When I posted my rant about wishy-washy birth partners the other day, the call to arms I so cleverly titled "This One's For the Fellas", I never dreamed that 100+ people would read it. I imagined a few would skim it and the husband hate mail would begin piling in, but never 100-something sets of eyeballs on my frustrated words.
So far so good on the husband hate mail. I'll give it time. And, no, that's not an invitation. I love you guys, really. Just not as much when you're being a pain in the behind.
On my Facebook wall, where I originally posted this, I explained to my friends that I'd written "This One's For the Fellas" over a year ago when I'd had the displeasure of meeting a couple of particularly unsupportive husbands. One man completely belittled his wife (and, frankly, myself) in public and then left abruptly in the middle of our interview, leaving her to blush and apologize for him when she needed an apology from him more than I did. Luckily, for as many clueless, borderline abusive relationships I've come across in my life and in my work as a doula, I've been blessed to know so many really connected couples and birth partners who go above and beyond. It's amazing to see this first-hand, but really a wake-up call to me when I come across a crumbling situation.
As a doula, I don't have a psychology degree. I'm not qualified to help these families in any way other than preparing themselves for birth. But I still see it. The very primal essence of birth brings all of these emotions to the surface without any effort. If there's a rift in your marriage, I probably will get a good glimpse at it. If you have fear or scars from past abuse, I can guess they exist based on how you bring your baby into the world. Maybe it's science or something else explainable, but I prefer to think it's intuition and knowing after watching a hundred families interact. Or not interact.
We are a hopelessly intricate tapestry woven with the bitter threads of daddy issues and doubts and insecurities. Each one of us are beautiful and tragic works of art.
I cannot fix a lifetime of problems in a few short months. But I can hold witness to it. I can say, yes, I see it. Yes, it happened. You aren't crazy.
I do not expect to right the wrongs of a thousand inattentive partners in a few short paragraphs. On the other hand, I do not wish to rile up all of the volatile pregnant women, either. But this matters, what you are doing as a unit. You are creating a new person who will be a confusing, glorious jumble of threads from you and your partner. This baby deserves your very best, not only for him or her, but also for your relationship.
Families leave me short weeks after baby arrives, and our communications usually go the way of the buffalo. But I always wonder what becomes of the struggling partners after our silence is established. What becomes of the wriggling child I watched gulp its first breath of being? Is this as good as it gets, this outpouring of love and joy at the birth of this child?
I hope not.
Saturday, January 4, 2014
Thursday, January 2, 2014
This One's For the Fellas
Yeah, you heard me, guys..... And, when I say fellas, this isn't to exclude the ladies, should you be in a same-sex relationship. If you're in a relationship and not the one physically growing a human being, I'm talking to YOU. Filter off, and quite possibly, gloves off. I'm blaming this a wee bit on not being topped-off in the sleep department, but maybe just a little because I've seen a recurring theme over and over (which is what a recurring theme is, I guess). And, frankly, for you thrifty gentlemen, I think you could practically put me out of a job if you'd just pay attention and figure out how to put into practice what I'm about to say.
Since when did giving birth to a baby become strictly women's work? Because it involves extreme focus around your old lady's hoo-hah and bodily fluids? It's only okay to be interested in those things when something is entering, not exiting? Why should the weight of this experience rest on your babymama's shoulders? Why is she the one reading the books and scouring the Interwebs for every tidbit of pregnancy and birth-related info to ever be published?
"Whatever makes you happy!" is the knee-jerk (and only appropriate) response for when she asks you what color to paint the nursery or what she wants to eat for dinner, NOT for when she is asking what your opinion is on such hot-button topics as circumcision or immunizations.
What you're not getting is that this birth will affect your family and your family's family forever, meaning, like, a really long time. Your woman needs you to take some interest in what's going to be going on because she may not be 100% wanting to make all of these decisions in, you know, the minute she has to rest in between waves of the most intense discomfort she will likely ever experience. When you have no idea what the birth process looks like or what that machine over there does and why these people in Haz-Mat suits are swooping in like a scene from E.T., you are along for the ride, which is exactly what you've primed yourself for.
