Glory Ho

We’ll be birthing our baby at Mountain Midwifery–at least, thats the plan.  It’s a stucco building complex called Plaza de Medicos that was probably once an apartment complex. All the curve-topped cottage doors open to the outside. There’s a courtyard for fresh air and it has two stories with a balcony along the top. I like the feel of it. It’s a little retro, very peach , nine minutes from our house and just a block from Swedish Hospital.

When we attended the orientation more than six months ago, Scarlett was just a little lime. There’d been no kicking, no ultrasound and no belly yet. I’d hardly felt pregnant. But I liked the place immediately. Its much more home than hospital. Much more bedroom than bedpan. There’s no nurse station. It has more birthing chairs than wheelchairs. Appointments with the midwives (there are eight) often last a full hour. Herbs are on sale. Birthing pools are available. They can administer oxygen, IVs and use a handheld doppler fetal monitor. They do not perform epesiotomies.

I didn’t start out pining for a birth center and I am still, and I stress, in no way, anti-hospital. I just want to be an independent thinker. I first realized that I had a choice when I saw The Business of Being Born, a documentary which interlaces personal home birth stories with historical, political and scientific insights and statistics about the current maternity system and how American health care deals with pregnancy and birth. The film asks the question: Should most births be viewed as a natural life process, or should every delivery be treated as a potentially catastrophic medical emergency?

Was the film left? Yes. And I kept this in mind during my four viewings (once at the festival, once on my own, once with my husband and once with my Mom). I was careful to note the editing, the emotional appeal and the anti-hospital sentiment. It went a little too far. Bias was abound. Yet I came away with a clear goal: That wherever I birthed, I wanted a) it to be as natural and fearless as possible. b) the decisions for medical intervention such as a c-section, vacuum, pitocin or membrane rupture to be based on my specific situation, not the worst-case scenario and c) to honor the process of birth.

To further my study, I’d also begun reading Ina May’s Guide to Childbirth, which details birth stories from The Farm, a commune in Tennessee where hundreds of babies are born without epidurals, c-sections, vacuums, forceps or epesiotomies every year. I looked into the various birthing classes. . .The Bradley Method, Birthing from Within and Hypnobabies. And because the birth center took almost every kind of insurance except mine (Kaiser), I had a lot of my early appointments with a traditional OB-GYN. I talked to moms who’d birthed at the center and people who’d gone the traditional route. I visited a midwifery wing in a hospital, realizing this was also an option. I spoke with a doula or two.

The more I learned, the more I realized how Hollywood, media and marketing had been misleading me for decades. Images of screaming, swearing women had led me to believe that birthing required a horizontal position, unspeakable pain and a hospital setting. Not to mention a lot of panic. Turns out birthing is rarely a medical emergency, it seldom happens all that fast and being on your back is not an optimum position for giving birth.

This was great news, but I had a bigger problem. I *was* a natural panicker. An overreactor. And this did not bode well for my birth. My mother had us all naturally. . .and despite the fact that deep down, she knew that no one would ever use the word “tough” to describe me, she encouraged me to do the same. She believed. Blindly, but she believed. My husband, well, he knew how I rolled. I may bitch a lot along the way, but I was typically brave enough to dive in and once there, too determined to quit.

Why is all this important? Because the midwifery center doesn’t administer epidurals. Just another factor in our decision.

As my pregnancy continues, and I hear more about the hospital experience and I spend more and more time at the birth center for breastfeeding advice, hypnobabies classes and belly checks, I felt better and better about our decision. The center is was not anti-hospital or even anti-Western medicine. They are simply pro-healthy. They empower you to educate yourself and work together with your body and your baby for a calm, fearless birth.

At Mountain Midwifery, I knew I wouldn’t have to fight off a pitocin-happy nurse, refuse unnecessary antibiotics, beg to be given food and drink or be tempted to get an epidural. The midwives at Mountain Midwifery are educated, certified and experienced; they are kind, patient and wise. They respect my birth plan and base their decisions on my scenario alone. Tracy Ryan, the center’s founder, has helped birth over 500 babies. I feel safe there. I trust those midwives to make the right decision, whether it’s time to push, time to head to the hospital for a c-section or time to wait.

