birth power round 1

Land of Rampant Reproduction

When I lived in Utah, the land of rampant reproduction, I got tired of telling and hearing birthing stories with my female friends. It seemed a substitute for substance. Talking about a book or piece of art or science was like a lust or hunger I couldn't satisfy with anyone locally.

The birthing experience was monumental for me, as it for many women. I mark significant changes in my life from those two one-day events. Rejecting the urge to tell the story because those overly-domesticated young women irritated me is just stupid. It's a story worth telling.

The first significant change was the loss of modesty. I don't mean I ran laboring down the hospital hallway naked. (I was in labor, forchristsake, who could run?)

Here's the story: Married for a whole year, I was feeling pressure to procreate in the Mormon-saturated city of Provo, so we stopped using the frowned-upon birth control. I come from a fecund line of women, so it took less than three months: I was pregnant by 19. I had always wanted children–pious pressure or not–so I was very happy to have conceived.

I was also over 2,200 miles away from family, specifically from my mother. All the prodding and poking that goes on with pregnancy checkups began to chip away at my temple-garment-clad modesty. I had no one there to whine to, which was good, though I missed having anyone to share the joys and indignities of obstetrics. In spite of the normal nausea, it was a great pregnancy. I was one of those obnoxious women who "glowed."

I repeat, it was 1979.

I woke up at 7am on Sunday, February 25th, 1979. As I lay in my waterbed (see 1979 reference) I felt leakage which I was sure was the next stage of pregnancy humiliation: incontinence. Great. My baby had been due three days earlier and I was impatient; the week before I'd shoveled snow and did some light jogging. I got up to pee before I, ironically, flooded the bed and realized that the cervical plug (colloquially: bloody show) had come out. I called my mother on Long Island and told her she was going to become a grandmother that day. I showered, then sat down to a big pancake breakfast, against prevailing medical advice. I was about to do some damned hard work and I thought having some nutrients in me would help. I was right. And I was pretty sure I wouldn't throw up but that wasn't going to be my cleanup problem.

You don't know what to expect, right? I believed I had a high pain tolerance but who knew how much pain I could bear? Still, I was determined to do this naturally. The hospital had a new birthing room. So new that they hadn't established policies and procedures. That becomes significant later. My doctor was an old codger but he'd gone along with my natural childbirth notions, in spite of his skepticism. I was laboring in the birthing room and, yes, I was scared. There was no way for me to have known that what was coming was a relatively short first labor (7-1/2 hours), but most of it hard. I was doing my Lamaze concentrating and breathing but every once in a while, I thrashed from the pain. Dave was completely out of his element, just trying to stay in the room...which was part of the deal: you get to enjoy conception, you get to be there for delivery. End of discussion.

Not knowing I was in transition (almost completely dilated), the birthing room nurse suggested a shot of Demerol and I said yes in a haze of pain. (It hit me after the whole thing was over, sitting on side of the bed, famished, with a chocolate chip cookie in my hand.) Then she checked and said the baby's heart rate was elevated and that I'd need to go to a regular delivery room. They put me in a wheelchair.

Let me repeat that.

They folded up my late-labor, contraction-occupied body and sat me in a wheelchair. 

Holy shit. Policy and procedures would remedy this in the future.

They wheeled me down to labor and delivery and into a standard bed when a more experienced nurse said, "This is normal head compression–do you want to deliver here or go back to the birthing room?" "Birthing room," I managed to say and here's where modesty and I part ways–pretty much forever. As I'm being wheeled on a gurney from one end of the ward to another, there is only a sheet between my splayed legs and the busy hallway. A sheet and my urge to push. So there I am, moving down the hall and I could give a shit less if there was no sheet. I'm getting this baby out of me, propriety be damned.

Back in the birthing room, the now irritated nurse had just finished changing those sheets. Well, that was a waste, wasn't it? Another nurse tells me that I need to stop pushing because the doctor wasn't there yet. Well, you'd better get your catcher's mitt on honey, I thought, because I have no more control over this than I do the tide. The doctor showed up in the nick of time ready to do the episiotomy (an incision in the perineum and vagina to allow for an easier birth and ostensibly less tearing). I reminded him that I wanted to try and do this without the episiotomy because it would mean one less thing to heal up from post-partum. He skeptically agreed to coach me through the pushing and he did. The greatest relief I had ever known was pushing that baby's head out of me (I had nothing but the smallest tear that healed up in less than a week, as a bonus).

I come from a family of all girls. My father's clear and obvious wish was for a son. Somehow I knew I would surely have a daughter. When the baby was born and the doctor said it was a boy, I was surprised and delighted. My parents were over the moon. Recognizing their patriarchal bullshit preference did not reduce my joy one iota. I had a perfect 6-1/2 lb baby boy. My cup overflowed. Figuratively. The real overflow would come in three days when the Niagra Falls of milk came in.

I was allowed to leave the hospital at 10 pm that night. I'd been there for 10 or 11 hours. This is where the policies or procedures would also change. I was happy to go home and especially happy for the incredibly thrifty hospital bill but it would be ages before I got a full night's sleep, I could have used one that night.

