It's been three months (plus change) since Eli was born, and I've been feeling a lot of wistful nostalgia lately for my two labor and birth experiences. We know that we aren't going to have any more kids, and so I know that I'll never have the opportunity to experience pregnancy, labor, and birth again. Honestly, that makes me feel a bit sad.
Just last night in my childbirth class, the expectant parents and I agreed that we all had the common experience of having people (even strangers!) repeatedly tell their scary, dramatic, not-so-pleasant birth stories to us while we were pregnant. Every woman has the right to tell her story--I'm not meaning to say that any of us should keep quiet. But I think it's true that there are far fewer positive birth stories floating around in our upper-middle-class cultural conversation. They definitely aren't in media representations of birth. I'm very fortunate, I know, to have two positive stories to tell--my stories are full of determination and endurance and connection and triumph. I do, however, feel a bit of an impulse to keep them quiet and close to me, because I treasure them so much. And it's not that they were free of pain--not at all! I have about 100 hours of frequent labor and pre-labor contractions in my history, and only two of those 100 hours involved pain medication. "Good" or "positive" are not synonyms for "pain free," at least not in my experience of labor.
What made my experiences so positive, then? I've pondered this before in this blog, but I feel I want to dig into it one more time--I feel that reflection on this topic will be energy well spent in terms of my personal life (particularly with regards to physical fitness) as well as my professional life as a doula and educator.
I carry my labors and births around with me in my bones, in my cells, in my muscles. The threads of my labor experiences connect me to the family and friends who were with me in those moments and who saw me there and supported me through it. I have this moment that I can picture in my mind of Eli's labor--I'm standing on my feet, leaning with my hands on the hospital bed's mattress. I'm wearing my own clothes, I have no tubes or medications or needles or monitors in or on me, and I'm surrounded by four people whom I've chosen to be there with me. The lights are dim, and my own music is playing. I have no idea what time it is, and I don't care. My contractions are profoundly challenging in a way that's entirely new to me.
I remember this moment because of what it means in the aggregate--it's the whole picture, not one detail or fact. It's a picture entirely dominated by the power of my own body to get the job done, but with the knowledge that the "minor" details of the environment (who's there, what does it feel like, what does it sound like, etc.) are actually anything but minor. It's birth as a NORMAL life experience, not a medical event.
My physical life and my capabilities feel so much more expansive, so much bigger, because my definition of what's normal for me includes even this. Labor was so organic and physiological and yet so extraordinary at the same time--and this is what I carry with me in my physical and emotional self all the time, every day. The best way that I can try to describe it is that, on an ordinary day like today, when I'm tired from a rough night of sleep and I need my coffee, I feel like a caterpillar. I'm physically slow and undistinguished today, but I'm hiding a butterfly in this body of mine. I'm capable of miraculous things, of metamorphosis! :)
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On another completely unrelated note, because this is how I roll, I'm going to record Eli's most recent stats. He's weighing in at 20 lbs., 13 oz., and has an 18" (circumference) head. "100th percentile" for both for a three-month old. Go! Go! Go Mama's Milk! :) He had two immunizations today, too, which went off without a hitch as usual. Because we're staggering his shots to only two a month, this was a "shots only" visit. He'll be back for a well-baby visit next month.
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