Of course, as some people like to comment: “Sure, I had a birth plan, too. . .and then it all went out the window.” Yep, I know everything could change in an instant. I could “risk-out”. There are several situations where the birth center immediately defers to a hospital–meconium in the amniotic fluid is one example. And I’m trying to prepare for that. Because something else they teach you at Mountain Midwifery is the idea of acceptance. Everyone should have a birth plan. But as my body “transports a soul from one dimension to another,” (as described by my husband), it may have other ideas. All I can do is honor the process and hope to be as present as possible.

When I first saw the difference in the reaction of my pregnancy by someone who has children and someone who doesn’t have children. (Month Three)

When we knew for sure, the name of our baby girl. (Month Three)

When I learned how the baby breathes amniotic fluid throughout gestation and then, through some miracle of a valve and a heart and a couple lungs, can breathe air upon entering this world. (Month Four)

When I started missing the alcohol. (Month Five)

When my jeans didn’t fit anymore. (Month Six)

When people finally knew I was pregnant and not just fat, so I could stop touching my stomach in the elevator. (Month Six)

When Michael asked me how often the baby kicked and I said:so often, I dont even notice. (Month Six)

When I swear, I could actually feel my uterus expanding. (Month Seven)

When laughter through tears became the only kind of laughter I could produce. (Month Seven)

When I began peeing more than 10 times a day. (Month Eight)

When I realized what a big deal this is. (Just about every day)

When I heard the actual **number** of times I’d be changing a diaper per day. (Month Eight)

When I began looking at the clock in the bathroom and wishing it was morning so I didn’t have to go back to bed, where comfort constantly eluded me. (Month Eight)

When I was in line at Best Buy Customer Service and a man wished me luck and when I asked why, he identified himself as an OB and said “that baby’s coming out soon”. (The evening my labor began)

In the early days of my pregnancy, I read Loving Frank, historical fiction which details the affair between architect Frank Lloyd Wright and Mamah Borthwick, a feminist at the turn of the century. It was magnificent. Everything I devour. A story with some truth. Real people from the past. Womanhood. Choices. Tragedy. Bits of my local Boulder. But most of all, it was a follow up feminist meets motherhood tale.

Growing up, I always thought I would be a Mom. Wasn’t that what women did? At the time, there were no childless couples in my small world. Kate Chopin’s The Awakening stirred my senses a bit in college. The heroine had children, but she dared to be as interested in her own passions as she was in them, and that was considered a scandal. Her conclusion was important. She said: I would die for my children, but I would not give my life for my children. This seemed to say that it was possible to have kids and maintain your self, too. I ran that by my Mom once as we were driving along I-80. She agreed wholeheartedly. And I was relieved.

As I evolved through my 20s, I always felt that feminism didn’t really work for me–couldn’t I be a good Mom AND my own person (with possibly a career) too? Why did feminism have to bash motherhood and why did motherhood have to bash feminism? Why was everyone so extreme? But this was the 90s, when a career just seemed like a good idea. I had yet to evolve.

From there, I began to settle into life, becoming enthralled with various pursuits–triathlons, non-profit volunteerism, book clubs, local feminism history, my own business and Buddhism.  I became so interested in life, that I realized I would fill it up–even without kids. It was strange to consider, but the notion eventually sounded normal instead of neanderthal. I met people without kids. And I liked them. I hadn’t made any decisions, but I realized that I had a choice. My mother, afraid to pressure me, encouraged me to do what was right for me. “Maybe you guys won’t have kids. That’s fine, too.”

Then we left the country. The idea of kids hovered overhead, sometimes part of the smog we inevitably breathed, other times, the very stars we wished we could see. We talked endlessly about future plans because that’s what you do in the Peace Corps. Would we live in DC and work for the campaigns? Teach English in Korea? Spend time in India? Move back into our house on Emerson?

It was such a paradox. We KNEW we wanted kids, but they were always the leftover screw after you thought you’d successfully put together the $99 entertainment center from Target. Where did they fit? But at that time, any ideas about home were far too surreal for concrete plans and we knew nothing could really happen until we were within a two mile radius of a Walgreens anyway. We’d successfully put it off again.

