February 2nd, 2010
The Scarlet C: A History of Cesarean
Hearing about a cesarean being performed on The Today Show* this morning triggered a lot of traumatic feelings for me. I cannot watch. Just knowing it’s out there is bad enough. Knowing that the Today Show is passing out bad information about the supposed necessity of this operation makes me feel that the odds are forever going to be stacked against healthy birth. It hurts my heart.
One thing I have not addressed so far on our journey toward conception is my very real, all consuming fear that despite my best intentions, this birth could end in another cesarean. This fear paralyzes me. Part of the reason I announced our plans to conceive was because I needed other people to be excited for me. I cannot be excited for myself right now. I’m simply too afraid. I’m trying – desperately – to get excited about conception. I do want another baby, this part I know. But I also know if I never get pregnant again, then I would never be exposed to the risk of another cesarean. It is a 100% avoidable surgery, provided that I avoid pregnancy. When we started talking about conception plans last week, for a few minutes I tried to talk the husband into getting his vasectomy right now (which he has already agreed to do after we’re done having kids). But he wants another baby. And I want another baby. And I’m trying not to let this uterine scar make these decisions for me. But – it’s hard. (<–Boy, if that isn’t the understatement of the year…)
I know that my chances of having a cesarean are dramatically decreased by my education about the birth process. I also know that my chances for a VBAC are incredibly high, especially since I’ve already had one. AND, I also know that I willed my last VBAC into existence by the sheer power of my determination. I can do anything; my VBAC taught me that. I could never let another cesarean happen to me if I had any control over it whatsoever. However, once the doctor cut into my womb, my uterine health was forever changed, and I will never get to experience pregnancy or childbirth with an unscarred vessel.
A friend once told me, as she was trying desperately to find a provider who’d let her have a VBAC, that she felt like she walked around with a Scarlet C on her chest. If we want a vaginal birth after cesarean, many providers won’t touch us. Many providers won’t help us. Many providers treat us like ticking time bombs – or worse – like bad mothers. And even when they do agree to see us, we are often forced or coerced into “mandatory” interventions that other non-cesarean moms can opt out of. It doesn’t matter if it’s illegal and unethical – providers can often talk a mother into anything when they threaten her baby’s well-being. Even when luck is on our side, and we can find a provider willing to treat us like a “normal” mom, we often still carry a fear that makes us envision an exploded uterus and the unhealthiest of outcomes. I believe that anxiety alone is what causes the vast majority of repeat cesareans. How many non-cesarean mothers fear uterine rupture? I’m willing to bet, not too many – even though it is certainly something that can happen to first time mothers.
I carry plenty of emotional baggage from my cesarean, but I also carry scar tissue – The Scarlet C. I hope the Hypnobirthing can help me overcome this fear once and for all, but at this point, I really have no idea what will ease my concerns. I just want to feel…normal, again.
UPDATE: To hear me speak about this subject, listen to Karen Angstadt’s radio show A Labor of Love – episode titled “A Healthy Baby Isn’t All That Matters.”
___________________________________________________*I’m not linking to the Today Show video because I don’t think anybody needs to see it. If you do, you can find it with a Google search.
February 1st, 2010
Sex is More Fun When It’s Funny
Tonight I learned some new things about the natural gender selection method we’re trying out. Instead of just the timing of intercourse, apparently the odds can be swayed by diet, and changing the pH in the woman’s vagina to make it more hospitable to either the XX or XY chromosome sperm – whichever you’re going for.
In my case, we’re trying to get the girl spermies to reach the egg before the boys do. This means I need to do some things to get my pH more on the acidic side, so the fragile male sperm can’t survive, which leaves the female sperm hanging around waiting for ovulation.
One of the things I have to do is cut out coffee (somebody kill me now) and bananas (they are one of my all-time favorite foods.) I don’t fully understand the extent of this diet yet, but if I find out that I have to stop eating chocolate, then I’m calling the whole damn thing off. THAT is a deal breaker, my friends.
Oh, and get this – I also found out that if you’re trying for a girl, the woman shouldn’t orgasm during intercourse. That’s right - they say having an orgasm during intercourse makes the vaginal environment more hospitable toward the male sperm.
So THAT is why I have two boys?!? Because I’m cursed with multiple orgasms? Son-of-a-Mother-Effing-Effer!
Okay, fine. I can skip a few orgasms if it means keeping my “environment” just right for conceiving a girl. So I tell the husband that I’m going to have to take a few for the team, and he’s (can you believe it?!?!) okay with that. He’s trying desperately to hide the excitement on his face as I’m standing over the stove, giving him permission to come without me for the first time in 5.5 years, so I say
“But listen pal! You’re paying me back BIG TIME later in the month!”
