POEM: Her Birth Begins with “S”

While rolling around in bed one night thinking about Kaia’s C-birth, I suddenly realized that most of the words I associated with it began with the letter “S”. I didn’t even have to dig to think of these words, they just flew around in my brain at warp speed. These words alone function as a short, harsh story of her C-birth.


Her Birth Begins with “S”

Stopped
Scared
Shuffled
Stripped
Sedated
Spinal
Supine
Shaved
Strapped
Scrubbed
Sterile
Smalltalk
Strangers
Supervised
Scalpel
Sliced
Slashed
Sectioned
Savage
Sacrilege
Subhuman
Stolen
Swiped
Severed
Suctioned
Separated
Screamed
Sutured
Superglued
Scarred
Sore
Stinging
Seepage
Solitude
Sobbed
Sorrow
Shushed
Shamed
Silenced
Surrendered

Seven Mystical Months!

To my utterly delicious daughter,

Today is a special day. It is the day in which you have been on this Earth for seven months. As this day inched closer, the need for me to celebrate it became more clear. Six months was indeed a milestone and yet seven somehow seemed different. The word that kept coming to my mind was mystical.

As I stood in the shower this morning I kept thinking about the number seven. I lowered myself on the floor of the shower and leaned gently back to rest. I shifted my gaze towards the hot water streaming from the shiny showerhead. It dropped and sprayed and splashed quickly and deliberately on my body. It reminded me of tears...all the tears I'd cried in these seven months - many happy, many sad. I thought about how, at times, both the pain and joy were so deep that it seemed tears might bubble from every pore of my body. But in the shower, watching the water, I wasn't sad. I thought about seven. I thought about the shape of the written numeral and it brought to mind two images; one of you laying on your side in your crib, legs stretched in an almost 90 degree angle. Like a sweet little 7. The other image was of you, awaiting to descend into my birth canal, with your legs dangling down. I don't think you were to be born feet first, however, thinking of 7 this morning reminded me of you, in my belly, preparing to enter this world quite differently.

So I did a quick search on the internet about the number seven. My search resulted in very interesting, and validating, information about the mystical number seven:
"Number seven has profound and mystical undertones. It is the number of the mystics, a number that denotes wisdom, perfection, and completeness. It relates to spiritual development and is a number of self-expression. Number 7 has been regarded as the number of mystery and in sacred books, always signifies the mysterious and the spiritual force. Number seven specifies the blessings, the gifts of the spirit."

Yes! You are my little mystic, my blessed gift from the spirit of this Earth. You are the wisdom, perfection, and completeness I have long yearned for. And mysterious you are indeed, from your surprising conception (you have always resided in my heart of hearts) to your mysterious birth, to the ways in which you gently nudge me along the spiritual path. It all makes sense to me, why the number 7 seemed so special.

I took a peek back into my pregnancy journal to compare your life at 7 months in utero. On May 4, 2005 I was reflecting on a recent appointment with Marinah: "My prenatal appointment on Sunday went great. I've gained about 22 lbs so far and I'm starting to feel every pound of it! Funny enough, my belly was measuring smaller than at last appointment, but neither Marinah and I are worried. Who knows!". Alas, you, my little mystic, presented surprises to us at every prenatal appointment. Sometimes I miss the indelible closeness of pregnancy, of having you all to myself, of knowing you were right where you were meant to be. It was safe. You were with me everywhere and that small, but miraculous, fact changed my very outlook on life.

Of course, having you here now to physically touch and smell and kiss and hold is intensly satisfying. But I would be lying if I didn't admit I sometimes wish we could instantly and secretly steal back into the womb, together, one being, sharing blood and nourishment and love...sharing that mystical and primal experience that is bestowed solely upon women/mothers. It is said that pregnancy creates such power within a woman that in some cultures it is the very reason pregnant women are not allowed to partake in certain rituals and celebrations...for fear that divine power will overtake and usurp the social authority of men.

Pregnancy and birth taught me that I was unlimited. And now that you are here, with us, babbling and banging toys together and smiling with every muscle in your eyes, my love for you remains limitless too. "Unlimited. Together we're unlimited. Together we'll be the greatest team there's every been" - From "Wicked".

At seven months, you are not interested in trying to crawl. It seems much more fun to just roll and roll and roll to get where you want to be. You gobble up homemade baby food, particularly sweet potatos, and truly enjoy the view in your new high chair. You gladly "Ride a little pony into town" on my knee and laugh every single time I get to the part that goes "...there's a hole and you fall down!". Sitting up on your soft giraffe mat, you will play cheerfully for 45 minutes at a time, always sure to keep me within your view. Did I mention that a few months ago you finally got over your extreme fear of and aversion to your carseat? Thank heavans! Our cars rides have resumed their leisurely feel and mostly you stare out the window or (GASP!) fall asleep. I used to be pretty jealous of those "fall asleep" carseat babies. Now, you too have joined the club and Mama's quite content with your membership.

