grow old so fast!

Where Have We Gone?

noreply@blogger.com (girlfriday) — Tue, 15 Dec 2009 05:25:00 +0000

Has Facebook trumped Blogger?

In girlfriday's case, yes. I'd like to get back into writing, though. I have great ideas. Truly brilliant. Managing to get them hammered out and posted before my 20 pound package of whiny goodness claws at my pant leg is difficult.

Speaking of said whiny goodness, see above.

noreply@blogger.com ("Molly McGee") — Thu, 12 Nov 2009 14:09:00 +0000

1 possum
1 bird
1 turtle*
1 frog*
1 raccoon*

That's my roadkill list. What's yours?

*all in the year 2009, whilst driving to-and-fro my boyfriend's apartment in BFE Texas.

My little wall flower:: happy birthday!

noreply@blogger.com (girlfriday) — Tue, 10 Nov 2009 16:12:00 +0000

I won't indulge in my memories about harassing the shy little girl born four years after my mother welcomed this holy terror into the world. All these years later, it's still painful for me to remember that I didn't appreciate, couldn't understand and consequently troubled my younger sister.

Now I know better.

It turns out she knew she was a bit of a wall flower. She used that very word in a song she wrote and sang for her husband at her wedding reception.

Wall flower. This modest bit of finery that makes a drab little room livable is the name we have given to the quieter, more withdrawn people in our acquaintance. There was a time when papering your walls with flowers was a sign of luxury. Bare walls meant hard times and hard living.

Now we know "wall flower" to mean the quiet, the shy, the overlooked. So this is how my sister felt? It grieves me.

Instead of today's wall flower, I see yesterday's wall flower. Joy is a soul that gives energy and beauty to my little life. I can't imagine my heart without her finery. When I have splashed my bitter little walls with black and grey, she colors over them with soft shades of yellow and blue.

In the most unexpected, unobtrusive ways, she even manages to peel away what was there, leaving a fragrant trail of daisy assurances.

Damn those unhappy younger days! God has turned them into an ash heap and presented me instead with a bouquet, "a thing of beauty that is a joy forever."

A trusted confidant. A constant spring of comfort. A best friend.

My darling wall flower Joyous--I celebrate the day you were born!

Grocery Store Meanderings

noreply@blogger.com (elphaba) — Mon, 09 Nov 2009 03:12:00 +0000

I don't normally have a super awesome time at the grocery store, so today I was very pleased with an actually pleasant trip to the grocery store. On a Sunday afternoon. With my two year old son.
It was as if I was in a dream like trace walking around the store, protected by some kind of force field bouncing away all of the things that normally drive me crazy.
I felt compelled to share because I'm trying to focus on the positive these days. (Please slap me if I become one of those people who you want to strangle because they are so upbeat.)
Normally, I would be yelling at my children and slamming the grocery cart into the corral as hard as I could by the end of a run of the mill grocery trip, but not today.
I even had some classic triggers, like trying to avoid waiting at the deli, so grabbing my number and sneaking down a couple of aisles only to return and they had passed my number and I had to grab another number and wait anyways.
It turns out while waiting, there was a guy from MN who was striking up a conversation with one of the deli workers about her being from MN as clearly exhibited by her Viking's shirt. (There is nothing like a little chat about how horrible the weather sucked in TX last summer, "I was ready to pack up and move back," he said, to lift your spirits.
Mainly, I think Douglas' (aforementioned two year old) chipper mood, is to receive the credit. It is amazing what non-whiny children can do to your outlook on life!
My favorite moment of the trip was when I crouched down for a can of chicken noodle soup on the bottom shelf, he peered over the cart down and me and said, "How are you do-wing down dere?"

It Is With Great Sadness

noreply@blogger.com (elphaba) — Mon, 09 Nov 2009 03:00:00 +0000

That we bid a farewell to Don and Betty Draper for a horrifically enormous number of months until we will see you again, deep in the abyss of your childish and dramatic ways.

Predictions: Pete will go with Duck. Betty will, yet again, ask Don to leave. Sterling will make a more aggressive pass on Joni and/or try to get her back to the agency. We'll get some kind of story line with Sal. That's all I have.