Your baby will have to live with his or her birth experience for the rest of their life. Your partner will live with the scars or badges of honor from this birth for the rest of her life. Let's face it, she may dump you somewhere along the road, but a child is forever, for all three of you. Whether you care about making this experience awesome for your partner, you should care for your little one. Protection of your baby doesn't begin the second you walk into your house. Know what typical birth looks like. Know what questions could come up in the course of a birth. You know that old saying -- "Failure to plan is a plan for failure." Some couples luck out just rolling the dice and showing up at the hospital with no clue, but those people also should buy a lotto ticket.
Also, don't make the assumption that picking a hospital full of all of the latest and greatest technology means that all will go according to [your woman's] plan. Statistics show that all the technology under the sun isn't improving birth outcomes. Oh, and your choice to go with Dr. Amazing doesn't assure that you will be transported on a fluffy little cloud from "pregnant" to "parents".
And, psssssh. Is this about blood? Most of us have an aversion to blood. And other things. If given the choice, I'd say your woman probably would choose to sit in the Waiting Room and let you handle this by yourself. Man up! I know you can! There are plenty of places you can sit and participate with this birth process that doesn't involve a front-row-center eyeful of the nitty gritty. Just pretend the doctors or midwives are working on your wife's carburetor. A carburetor with a baby stuck inside. I'm sure that'll help. But even if it doesn't, there are ways around it.... and I promise she won't let you forget it if you leave her to go it alone.
As a doula, I'm often hired because women don't feel the confidence in their partners to know what in the world is happening. And while I'm thrilled to support women and families who need it, I'd also be ecstatic if doulas were extinct like.... Sasquatch? Something that's extinct? I don't know... because partners were setting aside a little time to pick up a book or even minimally tune into that weekly childbirth class they've been forced into for the next month.
Am I ranting? Totally... but it is because I see your glazed-over expressions lock into place when the word "birth" is uttered in a sentence. I hear the way her voice raises a couple octaves every time you shrug your shoulders when she's looking for input on your child's birth plan. "That's just the way he is." They tell me, as if that makes it all okey-dokey. Odds are, if you're married, you had more opinions about your wedding.... And I'm pretty sure you spent longer putting together your bracket for March Madness, so why the complacency here? If I could take you by the shoulders and shake you for a couple seconds, I would. Care about this, goshdarnitall! I know you've got it in you.
I know you've got some brains in your noggin--that's why you chose your amazing partner. Why not use your powers for good instead of meh? Start by thinking of ways you can become more involved: Challenging yourself to five minutes of reading something birthy each day; discussing specifics surrounding the event of the year (your baby's birth day) with your lady; really shock her by putting together ideas for your birth plan; encourage her to practice her relaxation or all those silly positive sayings you usually make fun of her for.
Guys (and non-guy counterparts), you've GOT this.
Since when did giving birth to a baby become strictly women's work? Because it involves extreme focus around your old lady's hoo-hah and bodily fluids? It's only okay to be interested in those things when something is entering, not exiting? Why should the weight of this experience rest on your babymama's shoulders? Why is she the one reading the books and scouring the Interwebs for every tidbit of pregnancy and birth-related info to ever be published?
"Whatever makes you happy!" is the knee-jerk (and only appropriate) response for when she asks you what color to paint the nursery or what she wants to eat for dinner, NOT for when she is asking what your opinion is on such hot-button topics as circumcision or immunizations.
What you're not getting is that this birth will affect your family and your family's family forever, meaning, like, a really long time. Your woman needs you to take some interest in what's going to be going on because she may not be 100% wanting to make all of these decisions in, you know, the minute she has to rest in between waves of the most intense discomfort she will likely ever experience. When you have no idea what the birth process looks like or what that machine over there does and why these people in Haz-Mat suits are swooping in like a scene from E.T., you are along for the ride, which is exactly what you've primed yourself for.
Your baby will have to live with his or her birth experience for the rest of their life. Your partner will live with the scars or badges of honor from this birth for the rest of her life. Let's face it, she may dump you somewhere along the road, but a child is forever, for all three of you. Whether you care about making this experience awesome for your partner, you should care for your little one. Protection of your baby doesn't begin the second you walk into your house. Know what typical birth looks like. Know what questions could come up in the course of a birth. You know that old saying -- "Failure to plan is a plan for failure." Some couples luck out just rolling the dice and showing up at the hospital with no clue, but those people also should buy a lotto ticket.
