Showing posts with label #5. Show all posts
Showing posts with label #5. Show all posts

Tuesday, January 27, 2004

Fertile Ground #5


INSIDE

FROM THE TRENCHES
Soil Chart by Stacey Greenberg
Augustine by Marlinee Iverson

THE REAL DIRT
Hospital Birth How-To’s by Andria Brown
Baby Slingin’ 101 by Kristy Dallas Alley
Breastfeeding is Hard by Stacey Greenberg
Pregnancy After Miscarriage by Stephanie Chockley

IN THE FIELD
Can Meat Eaters Raise a Vegetarian Baby? By Stacey Greenberg
A Letter to My Little Unintentional Radical by Bridgette Burge
Have Placenta, Will Travel by Avena North
A Midwife Appointment by Stacey Greenberg

FERTILIZER
The Lima Interview by Ashley Harper
Naming Number Two by Rebecca Ryan Hunter
Music Review by Stacey Greenberg
Zine Recommendations by Stacey Greenberg

RUTS INTO FURROWS
To Cut or Not to Cut…There is No Question by Andria Brown
My Son: The Little Jew with a Foreskin by Stacey Greenberg

Soil Chart

Soil Chart
Stacey Greenberg



January 2004 marks the one year anniversary of “Fertile Ground.” When I started this zine last year, I never thought that I’d end up with over a hundred subscribers/swappers and reviews in various magazines including The Utne Reader and Mothering. I want to thank each and every one of you who has supported “Fertile Ground” in 2003. I hope that you’ll continue to do so this year! Share your copy of “Fertile Ground” with a friend, leave it in a coffee shop, or donate it to a zine library. Don’t wanna share? Order extras! I also want to encourage you, my dear readers, to submit! I am always interested in your stories, pictures, cartoons, anecdotes, etc. Don’t be shy.

As you can see from the above picture, my pregnancy is progressing quite well. I hope that the next issue will detail my very quick and painless (one can dream) waterbirth. Right now I am about 24 weeks along and all is well. Like with Satchel, we are going to let the sex be a surprise. So be on the lookout for Fertile Ground #6 in a few months for the full story!

Happy New Year everyone! May 2004 bring you lots of good stuff, especially good stuff to read…

Augustine

Augustine
Marlinee Iverson


When I think of writing my son's birth story, I don't think about his birth as much as I think about everything else that happened to and around me in the summer of 2003. I recall one catastrophe after another taking me by surprise. I think about how my son wasn't breathing when he was born, about how the doctor broke his arm to get him out, about how my body wouldn't stop bleeding, about how I ended up in intensive care with a blood transfusion. I think about the storm that destroyed my house while I was trapped inside with my two children, leaving my family homeless while burglars repeatedly broke in and sifted through the remains. I felt unlucky for the first time in my life. And it seemed as though my luckless state affected people around me too. My best friend miscarried, my parents and my brother went through a personal crisis of their own, my father-in-law's prostate cancer reared its ugly head again, and my dear, sweet dog of 10 years died all alone in a dog kennel. How could all this have happened in just one summer when I can't even recall anything very memorable about any other summer I've ever lived through?

I want to remember the summer of 2003 as a happy, carefree summer when my little boy was born. But I already know that I'm going to remember it as the summer my life fell apart. Whenever I have a moment of rest, it's easy to be negative, but I'm learning to reject the negativity and focus on being a survivor. Surviving takes courage. Courage is something I want my son to learn about, and the best way to teach him is to have it. I'm not talking about the juvenile belief that nothing bad will happen to you. I'm talking about the courage it takes to see things inexplicably broken, be it your life, your friend, your family, your home, or your dog, and to have a voice inside you tell you to pick up those broken pieces and move on. Just move on.

I didn't know whether I had that kind of courage. I had confidence--confidence that things would go my way--but not courage. Another best friend once gave me a quote by Edward Abbey that said, "Without courage, all other virtues are useless." If I didn't believe it before, I believe it now.

Augustine was still in the back of my mind the day he was born—he was still something that was over a month away. The event of his birth started with an infection that I contracted sometime when the weather started getting warmer in May. Such a small thing it seems, but now, looking back, it reminds me of chaos theory, the story about how a small butterfly can beat its wings, causing huge, rippling effects across the earth. I noticed the infection but decided not to do anything about it for awhile, deluding myself that my second pregnancy was going to be a cinch. I finally decided to see a doctor about it on a Friday during the first week of June. I received a pelvic exam and some medicine.

