Hi.
I hope things are going well over there.
As I’m writing, I’m drinking a concoction I like to call a “Moscow Mermaid” – so called because, as the creature is not a real creature, the drink is not a real drink. It’s a ginger beer over ice in a Moscow Mule mug, garnished with a lime wedge or two and a crank of sea salt. I love fun drinks, but I don’t drink. I discovered a few years ago that imbibing any amount of alcohol at any time during the day had the same result: I couldn’t sleep. One ounce of champagne in a mimosa at eleven in the morning = no sleep. I was unwilling to make the trade.
I’m 38 weeks pregnant tomorrow, and I have slowed way, way down. I walk down the stairs slowly. I load the dishwasher slowly. I think slowly. And one of the things I am thinking about slowly is birth. I’ve got this intuition that keeps telling me, “Not long now.”
And since I’m not a very intuitive person, I switch my own thoughts into italics and reply, “Could you please be a little more specific?” So far, the answer is no, it cannot.
I can’t know, but I can plan. I wish I had my first birth plan, so I could do a comparison, but I don’t. I’ve switched computers a few times since then, and that starry-eyed set of expectations is long lost now. Here’s what we have today.
Birth Plan, Round 5:
Go into labor, sometime between now and November 12, probably in the middle of the night.
Call Jonny (or just wake him up).
Depending on the time of day, call my mom, my sister-in-law, my mother-in-law, and/or one of several friends who will all help take care of our other children.
Get driven to the hospital.
Park and walk into the hospital, stopping along the way because, you know, labor.
Get into an elevator, go to the third floor.
Be polite to the nurse working admissions. Be polite to the nurse working admissions. Be polite to the nurse working admissions.
Ask for an epidural as soon as possible.
After the epidural, have the following conversation with my husband:
Me: “You should take a nap.”
Him: “Are you sure?”
Me: “Yes.”
Him: “Are you sure?”
Me: “Yes.”
Him: “Are you sure? Really sure?”
Me: “Yes.”
Try to take a nap while he takes a nap. Say a distracted and interrupted rosary while watching the sun rise over the Walmart and the highway the hospital windows face.
Tell my husband it’s time to wake up.
Have a baby.
Finally decide what to name him.
Attempt breastfeeding.
Anytime anyone asks if I need anything, say “Can I have another cranberry juice with ice, please?” And enjoy the sensation of drinking it without heartburn. Try to convince Jonny that he should leave the hospital for a few hours to work out, or eat a decent meal, or sleep on something that isn’t a five-foot-long polyester rectangular prism posing as a “couch/ daybed.”
The story will likely deviate from the plan, but the plan will turn into a story of some kind. It’s important to tell those birth stories, over and over, to ask for them, and to listen to them well. But it’s not uncomplicated. I’ve found myself telling my birth stories with this apologetic tone. And I’ve heard other women talking about their births, particularly the medicated ones (even emergency C-sections) like they’ve somehow committed fraud. This doesn’t just show up in conversations about birth—it’s everywhere. What a family eats, where the kids go to school, who takes care of them while whoever it is that works is working, how they go about things like discipline and organization…
I’m not saying my gender has the monopoly on this, but women seem to deal with this “vague-but-unrelenting-sense-of-moral-failure-about-parenting” at a different intensity level than men do. For my fellow moms: the constant, rhythmic, “you’re-bad-at-this-you’re-bad-at-this” has less to do with your own inadequacy and more to do with the devil’s inexhaustible envy. This dynamic has been around for a long, long time. In Genesis 3, right after the Fall, we read God’s words to the serpent:
“And I will put enmity
between you and the woman,
and between your offspring and hers;
he will crush your head,
and you will strike his heel.”