And of course, he’s fine with that too. The funny part is that sex has now become an act of simply depositing sperm where we needs it to be. This is quite comical to both of us, but alas, once our DVR’d shows were through, HH leans over to take off my pants so we can get the show on the road. This is a whole new feeling for us, and it’s hard not to laugh at the sheer ridiculousness of having sex for the sole purpose of impregnation. We’ve spent most of our adult lives desperately NOT trying to make a baby.
So we’re getting into it, we’re already halfway laughing anyway, so I say to Hyphenated Husband,
“Hey, think GIRL when you spit it in there.”
And he starts howling with laughter. So now we’re both laughing — still doing it, and laughing. Then he says,
“Now I’m thinking of Kevin Smith”
And of course! I mean, who doesn’t think of Kevin Smith when they’re having sex with their hot wife?! Actually, I bet Kevin Smith would be thrilled to hear that we’re thinking of him during intercourse. He is one kinky motherfucker. Then husband says,
“You saying “Spit” made me remember Kevin Smith calling it a Dick Sneeze.”
And the words “Dick Sneeze” send me into hysterics. So now, we’re having what might be the loudest sex we’ve had in months, but not because both of us are calling to God, but because we’re both cracking up so hard that we (almost) lost our rhythm.
And it was fun. Sure, I had to sacrifice my orgasm, but it was still probably one of the more memorable sex sessions we’ve had in awhile. And I know my orgasm isn’t gone forever – it’s just waiting for a time when I don’t have to worry about my damn vaginal pH levels.
I swear, in all my life, I never thought I’d hear myself utter the words “vaginal pH.”
January 30th, 2010
Adventures in (more) Babymaking
Well… there it is. In case you aren’t on Twitter (seriously, why aren’t you on Twitter?!?) then you may not have heard the news that we are officially trying to have another baby.
First I thought it would be fun not to tell anybody and surprise everyone when I started to show, but two things complicated that plan:
- I need support and advice from my cyber-mommy-friends.
- I have a big ass mouth.
We originally planned to wait until this summer to start, but the more we though about it, we thought that was actually pretty bad timing. That would give us a baby late next spring, and that really wouldn’t work. Unlike most couples I know, we have to worry about both John and I being in school and trying to start our careers, so the children have to be timed perfectly to coincide with our full and complex schedules so we don’t get off track again.
With Julesy, we knew we wanted to have him in May so I could have a summer’s worth of maternity leave before school started again. It worked out perfectly. We conceived in August and he arrived May 16th.
This time, we thought we’d like to have another baby next May, however, I’ll be graduating in May, then hopefully will be spending my summer working in a law firm with my paralegal certificate, and then starting law school in the fall of ’11. When I really thought about it, I decided the worst thing I could think of would be to try to start a new job right after having a baby, and then starting law school with a 3 month old who will still probably be up nursing all hours of the night.
Hayell. No.
However – we know we want another baby. That part is easy. But we know we don’t want to have that baby while I’m in law school, or even during my first few years out when I’m trying to get my career going. And if we wait any longer than that, I’ll be in my 40′s, and Jonas will nearly be a teenager. We don’t want to start alllllll over again with the baby stuff in our 40′s, so really, if we want a third baby, it needs to happen by the end of this year.
We also desperately want this baby to be a girl. Of course (and this should really go without saying) we will love whatever baby we get. But seriously. Universe? PLEASE give us a girl. John and I aren’t the only ones who want a girl – Jonas has started asking for a sister. In fact, he has asked me for a sister nearly every day this week. When I said
“Hey Jonas, do you want Mommy & Daddy to have another baby?”
He says
“YES! I do want you to have a baby – You got to give me a sister!”
And I try to hide the smile when I say
“Jonas, are you sure you don’t want another brother?”
and he says
“No, Mommy! I already haaaave a brother! I need a sister now!”
I know, Jonas. You do. I totally agree.
So we’re trying the Shettles Method this time and seeing if we can time a sister for him. I think we could pull it off, but I really should have started charting my cycle a long time ago. A friend gave me her copy of Taking Charge of Your Fertility:The Definitive Guide to Natural Birth Control, Pregnancy Achievement, and Reproductive Health
Now, onto the really important stuff: The Birth.
I will be having a homebirth this time, provided that everything works out with the provider I’ve chosen. I have a consultation scheduled with one of the few CNMs in Illinois who will take me on now that I have this damn cesarean scar that will haunt my reproductive health for the rest of my life. This midwife only takes on Secondary HBAC clients, meaning moms who’ve already had at least one successful VBAC (and that’s me! Yay!)
Hyphenated Husband and I are also planning on taking Hypnobirthing classes, and if anybody out there has a wonderful Hypnobirth story to tell me, pretty please, lay it on me.
So there it is. All the details I have so far. TFB is adding Number 3.
Holy shit. Here we go!