The medicine said that cramping was a side effect. The whole weekend, I felt mild cramps. On Sunday night, my husband, Eric, said, "How do you know it's not something besides the medicine?" I was sure the cramps weren't labor pains because I went the full nine months with my daughter. I thought, "Why would I have this one six weeks early?" The cramps lasted throughout the night, and I slept until about 4:00 in the morning, when I decided to call my doctor. He told me to call him back in one hour, no matter what, and tell him how I was feeling. I got off the phone and ten minutes later, I knew I was in labor. I thought, "I have time to take a quick shower because the last time I was in labor, it lasted over thirty hours." I got in the shower and had to prop my body against the wall and bend over from the excruciating pain. I said to myself over and over again, "Okay okay okay, it's alright. It's gonna be okay." I yelled at Eric to get the car ready, to get someone over to the house to stay with Apiranee, and to call the doctor and tell him to meet me at the hospital.

During the drive to the hospital, I begged Eric to help me. I said repeatedly, "Please, oh please, help me, will you please give me some pain medicine or something, anything?" He finally told me in a stern voice, "Listen, I don't have anything. You have GOT to stop asking me for it." (I forgave him for this because I could see how scared he was).

When we made it to the emergency entrance, the hospital staff just did not think I was as far along as I claimed (screamed) that I was, but they checked me and determined that I was fully dilated and ready to push. They rushed me into a critical area, and one nurse (the mean one) kept saying in a mother-to-child way, "You cannot push, you need to breath." Another nurse (the nice one) got in my face and told me to look her in the eyes and breath with her. I remember that they did a quick sonogram and determined that Augustine was in a breech position. Suddenly, everyone was rushing around preparing me for an emergency c-section. I told Eric I loved him and went rolling away into a room of white lights and voices and then silence and nothing.

When I woke up, Eric and a nurse told me that Augustine was fine and in the neonatal intensive care unit. They said they would wheel me up there before taking me to my room. I remember how they rolled me up next to his tiny little plastic box and how he was lying there, plastic hood around his head and little purple heart stickers stuck on his body where six wires were attached. Then they took me away from him. No breastfeeding for us. He was too small and too low on energy to do anything else but breath. They told me I should keep pumping and pumping and that they would give him whatever I had to give. I didn’t have anything. Eric and I convinced ourselves that I was producing a tiny, tiny, drop of milk or something in the pump bottles, and he proudly walked the bottles up to the NICU for them to keep for Augustine. Maybe they had a nice chuckle over those bottles filled with nothing.

Then I got sick. Fevery, shaky, achy sick. It was a blood infection. I couldn't pump anymore because I didn't have the energy. My doctor decided to give me a blood transfusion—he decided he had waited long enough and that my condition was getting worse. They took me to the ICU, and I spent the night there without Eric, sad and cold and lonely and worried and scared and hurting. The worst part was having to pee constantly due to some kind of medicine I was taking for bloating. I had to get up and sit on a portable toilet every time, and it was tedious and painful. My fever broke early in the morning, and after that, a no-nonsense Filipino nurse came in and said, "I am going to change your sheets." With a finesse that made me think about how wonderful nurses are, she managed to peel layers of sweaty sheets from my body, give me a sponge bath, douse me with a little talcum powder, and remake the bed with fresh linens.

Feeling better a day or so later, I was able to visit Augustine and start pumping more regularly. They found out that his right arm was broken from when the doctor pulled him out of me. He had a little blue cast on his arm, and he looked both cute and pitiful. All I could think about was getting him out of there and going back home where we could all be a family together. Apiranee came to visit and she was amazingly understanding about my condition even though she was all of 20 months old. She sat next to me in my bed and we watched a "Wiggles" video.

Meanwhile, Eric was stressed and smoking up a storm whenever he went on an errand. He drove around smoking and listening to country music. He told me about how he heard a Shania Twain song called "Forever and For Always" and about how it reminded him of Augustine. Now, it makes me think about Augustine too.

The doctor finally released me from the hospital, but they kept Augustine for four more days. I remember saying to one of his doctors, "If he's ready, I really want to take him home because we're working on breastfeeding and the best way to do that is if we're together." The doctor said, "Things look good," and he returned with Augustine's discharge papers. When we walked out of there into the sunlight, I thought, "Thank God. Together at last."

In hindsight, if someone had told me there was still so much more for me and my family to go through in the summer of 2003, I may have asked to stay. For example, we could have used a safe space when we lost our home. However, I would not have chosen to have him born the way he was, and life simply seems unfair because we had and are having to live through everything else this year, each event even further overshadowing the momentous event of Augustine’s birth.

Right now, my father-in-law is dying. This last event in 2003 is like a summer storm's triumphant finale before fading into winter. I can't seem to grasp how Augustine will never know him, will never see how he has his grandpa's big hands. I didn't walk away from my daughter's birth thinking about how I needed to teach her to be courageous, but I have an aching need to teach Augustine this one thing beyond all else. Perhaps the source of that need is the undeniable knowledge that terrible things can happen in succession and without explanation and that as a mother, I need courage just as much as he does.