On the mornings in which I'm dreadfully drowsy, I plop you in your bouncy seat, binky and all, to watch Sesame Street, Oobi, or Dragon Tales. Like a compliant little girl, you allow me at least half and hour more sleep. Every now and then I hear you chit-chat with the cartoons about how you've managed to careen your binky halfway across the room in one fell spit!

One morning about a week ago, I scooped your pajama clad body, smiling half moon eyes and all, from the crib. We gazed at each other silently while I layed you down to change your diaper. And then gently, with such clarity and deliberateness, you said "Buh". A new sound, deep from your belly. It hung divinely in the air. What did it mean? Nothing, I suppose, and yet it was glorious! You found that if you pursed your lips together first and blew, it was an even more unique introduction for your "Buh" sound. Your Grams thought it was hilarious that I recounted this story with such enthusiasm to her..."Mom, today she said 'Buh'!". She says it means that I am in tune with you. I think it means I am in love with the little bitty 7 month old creature you are and the way you make me completely giddy, renewed, and exausted all at once.

Kaia Marin, here's to your seven magical, mystical, memorable, messy, and mah-velous months!

***"Buh!!!"***

Love,
Mama

C'Mon, I Just Wanna Be Funny!

I want to be funny. Geniunely funny. I'm not even asking for "pee in your pants" funny, or "soda spraying from the nose" funny, or "raw, Jenny McCarthy" funny. I would happily and humbly settle for "chin resting on the palm while reading blogs and chuckling" funny. Of even simple "eyes smiling so you know it's for real" funny. Honestly, my 7 month old daughter's poo is funnier than me. And the thing is, I have some dang funny pals. You'd think their humor would rub off on me... Jeanette is honest "why didn't I think of that" funny. Theresa is "holy cow, I can't believe that happened to you" funny (just ask her about her mascara under the boobs story). Haley is "small town girl meets raunchy chic" funny. Kimmy is "animated use of old school phrases" funny. Aaron is "unique analogy/story telling" funny.

Me, well, I'm just too serious. I feel the world so intensly and haven't found the ability to translate that into funny just yet. You see, everyone loves funny people. Everyone finds a way to somehow relate to them. I am certain, too, that the release of endorphins during a laughing fit helps as well.

Us serious folks just don't get the luxury of watching people have the same endorphin high reaction to our stories, our writing, and our musings. See, I used the word musings. Funny people wouldn't use that word. Instead they would probably use a more fitting, funny word like "crap" or "psycho babble". Not that funny people are crappy or psycho, although many are blessed with the gift of babble.

I read Jeanette's blog about finding a fitting, flattering, practical, perhaps sexy nursing bra and I laugh out loud because I know exactly how she feels. Funny people like her must have a great memory because they write about those everyday things that slip right past the brain of us more austere humans. I mean, I experience hilarious things in life every day. But after the endorphins fade, I go about my day and the next thing I know I'm scrubbing homemade baby food off the carpet, polishing off a box of day old E.L. fudge cookies, and repositioning my nursing pads in preparation for bed. In a nutshell, my brain is exausted and I've long forgotten how the seriously large, middle aged woman with incredibly teased bleach blond hair and RuPaul-esque makeup sporting a "Big Dog" sweatshirt working the local bagel shop was really a funny sight.

No one giggles about the emotional pain and suffering of a C-section. People rarely laugh out loud about my passion for homebirth and midwifery and a woman's right to birth safely in the place of her choice. Granted, homebirth can be funny! Yes, hearing my midwife recount the tale of how she thought she was sticking her finger in Kaia's mouth during my breech-discovering exam was sincerly funny. Listening as she went on to describe her daughter's wide-eyed expressions as she told the story to them was even better. Surely funny things happen under seemingly serious conditions, but alas, my skills at capturing them in a quirky, funny way is nil.
Bloggers of the world, I beckon you to bestow even a moment of your funniness on me. Give me a few hints, inside tips. Help me sprinkle some laughter into my weighty blogs. I promise to try and use them. Universe, this is my invocation of funniness.

Well, the good news is I think that my burning desire to be funny is reflective of my journey of healing from Kaia's birth. I am on the path and I've already taken those serious, painful turns in the road. Now, as the emotional scars fade just a teeny bit, it's time for some laughter on the next leg of my adventure.
Even the closing couldn't end on a funny note. See, I told you...I'm just not funny.