Also, don't make the assumption that picking a hospital full of all of the latest and greatest technology means that all will go according to [your woman's] plan. Statistics show that all the technology under the sun isn't improving birth outcomes. Oh, and your choice to go with Dr. Amazing doesn't assure that you will be transported on a fluffy little cloud from "pregnant" to "parents".
And, psssssh. Is this about blood? Most of us have an aversion to blood. And other things. If given the choice, I'd say your woman probably would choose to sit in the Waiting Room and let you handle this by yourself. Man up! I know you can! There are plenty of places you can sit and participate with this birth process that doesn't involve a front-row-center eyeful of the nitty gritty. Just pretend the doctors or midwives are working on your wife's carburetor. A carburetor with a baby stuck inside. I'm sure that'll help. But even if it doesn't, there are ways around it.... and I promise she won't let you forget it if you leave her to go it alone.
As a doula, I'm often hired because women don't feel the confidence in their partners to know what in the world is happening. And while I'm thrilled to support women and families who need it, I'd also be ecstatic if doulas were extinct like.... Sasquatch? Something that's extinct? I don't know... because partners were setting aside a little time to pick up a book or even minimally tune into that weekly childbirth class they've been forced into for the next month.
Am I ranting? Totally... but it is because I see your glazed-over expressions lock into place when the word "birth" is uttered in a sentence. I hear the way her voice raises a couple octaves every time you shrug your shoulders when she's looking for input on your child's birth plan. "That's just the way he is." They tell me, as if that makes it all okey-dokey. Odds are, if you're married, you had more opinions about your wedding.... And I'm pretty sure you spent longer putting together your bracket for March Madness, so why the complacency here? If I could take you by the shoulders and shake you for a couple seconds, I would. Care about this, goshdarnitall! I know you've got it in you.
I know you've got some brains in your noggin--that's why you chose your amazing partner. Why not use your powers for good instead of meh? Start by thinking of ways you can become more involved: Challenging yourself to five minutes of reading something birthy each day; discussing specifics surrounding the event of the year (your baby's birth day) with your lady; really shock her by putting together ideas for your birth plan; encourage her to practice her relaxation or all those silly positive sayings you usually make fun of her for.
Guys (and non-guy counterparts), you've GOT this.
Wednesday, January 1, 2014
2013: The Best of My Worst, The Worst of My Best
I'm in my pajamas on New Year's Eve.
Not that there's anything wrong with that, of course. Say what you will, but pajamas make nearly almost everything better. Even Wal-Mart. Pretend you don't agree--I won't believe you.
My stomach is protesting for the fourth day in a row. I'm afraid to eat the salad with Italian dressing I'm craving knowing salad is never awesome the second time around, knowing I hold no interest in becoming a human Salad Shooter.
A pain throbs between my eye sockets and the base of my skull. I've seen movies like this, where a person's head splits in two, revealing the sparking, beeping innards of the robot menace within. I'm hoping there's a robot menace within, at least, because I have a busy weekend ahead and the human menace (me) doesn't want to deal with the holiday clean-up that this dumb virus has delayed.
It's probably dehydration. Darn.
Two Advil and a lot of water later and the headache's not getting better, so I pull on my sleep mask while Mr. Ohboy watches Moonshiners. Seriously, Moonshiners. I can't get behind this show, even with a main character, a full-grown adult named Tickle. No. With the twangy lullaby of sweaty gentlemen wearing overalls and no t-shirts, I'm asleep by 8:30p.m.
An hour later and the unofficial neighborhood fireworks wake me up. I proceed to text my friend Allison, who always seems to get the "Seriously? Fireworks?" texts from me and I don't know why, other than to also stress her out because now she owns a horse who may or may not appreciate said fireworks. We quickly established that my age bracket is sliding closer to that of a Medicare recipient than its rightful place of 35. (The fireworks and random machine gun firing awoke me again just after midnight. Happy New Year! Huzzah!)