Hospital Birth How-To’s

Hospital Birth How-To’s
Andria Brown

I didn't want to deliver my baby in a hospital. My ideal birth would have been in a cozy birthing center, surrounded by happy, earthy midwives and vanilla-scented candles, but unfortunately, there isn't a birthing center nearby. I considered homebirth, but like many women who have had trouble getting or staying pregnant, I was reluctant to face the unlikely, but nonetheless terrifying, possible complications of labor in my own house. Or, more accurately, I wasn't willing to face my own concerns on top of the inevitable mountain of fear and stress coming from my friends and family. So I resigned myself to a hospital birth, but to make things even more complicated, I was determined to have a low-intervention labor and delivery. I certainly couldn't have done it without some serious preparation, so I've compiled the following list of things I did (and wish I'd done) for anyone who hopes that "hospital birth" and "natural birth" are not mutually exclusive terms.
Read everything. Wait, not quite everything.

I don't think I'm the only first-time mother to spend an exorbitant amount of time reading books about pregnancy and childbirth, but I may be one of the few who didn't so much as touch What to Expect When You're Expecting. I went for the more supportive options out there, like Henci Goer's The Thinking Woman's Guide to a Better Birth, Penny Simkin's Pregnancy, Childbirth and the Newborn, and my favorite for its warm tone and supportive birth stories, Ina May's Guide to Childbirth, by midwife Ina May Gaskin. For me, one of the biggest obstacles to a natural birth was the skepticism and well-meaning advice of others, so it was crucial to arm myself with outside information that supported my decision.

Write a birth plan. Right now.

It seems like a lot of women spend their entire pregnancies putting together a birth plan. I think I showed up at my two month check-up with mine. I figured that a birth plan should be a guide throughout pregnancy, not just at its conclusion. It helped me choose my doctor, my labor assistant and my hospital, and it helped all three of those parties communicate. Believe it or not, the hospital staff actually read it and even took steps in advance of my delivery to follow it. I'm sure it helped that I worded my plan with respect and provided them with ample time to review it.

Fire the OB.

Okay, you don't really have to fire her. But I did, and I think everyone should at least know that it's an option. I began my pregnancy with a very competent and highly esteemed obstetrician, but when I handed her my birth plan, she said "I'll show this to the other [five] doctors in the group and let you know the response." She also reported that her group had a 25% caesarian section rate, and that while she herself did not perform routine episiotomies, she couldn't speak for the other doctors in the practice, any one of whom could be on call when I went into labor. That was all I needed to hear. I got in touch with the local homebirth midwives, and they referred me to their back-up physician. It was a match made in hystero-heaven. Having a doctor who views childbirth as natural and normal is probably the most important factor in having a normal, natural birth.

Hire a doula.

Follow me to the soapbox, will you? I should admit, I go a little fire-headed when I hear a husband/partner give a smug smile and say "I'm the doula." Because unless you're a certified expert on the physiological and psychological processes of pregnancy, and have gone through specific training, including providing support to a number of different women in a number of different birth scenarios, and, oh yeah, have a vagina, you ain't no doula. The invaluable role of a father during labor cannot be overstated, but it is not the same as the doula's role. A doula is a friend, a coach and an advocate, but most importantly, a clear head and outside perspective during an emotionally and physically strenuous time. The statistics showing the benefits of having a doula are undeniable— shorter labors; fewer interventions; happier, healthier babies and moms. It's really this simple: I've talked to women who said they regret not hiring a doula; I've never met anyone who regretted hiring one. Having a doula was essential to laboring on my own terms.

Go to class.

I had a feeling that the free childbirth education classes provided by the hospital weren't going to cut it, so I took a course offered by an independent educator who specializes in natural birth. This was probably the only way I was going to learn about pain relief techniques that don't involve needles. Plus, I was reinforced in my goal rather than ridiculed for it. (If you don't know where to find this kind of class, contact ALACE, Birthworks, or The Bradley folks.)

Choose wisely.

Of the several available to me, I chose the hospital that was an extra twenty minutes away because it had a much smaller (but equally advanced) maternity ward and a staff that was familiar with my obstetrician (and his occasionally off-beat patients). If you're lucky enough to have more than one hospital option, try to gather as much information as possible about each one and make your decision based on more than geography.

Prepare the whole self.

All that stuff in the books and classes about practicing your comfort measures? They mean it. I wasn't much for exercising, but I did practice breathing, relaxing and positioning, and took a pre-natal yoga class. Feeling able to focus during an extremely intense experience was, in my opinion, much more important during labor than how many sit-ups I could do.