The devil’s going to do whatever he can to make you feel like a bad mother, because, as we see in the verse, you are better at making stuff than he is. In co-operation with God, you can hold life within you (this gift is not exclusive to child-bearing, but that’s what I’m talking about at the moment). This reality found a full and beautiful expression in Mary’s receptivity to becoming the mother of Jesus. Tradition tells us that Satan rebelled against God with, “Non Serviam (I will not serve).” Scripture assures us that Mary responded to God with, “I am the Lord’s servant.” The echoes of her victory are heard whenever a woman gives life. And that makes the devil really, really mad. So he throws subtle arrows like “if you were a good mother, then you’d never feed anybody fruit snacks.” It’s a classic envy move: make ‘em feel bad about the thing you wish you had. We don’t have to let him get away with it anymore.
I do not care how you had your baby. Well, no. I do. I really would love to hear about how you had your baby. But the specifics do not alter the fact that you are the best possible mother for your child.
Local Politics
Or “Stardoc for President,” but that sounded unprofessional.
We did something I said we would never, ever do.
We put a political sign in our yard.
I’ve always considered political yard signs and bumper stickers invitations for other humans to throw eggs at my house or cut me off in traffic or just dislike me without meeting me, but… well. Never say never. I believe in this cause.
Thomas Carey is running for the Colorado Springs D11 School Board. You may remember him from this post in which the Hindses (Jonny and me) and the Careys (Thomas and Sonia) discussed the Martha and Mary story from the Gospel of St. Luke. Our involvement with his campaign has been peripheral, but here’s what I’ve learned: local politics requires an incredible amount of work and dedication and time. I will not look at a “local issues” ballot the same way again. The Careys have had quite the fall season, which has included literally knocking on doors (there was also a shoulder surgery and a tonsillectomy in there, which had nothing to do with the campaign, but when it rains it pours).
A newspaper recently ran the following line about Thomas: His classroom experience, specifically tailored to college readiness, perfectly positions him to help District 11 succeed. His performance in recent forums has shown him to be an unusually intelligent, articulate and thoughtful leader.
When I read the phrase “unusually intelligent,” the only thing I could think was, “what a weird choice for an adverb.” But then I tried to come up with a better one. I then relented, “Fine, you win, local newspaper,” because Thomas (and Sonia, for that matter, these things often go in pairs) does exhibit an “unusual” kind of intelligence. He can understand and respect opposition while maintaining his own ground in an articulate manner, and he can do that to a degree that is “unusual.” So, yes, of course I think you should vote for Thomas (if you happen to live here and to be registered to vote in District 11). My kids also think you should vote for Thomas—they chant his name every time we see one of his yard signs (we’ve stopped pointing them out). In the elections running in your locale, there are hopefully other such “unusual” people. They’re worth discovering and supporting.
The games we play with ourselves and the need do things the “right” way… With this last baby I had a sudden crisis around 20 weeks when it came to our anatomy scan. I decided I wanted to know the gender, and then I grappled with all the (self imposed) shame etc…of that choice (we’d never found out, it’s a great surprise, family members have feelings about which way is “right”). My husband didn’t really want to know, but told me “look, you get to do whatever you need to do to get through the next twenty weeks”, and so I made the decision that I was going to find out! When the time actually came, I didn’t. It turned out I only needed to know I could have if I wanted to. I think sometimes I just have to try on this idea that I wouldn’t be BAD if I changed my mind. And *usually* I just go back to what I decided in the first place. But I needed to know that my choice was because it was what I wanted, not what I *should* want. So much gobbledygook shamey nonsense tied up in this mothering business and I think you’ve hit the nail on the head with the reason.
"Be polite to the nurse working admissions. Be polite to the nurse working admissions. Be polite to the nurse working admissions." hahaha Seems simple enough, but did get a lil’ sassy when checking in for our third:
Why am I here? (I’m in labor.)
How far apart are my contractions? (Would I seriously have driven 40+ minutes to get here if I hadn’t known how this works and when to come to the hospital? I’ve done this twice before!)
But then I remember they're just doing their job! I do not envy it though. God bless everyone working in labor and delivery. :')