Have I mentioned how depressed I am that the season is already over??? Maybe this will give us a chance to finally watch 6 feet under. Netflix here we come!

So hard to choose, but favorite moment of the season so far.....

Welcome to Objective-ville Located in Beautiful Subjective County.

noreply@blogger.com (elphaba) — Fri, 06 Nov 2009 04:43:00 +0000

*****SPOILER ALERT***** FROM TONIGHT'S PROJECT RUNWAY

It was pretty obvious from before they spent their 300 dollars at Mood that Christopher and Gordana were the weakest of the remaining 5 contestants on Season 6 of Project Runway. I did like how they made you think that the judges might just possibly overlook skill and put a designers humble beginnings at the forefront of their choices for the top three headed to Bryant Park. But, they did no such thing and so we await next week's triple bitch fest featuring Carol Hannah, Irina and Althea.
The way they judge this show is kind of like ice skating at the winter olympics. You think you pretty much know who is going to win, but there's always that one crazy German judge who gives the latest Sonja Henie a low score. In PR's case the judge isn't German, she's Nina Garcia.
I miss Michael Kohrs.

He doesn't look the way I expected him to look and his voice is a definite surprise.

noreply@blogger.com ("Molly McGee") — Mon, 14 Sep 2009 18:05:00 +0000

New at MBC

noreply@blogger.com (Onaindia) — Sat, 29 Aug 2009 20:07:00 +0000

Quick self-promotion: new post at Moonbat Central on the nature of government and its relationship to freedom. It might be useful, but there is no cake to be found anywhere.

Reverting to form

noreply@blogger.com (Onaindia) — Fri, 28 Aug 2009 07:06:00 +0000

So, I was sitting around the other day and I realized that I hadn't written anything worth reading for quite awhile, and I felt faintly disgusted with myself. And then I wondered why.

As it turns out, sometimes we write for others, sometimes for ourselves, and sometimes for the sheer bloody pleasure of it. I have not been writing for my own pleasure for quite a long time, and that is sad.

The thing is, life is short enough without doing stuff that other people think we ought to do and have fun with. If we give into the Siren Song of Shuddah, we end up writing crap that no one wants to read anyway, and end up where I was...wondering where the Muse trotted off to.

Well. My Muse is an imp, a trickster, and he has a really warped sense of humor. He is not kind to people who do not deserve it, and he has a tendency to drop banana peels in the most entertaining places. He is full-tilt bozo, an inveterate moonbat, and, as it turns out, I have the most fun writing when I channel him and let him bang on my keyboard.

The Snark is back. Send the kids out of the room.

The Black Screen of Death

noreply@blogger.com (girlfriday) — Wed, 19 Aug 2009 03:26:00 +0000

Isn't it supposed to be blue?

Either way, it's dead. My screen currently reads:

Windows could not start because the folliwng file is missing or corrupt:
\WINDOWS\SYSTEM32\CONFIG\SYSTEM

The Latest AP Genius

noreply@blogger.com (girlfriday) — Tue, 18 Aug 2009 23:28:00 +0000

Analysis: Liberals tired of health care compromise (AP)
AP - Frustrated liberals have a question for President Barack Obama and Democratic lawmakers: Isn't it time the other guys gave a little ground on health care? What's the point of a bipartisan bill, they ask, if we're making all the concessions?

Hey, here's a thought: If the Republicans don't want what you're proposing AT ALL, then giving in to some pressure from the public isn't a concession to the Republicans.

But otherwise it's a great paragraph.

I've grown to detest the Associated Press.

noreply@blogger.com (girlfriday) — Sun, 16 Aug 2009 04:00:00 +0000

Yes, the news is biased, blah, blah, blah.

It's still the news and it's not all bad.

But the AP has really lost the plot. Their news alerts automatically pop up when I open Yahoo! mail. I can't avoid reading the headlines.

Bonkers, those guys. They met Bias, whispered sweet nothings to Bias, coronated Bias, had Biases children.

The latest is hilariously bad. But at least it's good journalism, right Ms. Lane?

(Sorry, couldn't make the image any bigger. The headline reads, "Obama invokes grandmother's death in health debate."

AP-Now, it's personal.)