Stay at home.

I was at home during the first 18 hours of labor, so by the time I got to the hospital, I was eight centimeters dilated and in full-on transition. I would highly recommend this approach. For one thing, I was pretty much past the point of no return—I was so close to the pushing stage that it would have taken a lot of convincing to get an anesthesiologist to give me an epidural at that point, and even narcotics would have been discouraged. On a more personal level, being at home and in a comfortable place made things so much more manageable during early labor that I was more confident in my birthing ability.

Keep it moving.

If I had been forced to stay in bed during labor, I would have wanted drugs before I was even halfway through. Just having to lie still while I had my first electronic monitoring made me realize why so many women who plan natural births end up asking for epidurals. Some people are comfortable lying down during labor, but for me, it made the contractions exponentially more difficult to handle. Instead, I walked, rocked, squatted, stretched, and even spun around in circles. (I also made some really fantastic noises.) Being able to assume whatever position is comfortable is every birthing woman's right. Finding a facility that respects this right is another important issue to consider when choosing a hospital, as is hiring a doctor or midwife that will sign off on intermittent monitoring and a heparin lock IV, two tools that allow true mobility.

Be positive.

Before having my baby, I hadn't been admitted into a hospital since, well, my own birth. I was not enthusiastic about celebrating my child's first days in what I assumed would be a cold and sterile environment. This less than optimistic outlook was a burden during my labor, because I was nervous about leaving home and was more stressed during the trip than I needed to be. Those of us who hang in alternative parenting circles don't often hear it, but there are benefits to a hospital birth, especially if you've chosen a supportive hospital. For starters, no one ever really tells you how messy labor is, so not having to worry about clean-up was a big bonus. There's also a measure of reassurance knowing that, in an emergency, help is just a call button away. The real perks kicked in after the baby was born, though. I don't have family nearby, so being admitted for a few days meant that I had around the clock care, three square meals a day, and help doing basic things like getting to the bathroom and taking a shower. I was also lucky to have nurses who not only advocated breastfeeding but were always at the ready to help me succeed at it.

So if, by choice or circumstance, you will be having your baby in a hospital, remember that these institutions exist to help and heal you. As it turns out, my baby didn't really care where we were - all that mattered was that we were together.

Baby Slingin’ 101

Baby Slingin’ 101 by Kristy Dallas Alley
Cartoon by Heather Cushman-Dowdee


So you think you’re ready for the sling mafia, do ya? All right, then. Better know your stuff. Here’s the basic rundown on what’s out there—the good, the bad, and the ugly. So pay attention.

If you’ve been on the internet lately, you may have noticed that every single stay-home mom on the planet now has a home business selling cloth diapers and slings. Never fear. Despite the overwhelming number of indie companies making slings, there are really only a few basic styles to choose from. And thanks to a new website called thebabywearer.com, you can now go to one place to see and compare them all in terms of appearance, price, and user reviews. But before you go clicking away, here is some basic information and just a few caveats.

The most popular style of sling these days is easily the unpadded ring sling, a la Maya Wrap. There are tons of Maya-style slings out there, but they do all have some seemingly minor differences to consider. A big one is shoulder style. The Maya has an accordion-folded shoulder that is all sewn together except for the top flap, which is designed to be flipped over so that it caps your shoulder, anchoring the sling in place. I am a devoted MW user, but I wear it on the right shoulder instead of the left, so the cap idea doesn’t work for me. I still find it easy to keep the fabric fanned out comfortably on my shoulder, but not everyone likes that feature. Other similar slings may have a “hotdog-style” shoulder, which looks smooth on top and can be fanned out from underneath. This type of shoulder tends to act more like a strap and can be tough to situate comfortably. Growing in popularity is the fan shoulder, where the fabric is simply gathered so that it fans out evenly above the rings. This style is easy to wear comfortably, but it does tend to ride down onto the arm. A new fan-shoulder sling that will soon be distributed by Maya Wrap (and is currently available in limited numbers through Midwifery Today) is the MamaBaby sling. This is an innovative twist on the ring sling design because it is made of a super-soft jersey knit and can be worn singly or in pairs to simulate a wrap-style sling without all the fuss of putting it on. This sling also comes with directions for a lot of rings-down positions, which is unique.