On New Year's Eve I like to write a blog post reflecting on the past year. It's not happening tonight. The pressure of my pillows against my head and my back make me feel nauseated and sore. I'm in a bad mood. I'm uncomfortable from the tippy-top of my head to the ends of my toes. I feel sorry for myself, which makes me cry. Sad me is sad.
Not that there's anything wrong with that, of course. Say what you will, but pajamas make nearly almost everything better. Even Wal-Mart. Pretend you don't agree--I won't believe you.
My stomach is protesting for the fourth day in a row. I'm afraid to eat the salad with Italian dressing I'm craving knowing salad is never awesome the second time around, knowing I hold no interest in becoming a human Salad Shooter.
A pain throbs between my eye sockets and the base of my skull. I've seen movies like this, where a person's head splits in two, revealing the sparking, beeping innards of the robot menace within. I'm hoping there's a robot menace within, at least, because I have a busy weekend ahead and the human menace (me) doesn't want to deal with the holiday clean-up that this dumb virus has delayed.
It's probably dehydration. Darn.
Two Advil and a lot of water later and the headache's not getting better, so I pull on my sleep mask while Mr. Ohboy watches Moonshiners. Seriously, Moonshiners. I can't get behind this show, even with a main character, a full-grown adult named Tickle. No. With the twangy lullaby of sweaty gentlemen wearing overalls and no t-shirts, I'm asleep by 8:30p.m.
An hour later and the unofficial neighborhood fireworks wake me up. I proceed to text my friend Allison, who always seems to get the "Seriously? Fireworks?" texts from me and I don't know why, other than to also stress her out because now she owns a horse who may or may not appreciate said fireworks. We quickly established that my age bracket is sliding closer to that of a Medicare recipient than its rightful place of 35. (The fireworks and random machine gun firing awoke me again just after midnight. Happy New Year! Huzzah!)
On New Year's Eve I like to write a blog post reflecting on the past year. It's not happening tonight. The pressure of my pillows against my head and my back make me feel nauseated and sore. I'm in a bad mood. I'm uncomfortable from the tippy-top of my head to the ends of my toes. I feel sorry for myself, which makes me cry. Sad me is sad.
My guitar hangs from a peg on my bedroom wall. I'm mediocre at so many things, but I especially struggle with the guitar. While my youngest was still in the womb, I took lessons with a little old Irish guy at a local music shop that has since gone out of business. In the hands of my teacher, my guitar sang like a heartbroken lover or a carefree dancer. In my stuttering hands, my guitar hesitates and falters. Practice makes things perfect, usually, but I haven't been able to bring myself to practice in a couple of years. Last night, so lost for something to do, I pulled the guitar down and tuned it. I thumbed through a few easy melodies, single notes, no chords. As I pick away at a phrase, my baby boy, now four years old, walks in and watched me.
"What are you doing?" He asked, sucking in his lower lip beneath his front teeth.
"Do you remember when I used to play guitar when you were in my tummy?"
"Yes." He says. I don't know if he really remembers, but I want to believe it's true. That even my imperfection means something to him. Even the best of my worst (or the worst of my best) tickles his memory of a time before.
I've managed a lot of good things in 2013. I've written two novels and a short story, all of which I hope to edit and do something with in 2014. I've randomly become a runner and completed my first race, a 10K (6.2 miles) in December. All good things, but I feel guilty. In pursuit of any of my goals I've been more withdrawn from friends and family and lately I've been feeling like I'm the reason why certain of my kids struggle in school or my house isn't very clean.
At the moment, all that I accomplished in 2013 matters little to anyone else, even my family. My kids don't care that I can run a mile in 11 minutes or that I'd like to try to run the equivalent of a half marathon in one outing before 2014 is through. They don't care what happens to Claire or Liam, or if Lucy figures out why she's in Mitte. They don't care if my horse gets ridden every couple of days or if there's manure in the pastures. Maybe they will care someday, but right now I don't see it.
2013 was kind to me, but I want 2014 to be kind to my entire family. For the blessings that surround me to surround them, as well. I want the best of my worst and the worst of my best to mean more to everyone I love. That's what I want for 2014, not just riding and publishing and miles.
To mean. To matter. To make a difference.
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