In the middle of that first night I tiptoed over to my sleeping newborn. I remember that he was tiny, blue terrycloth-clad and lit by moonlight. I was awed and somewhat mystified by his being. I gently poked him to make sure he was real. I wondered if all mothers looked at their newborn in this surreal light. I had that clichéd but true feeling: How could I ever have another child? My heart would burst from doubling this amount of love.

when the wild thing stole my heart

I went to see Where the Wild Things Are for my birthday. With a little trepidation, of course. If you love a book dearly and know it damn near by heart, you feel protective of the story. Right or wrong, it is woven into your life and there is a wonky sense of ownership.

Simply put, the movie was wonderful. Those that criticized the pace as slow have spent too much time in the world of Transformers. This is a story. A story you tell your children as they drift off to sleep. The creation of Max's backstory was surprisingly illuminating and seamless. His behavior even more dimensional with those layers.

Among the more wonderful aspects was keeping the truth of Sendak's non-Manichean world. Love is mixed with fear is mixed with violence. When the monsters pile up to sleep it is warm and comforting and dangerous for Max. When he urges the dirt clod fight it is fun and exciting and hurtful. But the undercurrent remains an unsentimental love.

And this gem: Max's costume becomes filthier and filthier throughout the adventure. I can't express how delightful that is.

It is a reminder to me of my lifelong fear of and fascination with "rough-housing." God, that expression sounds dated. But here is the way it went: wrestling and fun-fighting started out with laughter and always ended with tears. With adults or just children. I began to fear chaotic energy because it was associated anger and hurt. I am sorry that I don't enjoy the wild rumpus enough.

That said, the story shook the kaleidoscope of maternal memories more profoundly. I'm sure I'm not alone in this. Nonetheless, that was my Wild Thing. My own boy. Swirling in a world of fear and love and anger. And guilt and sweetness. So clear a snapshot of the world from his point of view. The blur of love and anguish from that time came back into brilliant, harsh focus. It was overwhelming. Overwhelming.

So when a towering muppet with James Gandolfini's voice begins to cry, it was the last straw: I cried my fool head off in a public place. Thank god movie theaters are dark.

i'd like some pants to match that hairshirt, please

The girl-child has been home for a week. What a delight it is to have her home. I heard someone use the phrase "an embarrassment of riches" the other day. I know it has negative connotations of excess and materialism but the expression reminds me of how I feel about my family.

Anyway, having her around brings to mind many a silly anecdote from her childhood. When she and her older brother were young and would squabble, as siblings do, I would sometimes lose patience, as parents do, and yell at them,

"If you two don't stop bickering this minute, I'm going to drive down the courthouse and change your names to Buford and Eunice."

The Yankee sarcasm was lost on them but they knew that I was rounding the patience bend, so they usually took a break from battle.

Years later, my sweet daughter (hands down, the more compliant of the two) told me that she always thought that I was saying,

"I'm going to change your names to Buford and Anus."

She thought I was going to rename her Anus. Who would threaten to rename her offspring after a bodily orifice as punishment? Evidently, the woman who writes this blog, that's who. Me, Epiphagina.

parenting hairshirts and other timeless fashions

My friend Nicki and her husband Andrew, write this blog about raising Hazel, their toddling offspring. Lots of good pictures and quirky stuff. Nothing syrupy or group-huggy. Recently she posted this entry about [continued] evidence of their bad parenting. A modern, self-inflicted stockade, this public blogging thing.

When I learned to embrace other people's misconceptions, I became a much happier parent. Too bad that happened after the kids were grown.

Not to be outdone in the category of shitty parental reputations, here is my comment to her post:

When we sent our 15-year old daughter to Italy as an exchange student, we gave her money specifically to buy a heavy coat there—the luggage weight limits were strict and she didn't have enough room in her suitcase.

She lost her credit cards on the first stopover.

A week or so later, an AFS representative calls and scolds me for dumping my little matchgirl-child in a foreign country without money or adequate outerwear. After I stopped laughing (oh, they gave me such a stern look over the phone) and explained, I called my daughter and we roared—the idea of people thinking I wasn't overprotective was hilarious.

Then I begged her, Honey please go out a buy a coat today before they start interviewing foster parents here for your return, okay?

And for godsake, child, stop using socks for mittens.

someone needs to undo the baby

Sometimes you see something and it strikes you as funny but you wonder if your need for humor is clouding your objectivity. So you go back later and damn, if it doesn't still make you laugh:

you didn't ask but here it is anyway

EPIPHENITA'S SUGGESTIONS FOR RAISING HEALTHY CHILDREN:
Communication

• Don't use baby talk. They're children, not morons.
• Get off the fucking cellphone and listen to them.
• Teach them not to whine by not paying attention until they speak without puling. Jesuschrist, I could smack the shit out of several of my coworkers' parents for giving their kids attention for whining. It's just a bad, bad habit.
• Accept that they will disagree with you. Insist that they learn to voice disagreements civilly. Which means they can tell you that you are being unfair but they can't tell you to go fuck yourself.
• After they are given a chance to communicate their objections and after you really think about what they have said, make a motherfucking decision and get on with it. It's your job. Don't continue to piss around about your decision. You will come across like the limpdick that you are.
• Don't curse around them as much I do here. But if you slip, explain that you can drive and they can't. Ditto for cursing until they learn the time-honored rules of when not to curse. (Btw, it's never "cussing." No self-respecting foulmouth calls it "cussing." For fucksake.)