A variation on the ring sling is the padded sling. The Over the Shoulder Baby Holder (OTSBH) is the mama of modern sling use and is an example of a heavily padded sling. The padding is on the shoulder and along the side “rails” of the sling. Some people like the padding because it gives the sling some structure, making it slightly easier to use with a tiny newborn. However, very padded slings are bulky and can be difficult to adjust. The “tail” of the sling is sewn together, so the top and bottom edges cannot be adjusted independently as with the unpadded versions. The only sling generally available in mass production through stores like Babies-R-Us is the padded Nojo, endorsed by Dr. William Sears. Please trust me when I tell you this is the worst sling ever. I can’t imagine what Dr. Sears is thinking. It looks a lot like the OTSBH, but since the sling can only be tightened up to where the padding starts, it tends to hang very low. Hello backache! This is the sling your sister-in-law is likely to give you with the promising “I never could figure it out, but some people swear by their slings.” Nojos give slings a bad name. My favorite variation on the padded sling is the more lightly padded Ellaroo. These come in gorgeous sarong fabrics, have light padding, and have the tail sewn only for the last few inches, allowing for separate adjustment of the top and bottom rails.

Pouch-style slings are becoming more popular thanks to Cindy Crawford’s endorsement of the New Native Baby Sling through her Babystyle catalogue. Pouches are simple to use, fold up very small, and look sleek since there is no tail hanging down. The main drawback is that a pouch can’t be adjusted, so they are less versatile. There are “adjustable pouches” on the market, including a new one from Maya Wrap and the popular fleece pouches available from Kangaroo Korner, but they are adjustable only before you put them on. For example, you could adjust it to a larger size before your husband puts it on, then make it smaller for yourself, but you can’t tighten or loosen it with the baby in it. There are some great pouches available on-line in stylish fabrics, and many makers will custom sew your pouch to your measurements. Size is important with a basic pouch—it either fits or it doesn’t, since there’s no adjusting. Daisy Doodles offers a custom-sewn pouch with two rows of extra stitching that can be pulled out to make the sling a little larger if it doesn’t fit when you get it (and it’s only $18!).

Wrap-style slings are also gaining popularity among avid baby wearers. A wrap consists of a long piece of fabric that you wrap around your waist and then across your chest and back in varying ways depending on the holds you want to use. Most wraps are made of stretchy knits, but too much stretch can be a bad thing. This is a good style for someone who wants to put the sling on in the morning like a shirt and leave it on all day, popping the baby in and out as needed. Another advantage of wraps is that they can be used for the same positions as front (and back) pack carriers, like the Baby Bjorn or the more heavy duty Baby Trekker, as well as traditional sling positions. Length of the wrap, fabric type, and the manufacturer’s tying instructions are the only variations in this type of sling. The Ellaroo wrap is one of the few made of woven cotton rather than interlock. Rebozos are another, and both come in vivid Mexican-style stripes.

Fabric is an important consideration no matter what style of sling you choose. In some cases, it can be what makes or breaks the usability of the sling and separates it from the pack. For example, the Maya Wrap is made of hand-loomed Guatemalan cotton, which has a unique feel, weight, and ability to “give.” Most slings patterned after the MW are made of simple shirting or other machine woven cotton, so the effect is not the same. The climate in which you live may also demand a heavier or lighter fabric. Fleece pouches are wonderful if you live where it’s cold, but don’t believe it when they tell you it “breathes” and is comfortable up to 80 degrees. It’s not. For hotter climates and anywhere that has summer heat, you might want to pick up an extra, inexpensive sling made of water-friendly mesh or UV-blocking SoarveilTM fabric. And some makers, like Zolo, Taylor Made Treasures, and Chic Papoose specialize in beautiful, unusual fabrics, like silk, batiks, and sophisticated prints for the fashionista mama. It’s important to choose a sling that matches your style. It’s not very handy if you don’t want to be seen wearing it in public!

Whenever possible, buy a sling from someone local who can show you how to use it. If that’s not an option, choose an on-line retailer with a good reputation for customer service and availability in case you have questions about using your sling. La Leche League or Attachment Parenting International meetings are good places to find experienced sling mamas to help you out on the learning curve. There are also plentiful instructions and pictures to help you use any type of sling on thebabywearer.com, as well as forums where you can ask for advice.

Here are just a few basic pointers to get you started. Always make sure the sling is fanned out comfortably on the ball of your shoulder before you put the baby in it. If it has rings, they should be about where a corsage would go, not up by your neck and not smashing your boob. The baby’s butt should be the lowest point, which should never hang lower than your waist. If you are using a hip or tummy-to-tummy position with the baby’s feet hanging out, make sure the fabric goes down to the back of his or her knees and up to the armpits. If you want to nurse in a ring sling, do it with the baby’s head opposite the rings. In a pouch, slide the whole sling down so the baby is in the football hold position to nurse. And in any sling, if you are cradling the baby, there should always be fabric between the two of you. Lastly, stop worrying that your baby is “scrunched up.” Especially for newborns, this is womb-like and comfortable. They will let you know if they don’t like it, believe me! Ok, and one more thing; don’t put your sling away too soon. The hip carry can take you from about six months to over two years. So what are you waiting for? Get slingin’, mama!