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And speaking of all this! Make sure you tune into my radio show this Sunday night at 10 pm Central time when I talk to Meagan Francis about her book on raising big families.
July 22nd, 2009
Breeding With the Enemy: My Story of Feminist Conversion
This is the story of how I went from being a decidedly childless feminist, to a Feminist Breeder, and what that change meant for my conflicted views of the Modern Woman.
I inherited my early feminist views from my non-traditional family. I had no mom or dad around, so I was raised by grandparents, aunts, and uncles, and sometimes lived on my own for months at a time while the guardians went off to find work in other areas. I find that horrifying these days; that a child not more than 10 yrs old could be left in another state to feed themselves and get themselves off to school in the morning, but such was my life, and it all seemed normal at the time. This helped me develop an independence that lays a fertile soil for feminist ideology.
My maternal grandfather was the type of man who wanted his girls to be able to take care of themselves. Though terribly physically and emotionally abusive (which I now attribute to a lifetime of undiagnosed anxiety and clinical depression), there was a part of him that treated women with far more respect and dignity than most men of his generation. Women were complex and mysterious creatures to him, though I believe he was sometimes so intimidated he lashed out, and those were the days I got my ass kicked. My grandmother handled everything of importance, and whatever she wanted she got. He wanted his daughters (of which I was always considered to be one) to excel and succeed. He taught me to change the oil in my car so I wouldn’t have to depend on a man to do it. He tried (in his own way) to raise me with common sense and a good work ethic, so I could make my way in the world. He raised me like a man raises his son, while still entertaining my need to be a girl sometimes. I suppose if anyone “taught” me to be a feminist, it was him.
There were no Stay-At-Home-Moms in my family. The women in my family worked; not as a matter of politics or choice, but as a matter of survival. My grandmother worked as a roofer right alongside my grandfather, every day for nearly 40 years. She didn’t get to stay home with me, even when I would beg her. Not working meant not eating, though there were many days I went hungry anyway. We were poverty-stricken, a fact I did not fully realize until I became an adult.
My aunt liked to tell me that “Every woman is only one man away from welfare” – meaning don’t rely on anybody. My aunt helped raise me when my grandparents couldn’t and she’s as Feminist as a woman can be. Well, any woman who’s never been a mother, that is. It’s not that she didn’t want babies, she did, desperately, but she was not able conceive, and then re-married to a man who didn’t want them anyway. She’s Pro-Choice in terms of reproductive freedom yet often refers to pregnant women as “a buncha whiners.” She has little tolerance for anyone unlike herself, and even less tolerance for women complaining about their girly bits. She also helped convince me during my first pregnancy that childbirth was "deadly" and “thank god” for that birth rape cesarean or I’d have ended up just like Great-Great Aunt Mable from the old black & white pictures who died during childbirth in the 1910’s. I had never spent any time around women who discussed birth, and only knew what I saw from shows like "A Baby Story" or "Maternity Ward" so I didn't question any of this.
After the trauma of being gutted like a fish in an operating room with my arms strapped out at my side like Jesus on the cross, convulsing and throwing up all over myself while my husband watched in horror, I started to question my Aunt’s understanding of feminism and politics in general. If being a feminist meant allowing masked Med-Pros to violate my body, I don’t know if I’m cut out for her feminism after all.
Because of my upbringing, I saw children as a punishment. I had never seen a planned pregnancy in my family. The children all seemed to be consequences of a loose, irresponsible woman looking for love in the wrong place. Nine months later, a welfare case was born. I decided very early on that I would not be one of those women. I did not want children. I didn’t want to be punished. But if I there ever was a day when I wanted a child, they would be born into a stable family – into wedlock at least – unlike any other child in my family’s sordid history.
To me, feminism meant avoiding anything and everything that was exclusive to women. Childbirth seemed oppressive, as did my biology in general, and I wanted no part of it. As far as I was concerned, it could all be removed and I'd be better off.
When I got accidentally pregnant, I was angry. Angry at myself for being so stupid, and angry at my (now) husband for wanting me to keep it. I always assumed two pink lines on pregnancy test would have me out the door to Planned Parenthood for my quickie abortion before the urine dried. But until I was in that situation, I never could have known how I would end up handling it.
As it turns out, abortion wasn’t an option for me. Not at that time. Not in this relationship. I felt that I just didn’t “qualify.” While our circumstances at the time were less than ideal for starting a family, I wasn’t a crackhead or a scared teen either. I had the things I felt were required for accepting the responsibility of a positive pregnancy test: a responsible mate who already asked me to marry him, a place to live, help from our family, a good head on my shoulders, and a healthy body. And most importantly, I couldn’t do that to him. He wanted the baby, and I knew that aborting it would kill a part of him that would never recover. I couldn’t justify terminating a pregnancy simply because I got sloppy one night. I had made a bed, and the grown-up thing to do was lie in it. And the fact was, ladies and gentlemen, I wasn’t getting any younger anyway. Every woman in my family had already finished having babies by the time she was the age I was when I got knocked up. People in the family had actually begun to assume I was infertile.