Discipline

• Physical punishment is never really justifiable. It is an indicator that you've run out of ideas, not that you're doing the work of God. Resist the urge to smack them. It's not effective and sends a terrible message.
• That said, if you run out of patience and ideas and swat little Trixie's bottom, calm down and forgive yourself. She learned you have a breaking point, she will survive. If, however, you run out a patience, pick her up and consider throwing Trixie across the room: set her down and get some professional help. Immediately.
• Not hitting is not the equivalent of not disciplining. You are the goddamn parent. Stop sniveling and asking your children if it's okay that you do your job.
  
• When you take them out of the house, teach them to behave. They may be the center of your world but they need to learn that they are not the center of your fellow diners, shoppers or pedestrians' world. Curb your precious.
• If you must be on the phone, or otherwise occupied, expect them to entertain themselves without interrupting you. (Use your common sense. A 3-yr old might only be able to play quietly for 5 minutes without needing you. A 6-yr old might be able to occupy himself for 15 minutes or more.)
  
• Teach them that feeling bad for hitting their sibling with a lamp is the appropriate response. They can learn to be sorry for something without you turning guilt into some evil tool of manipulation. (My children feel I have work yet to do on this one. After all I've done for them.)
• Say you're sorry when you fuck up. But don't grovel. They don't want that much power over you.

Learning

• Turn off the TV, computer and video games REGULARLY.
• Make them play outside. Really, not virtually.
• Read to them. Make books the prize.
  
• Sing to them. They don't give a shit if your voice is scratchy and flat.
• Teach them. Science, politics, art. Expose them to ideas. Take them to experience shit firsthand: museums, zoos, government houses, industrial kitchens, etc.
• If you're so disposed, get a pet or plant a garden with them.
  
• Don't think you need religion to teach them about spirituality and ethics.
• Teach them that they are a part of a larger community. They are self-centered because that's their survival skill. It is up to us to widen their view.
  
• When they start school, impress upon them that being a student is their job. Treat their job with as much respect and high expectations that you should have for your own.
• Give them opportunities for creative play. The hackneyed example holds true: an empty appliance box may be a much better gift than a new dvd.
• Let them learn about problem solving. This means that you must back out of the picture often while they struggle.

Stereotyping

• Stop gushing over how delicate, pretty and tiny your daughter is and focus on her intelligence, strength, talents and accomplishments.
• Balance out what your son gets about "being manly" by praising his nurturing (sorry, it's a gaggy word but that's what I have) behavior. We may even get some healthy fathering out of this one.

Nutrition

• Feed them sanely. Occasionally the fast food siren song is too strong to resist. Once in a great while (I would suggest once a month is too much) go ahead and put some extruded nugget food in front of them. But for the most part, balance out their diets with as little processed, over-sugared, fat-laden food as you can. You don't have to mill your own organic rice flour, just make sure they get the four food groups as simply as possible.
• Don't allow them to become picky, whiny eaters. For the love of god, don't let them turn their noses up at vegetables while they slurp down kool-aid and eat french fries. This is your job. They will learn to enjoy healthy foods if you don't give them sugary-fat crap alternatives. And they will eat if they're hungry.

General

• Assume they will not, and should not, lead the life you wished you'd lived.
• Don't try to undo every mistake you feel your parents made. Fate will kick your ass.
• Remember that your goal is to produce an independent, secure, whole adult. Which means your goal is to make your job obsolete. Knock your ego out of the way.
  
• Laugh a lot. And if you're a hater like me, laugh hard at yourself in addition to laughing at others.
  
• Stop trying to analyze and codify (read justify) every behavior. Human beings are not that linear. Junior may be a little shit today because he woke up that way, not because he ate a fucking cookie yesterday or because his dignity was bruised when he wasn't allowed to throw his classmate off the monkey bars.
• Most of all, tell them that you think they hung the moon; that they are wonderful. Hug them. Even when they stink. Especially when they stink. Make sure they know, no matter what, that your love for them is not contingent upon anything they do or don't do (you may like them better if they do what you want, but obedience can not be the deciding factor in your love or they will become stunted little misfits).
  
  Seriously. This may be the only part that makes a difference. Children survive horrible situations intact because someone (parent, grandparent, aunt, etc.) loved them unconditionally.

Unloading all my sage advice would be cathartic, vindicating and self-righteous if I hadn't fucked up so much along the way. My children, however, seem to have weathered my failings without too many scars. In the land of realistic expectations, that screams success to me.