Breastfeeding is Hard

Breastfeeding is Hard
Stacey Greenberg


Before becoming a mother, I had very little interaction with breastfeeding women. Like many of my generation, I was not breastfed as a child. I was once one of many who thought breastfeeding in public was gross. As a Peace Corps volunteer, I spent two years in Cameroon, West Africa where breastfeeding was the norm. Breastfeeding women were everywhere I went and soon it seemed completely normal and natural for me to see a woman feeding her child anywhere, anytime. When I returned from Africa, I also had the pleasure of seeing my twin sister nurse her two children. Much later, when I was ready to have children of my own, I saw two of my best friends nurse their children as well. Despite all of this, I still felt nervous and wondered if I would be able to do it. While pregnant, the thought of anyone touching my breasts or sucking on my nipples for an extended period of time was extremely unappealing. Luckily, I had a lot of support from my husband, my friends, my midwives, and my online community of other pregnant women and mothers. Eventually, I felt confident enough to give away every formula sample that came in the mail and to stock up on breastfeeding books and nursing bras.

Despite being 100% convinced that breastfeeding was the normal and natural thing to do, I still found getting started to be a bit difficult. For me, it wasn’t easy from the start, and I did have a few minor struggles. I had to remind myself that it was important for me to know that this too was normal and that a little difficulty in the beginning should not prevent me from continuing. Breastfeeding is an art. It takes study, practice, and a bit of skill. All of these things do come with time. Breastfeeding, like raising a child, is a major commitment that requires a lot of time and energy on the mother’s part. And yes, sometimes breastfeeding is hard, especially at first. I don’t say this to discourage new mothers from doing it, but rather to prepare them. I think the more realistic picture a person has of breastfeeding the better prepared she will be to succeed at it. And for the record, bottle-feeding also requires a lot of time, energy, and money.

Many women seem to already know the benefits of breastfeeding and are committed to doing it, but still may be a bit surprised by the reality of it, especially in the first few days/weeks. Whether you have seen others breastfeed or read every book there is, like giving birth, breastfeeding may not be what you expected. I want women to know that there are several things you can do to ease into breastfeeding an infant, and that it does get easier (and enjoyable) with time. You’ll be a pro before you know it and will whip out your breasts easily and readily anywhere and anytime you need to. Breastfeeding is absolutely the most wonderful gift you can give yourself and your baby, and it is worth sticking it out through the rough times. For me, breastfeeding became a special time between me and my son. It improved my confidence as a mother and as a woman. On the rare occasion that my son was sick and uninterested in food or water, he would always breastfeed. This helped ease my mind and speed his recovery.

Your family and friends may think it is strange that you want to breastfeed. Way before I ever became pregnant, my sister breastfed her two children, so my family was pretty nonplussed by it. (My homebirth, however, was a different story.) I found that my mother was fascinated by my breastfeeding and would often stare longingly at Satchel and me. Until you have done it yourself or known someone who has, breastfeeding is hard to understand. Many people can be threatened by unfamiliar things. People will stare. People may say stupid and insensitive things to you. People might even try to scare you by saying your baby won’t get enough food or you’ll destroy your beautiful breasts forever. My grandmother loves to tell me that at 19 months, Satchel is too old to breastfeed. (I like to tell her how many things have changed in the last 96 years.) There is an incredible amount of information on the benefits of breastfeeding on the Internet and at the library. Keep some brochures handy, email links to people, or just smile and ignore everyone.

It is important to build a breastfeeding support network for yourself. Talk to experienced breastfeeding women in your circle of friends or at work. Go to a local La Leche League meeting. (At the very least, have the leader’s phone number handy.) Join an online mothering community where you can get support/advice at the touch of a button. (Online communities abound and finding a good fit for any personality type is not hard. I started out at Hipmama.com and have since joined many other incredible communities.) Having someone to talk to when times are hard is extremely important and will help through the first days of breastfeeding. My best friend and midwives checked in on me regularly after delivery and were instrumental in my success. Many hospitals now have lactation consultants to offer breastfeeding support. Don’t be afraid to ask for help.