But Wanderlust or Bust opened portals to worlds we’d never even pondered. And although deep down, I knew the answer, there was a shift in my thought pattern that took me from “generally agreeable” to “ready”.

At first, I thought it was when a sick, sixteen month old Ugandan baby called Innocent fell asleep against my chest when we were living in a thatch-roof hut in West-Central UgandaLake Nkuruba teaching daily Social Studies classes and evening computer classes to orphans. But that’s not right. It was a week or so later, when we visited Sarah Burke, a Peace Corps volunteer. She was young, with naturally curly blonde hair, a subscription to Sun and a very optimistic aura. I was taking in her modest African bedroom–you know, the predictable photo of girlfriends gathered on the beach, demonstrating their loyalty through linked arms and tilted head smiles. And instead of reminding me of my own college memories, I instinctively thought: I hope our daughter one day has a bulletin board filled with the celebration of good friends and good times. I was thinking about a daughter I would one day have. I was instinctively projecting my own hopes onto someone other than myself. And I wasn’t pregnant.

That was the hour I first believed. The hour I first knew for sure, that I wanted to create a new life. Creation, no matter what you’re working with, is what life’s all about anyway. Right Brent?

Recently, when on the topic of buffets (I have no idea) with a couple friends, we learned that a friend of theirs had recently seen Mike Shanahan at Souper Salad. This news was disturbing. I’ll even call it disappointing.

Why is it that I cared? Why is it that I have such disdain for the all-American “buffet”? Well, let’s see. Germs and obesity are at the top of the list. I could go on. But I happened to have written a blog about buffets awhile back. And I think there’s a little connection. . .

When I was young,  a day at Southpark Mall with my Mom meant Foxmoor, Benetton and if we were feeling luxurious–a little Mark Henri. A paper-wrapped pixie from Fannie May was sugarcoated elegance and Orange Julius seemed to be the early version of a Starbucks Frappucino. Lunch was another important decision. While Chinese made me feel international and Riverside Cafe seemed intellectual beyond my years, when I was no more than ten, when I still had hair down to my butt, a trip to Bishops, the buffet, the one where blue-haired ladies with big pocketbooks bragged about the BookIt accomplishments of their grandchildren, was like attending a Broadway Show. And I guess I’ve just figured out why.

It was always dark–the clang of chatter and silverware mysteriously emerging from its shadowed maze of swiftly moving chefs and stainless steel surfaces. The neatly wrapped marshmallow salads and compact bowls of cole-slaw, each screaming “pick me!”, rested in rows before my empty tray. And the chocolate-shaving-topped-cream-pie, saran-wrapped to perfection without a smudge or smear in sight, seemed like a special delivery. At Bishops, I could see everything, inspecting for secretly inserted onions or nuts, before making a commitment. From its own pure white china plate, my gravy didn’t know how to get near my bread and my corn could never creep into my tapioca pudding.  While some of these preference speak to the early stages of my neuroticism, Bishops buffet was plainly and simply about endless variety and protection of the commitment-phobic. And especially at ten, when jello flavor was a high priority,  Bishops Buffet empowered me.

During our time in Bulgaria, right after we were asked about our favorite Bulgarian food, the subject of American food would arise. After we denied that McDonald’s hamburgers were our national dish, they wanted to know, if not fast food, what DID we eat? Well, um, usually Indian, Mexican, Thai, Japanese or Italian, which  left us with no answer at all. When we considered holiday meals, mashed potatoes came quickly to mind, but what else? Barbeque ribs seemed American, but very regional. What about hot dogs? Macaroni and cheese? We eventually decided that the beauty of America is the variety–that because of our many immigrant ingredients, you could find endless ethnic culinary possibilities on any major metropolitan avenue.

As we travel, we notice how little tolerance we have for the same song, the same shirt or the same sandwich. It’s no wonder because America is the ultimate buffet. Our nation, like so many others, still embodies centuries-old traditions. We just have so darn many of them. And if our immigrants still cook, bake and celebrate with their own native traditions from Ireland, Germany, Mexico or Italy, all the better.

Bishops is long gone from Southpark Mall, but I guess we need not worry, ‘cuz Souper Salad is all the rage now. Even for Denver’s millionaires.