Now, people often ask me when I “knew” I wanted to be a mother. I always have the same answer: “At 7:27 pm, August 1st 2006 – the moment my son was born, and not a minute sooner.” Even through those nine months of pregnancy, I wasn’t sure I was cut out for this. I was a feminist, dammit! I couldn’t be tied down with a child. I had school to finish and places to travel to. There were times during the pregnancy that I told my new husband I wanted out, and that I’d give the baby to him and his mother after it was born and they could raise it. Why not? That’s what my mother did with me. She wasn’t up for the motherhood stuff, so she left me on doorsteps and took off. Why would I – should I – be any different? Well, my mother was/is also a horrible human being and ought to have been chemically castrated before she went on to ruin three more childrens' lives – but that’s a whole other story.
Instead, on that date 3 years ago, I was transformed. Physically, emotionally, spiritually, mentally – all of it. The moment I heard my child cry, my brain chemistry changed, and suddenly I realized that being this person’s mother was not a punishment. On the contrary, it was a gift I probably didn’t deserve, but I would spend the rest of my life trying to deserve it. Though I was overjoyed by this perfect little miracle I had just produced, I felt sad and robbed that he was cut from my womb, instead of being birthed by me. I never knew how much that would matter until it was taken from me. I vowed that my next child would be birthed by his mother – not by a man in a mask.
I started that pregnancy thinking breastfeeding was gross. I’d never seen it done, but it seemed like it was something white trash women did. I was clueless. Then I had my baby, and nurturing him from my breast seemed right. After all, I had made this little baby in my body – it made sense for me to keep feeding him with the same body that had done such a good job making him. Unfortunately, thanks to a cesarean and a period of separation, along with little support from my doctors, breastfeeding wasn’t successful for me with my first son. Once I had to switch to formula feeding, I realized just how oppressive and sexist formula feeding, and formula companies, truly are. Here you are born with two sources of perfect nutrition right there on your body, and our patriarchal society convinces you that custom-made milk isn’t good enough. Your body isn’t good enough, and what you’re providing for your baby – without their help – isn’t good enough. They convince you to enslave yourself (and your wallet) to the formula manufacturer – the buying, mixing, heating, and washing of bottles – all while their product undermines your health and your baby's health. And they do all this while convincing the vast majority of women that it’s somehow liberating them. *headshake*
Right then, my feminism changed. That cesarean, and that formula feeding, taught me that the most feminist thing I could do for myself was to take back my body and my autonomy. I birthed my second baby through my vagina, and it was the most important thing I’ve ever done in my life. I made breastfeeding work that second time, and am still nursing my son 15 months later. I wanted to be an excellent mother and raise my children up to be good people who will become the next generation of feminist freedom fighters.
Having a uterus and breasts wasn’t oppressive anymore. My feminine biology was a gift that no man will ever get to experience, and it is my duty to protect the sacred gift which mother nature provided to me – not to shame myself for having it.
And so, I fight the system, along with all my feminist mothering sisters.
- I fight for a women’s right to give birth naturally, without the medical community descending on her and compromising her health or autonomy with their (often unnecessary) drugs, instruments, and surgical deliveries.
- I fight for women to breastfeed when and where they want without a Puritan, patriarchal society shaming her for her womanly ability to nurture her young.
- And I fight for women’s right to be both a mother and a worker, without having to sacrifice her family just to keep a job or get ahead.
This is what feminism means to me now. And I have my children to thank for this. They opened my eyes to a world beyond anything I had imagined, while forcing me to eat many of my words.
Thank you children. Life wouldn't be the same without you. And knowing what I know now, I would never want it to be.
May 16th, 2009
The One Year Anniversary of My VBAC
Today, May 16th 2009, is the one year anniversary of my successful VBAC. For those of you who went on that journey with me, you’re probably just as surprised as I am that it has been an entire year since those events. It seems like just yesterday. Many of you have had your own successful VBAC stories in that time, and for that I am so proud and thankful.
Last year, on this day, I was hooked to machines, screaming at doctors, and begging not to be gutted like a fish for the second time. Though that day started out being the worst day of my life, at 10:01 pm, it became one of the 3 best and most important days of my life — because at that moment, I pushed my son out of my body. Nothing in the world can describe how important that moment is, and most people will never understand why that moment meant so much to me. I birthed a baby. Finally. And no matter what I do for the rest of my life, that will forever be the moment I am most proud of. That will go down in my history as the All-Time Most Mind-Blowing Moment of all.
So my VBAC baby is One today. Happy Birthday Jules. Thank you for everything that you have been to me. Your Father, Brother, and Mommy love you more than words can ever say.