After delivery, your baby may or may not latch on right away. If s/he does, then congratulations! You are off to a great start. If not, then don’t panic. You will soon either become amazed at your patience level, extremely frustrated, or maybe even familiar with breast shields or other breastfeeding gadgets. Chances are you won’t need anything except patience and support. Some babies need a little more time to learn how to latch on. Call your midwife, friend, LLL leader, or lactation consultant. Make sure you have a breastfeeding book on hand to help you with the finer details. (I recommend LLL’s The Womanly Art of Breastfeeding or So That’s What They’re For: Breastfeeding Basics by Janet Tamaro.) Once the latch is achieved, you will probably experience something between mild discomfort and actual hellish pain. A lot of books say if it hurts then you are doing it wrong, but sometimes it does hurt! But only at first. Your nipples will toughen up over time. (One day your baby will do a full 360 on your nipple and you’ll barely notice.) Lansinoh was a lifesaver for me, but you can also use your own breastmilk to soothe sore nipples.

There are several different breastfeeding “holds.” Some work better than others for different women. It is a very individual thing. Again a good breastfeeding book should outline the varied holds. It is also helpful to have a nursing pillow, like the Boppy, to assist you in positioning your baby. (Many other companies and work-at-home mothers make nursing pillows if the Boppy is not for you.) I kept one Boppy by the TV and one by the computer. I love my Boppies. The fact that they were machine washable was extra nice, considering the number of milk stains they sustained. I cannot pass a Boppy in a store or at a yard sale without having a strong urge to purchase it!

Engorgement is another early stumbling block. I remember visiting a friend who was four days post partum. She was engorged beyond belief and in a lot of pain, but hiding it well. Her massage therapist friend came over with a head of cabbage and began stuffing her bra and massaging her breasts. My friend was being a trooper, but I left in tears, terrified of ever having a baby. However, one year later, I myself was engorged and in pain and not hiding it well, with my midwife massaging one breast and my best friend pumping the other. Since then, I do my best to try and prepare my friends for the day their milk comes in. I personally think a breastpump is indispensable for those first few days. By pumping or hand expressing extra milk you will not only give your breasts much needed relief, but you will also help fend off clogged ducts and possible mastitis. It is important to pump just enough to relieve the engorgement or you will continue to make too much milk, because your body produces milk under the laws of supply and demand. If you are at risk for thrush (i.e. if you had antibiotics in labor, or if you or the baby have taken them since the birth), try to eat some yogurt every day to help ward it off. Since becoming pregnant with Satchel, I have made a yogurt, tofu, flax oil, and fruit smoothie a part of my morning ritual.

Once engorgement ceases, leakage ensues. (Not all women leak. If you don’t, consider yourself lucky, not a failure.) You may find yourself sleeping in your nursing bra or a soaked t-shirt. Breastpads will soon pile up next to your maxi pads/gladrags. You may not be able to leave the house without them. As soon as you get used to leaking all the time and feeling full, your body will regulate itself and you will be convinced that your supply has run out. But do not fear, as long as your baby is thriving and creating a wet diaper every few hours, things are fine. Trust your body. Do not worry about the number of ounces you are producing or fall prey to the free formula samples that come in your mailbox. Your baby and your milk supply are working together toward a common goal. If your supply really is decreasing, there are plenty of herbal remedies and natural teas such as Mothers Milk to help you. If you do end up supplementing a bit, it isn’t the end of the world. Just do your best to work with the laws of supply and demand. Too much supplementing can decrease your milk supply permanently. Your body can produce enough milk for your baby. You don’t need to give him/her extra water or rice cereal despite what well-meaning family members/old school pediatricians may tell you.

You will also become familiar with a strange sensation in your breasts called the “let-down” which signals the release of milk. Some women never actually feel the let-down, while others compare it to having contractions during labor. Hopefully you will fall somewhere in the middle. I experienced the let-down as a build up of pressure followed by a feeling of relief, similar to the feeling one gets after emptying a very full bladder. I have also heard it described as a tingling sensation.

Some women have a “dominant” breast. My right breast was a fountain of milk and seemed to produce twice as much as my left breast. This was especially noticeable when pumping. I don’t know if the dominant breast is a result of unconsciously favoring one breast over the other, but it does seem to be fairly common and no cause for worry. If you have a dominant breast, be mindful of how it affects your baby. Sometimes the milk may be too much to ingest at once or it may be just right.

While breastfeeding, you may have to change your diet to suit your baby’s brand new digestive system. (However, breastfeeding on a diet of Mcdonalds is still more nutritionally beneficial to the baby than formula.) You probably already made changes while pregnant, so it isn’t too hard. But what you eat will now directly affect your baby, so it is important to be mindful of the food choices you make. Caffeine, alcohol, and tobacco are still major no-no’s. (Finding new ways to deal with stress are very important.) An occasional beer or glass of wine, one coke or coffee a day, maybe a secret cigarette now and then won’t make you the “worst.mother.ever.,” but breastfeeding may require you to give up some bad habits. Try to remind yourself of all the breastfeeding benefits to your baby—increased immunity to illness, optimal nourishment, mother-child bonding, etc.—when you feel overwhelmed. After a few weeks/months, what you eat will affect your baby less and less, and you can resume eating your favorite spicy, dairy, and gassy foods. (Also when you feel up to it, you can treat yourself to a night out and “pump and dump” any “contaminated” milk.)

You will find yourself spending a lot of time in your favorite chair or in your bed with a small child attached to your breast. (You may even find yourself on the toilet with a small child on your breast!) Make yourself a breastfeeding basket to carry around with you. Include a snack, a book, some mama zines, a tube of Lansinoh, a bottle of water, the remote control, and the phone. Enjoy this time with your baby and relax. (You will long for it when you are busy chasing a toddler.) After awhile you can upgrade to a sling or other baby carrier. You may soon find yourself nursing your babe while doing dishes or weeding your garden. There are several different styles of slings out there, so find the one that works best for you. I started off with a Baby Bjorn and moved to a Hip Hammock later, however I always envied the mamas with their Maya Wraps.

Consider sleeping with your baby to maximize your sleep at night. Once I mastered the side lying position, I was a happy woman. After a few months you will be able to nurse in your sleep without you or your baby completely waking up. You will also have the added benefit of knowing your baby is safe and sound right next to you. I know sleeping next to Satchel and hearing him breathe steadily throughout the night really helped me to get a good night’s sleep.

Whether or not you return to work while breastfeeding, you may want to invest in a pump. (However, there are certainly lots of mamas who survive just fine without pumps!) Not only do pumps help ease engorgement for the first few days, but when your baby is a few months old, you can pump breastmilk into a bottle and let daddy or grandma feed the baby while you sleep, go see a movie, or go for a swim. If you do return to work, consider getting an electric pump so you don’t end up with carpal tunnel. In most states, your employer is legally required to provide a place and time for you to express milk. I pumped in the morning and afternoon and went to the daycare at lunch to nurse my son in person for eight months. I quit pumping at a year, but continue to nurse him in the mornings, evenings, and on demand on the weekends. Working a full time job does not mean you have to give up breastfeeding. With a little planning and determination you can succeed. Be sure and alert your coworkers to what you are doing so an air of mystery isn’t created. I once had a man call security when I didn’t answer my door or phone.

By six months or so you will be a breastfeeding pro, able to whip out your breasts at a moment’s notice without leaking on your blouse (or lactivist t-shirt). Your supply will have regulated to the point that your breasts feel almost normal and you will probably be breastpad free. In addition, you will probably feel comfortable enough to feed your baby anywhere you like—at the park, in the mall, at the bookstore, or in a restaurant. Don’t let anyone discourage you. In most states, breastfeeding is legally allowed anywhere a mother is legally allowed to be. Breastfeeding is normal and natural and NOT the equivalent of using the bathroom in public. Breastfeeding has the word FEEDING in it for a reason. I’ve yet to have a bad experience while breastfeeding in public, even with a squirming toddler doing the feeding.

After an extended period of breastfeeding, especially if you are still breastfeeding throughout the night, you may start to feel a little burnt out. Some days you may bask in the glory that is your baby and smile upon every suckle, but some days you may feel like tearing off your breasts and throwing them across the room. If it is the latter, be honest with yourself and make any changes you feel necessary. You may want to cut out a feeding or two and replace it with cow’s milk (if it is after one year) or more solids (if it is after six months), you may want to nightwean, etc. It is ok to set limits for your own sanity. Everyone has her own breaking point. Many women choose to stop nursing when they become pregnant, at the two year mark, when their child begins walking, weans him/herself, etc. It is up to you.

Breastfeeding can be hard at times, but it is worth the time and effort. Prepare yourself to succeed!

Pregnancy After Miscarriage

Pregnancy After Miscarriage
Stephanie Chockley


The week after September 11, I told everyone I was pregnant. I was 11 weeks along, and it just seemed like the right time to let everyone know. We all needed some good news. The week after that I started spotting. I went to the doctor for an ultrasound. “I’m so sorry—there’s no baby.” I sobbed hysterically while the doctor explained that I had a blighted ovum. This meant the egg and sperm had come together and told my body I was pregnant, but hadn’t grown. I couldn’t believe it! I couldn’t believe my body would betray me like this. I had reveled in my nausea, gained five pounds snacking to stave off heartburn, indulged my exhaustion with naps and early bedtimes, and I had never really been pregnant. How could this be? How could I tell everyone that I had been mistaken when I announced I was pregnant? I felt so stupid; I let myself feel all of it, even though it wasn’t really happening. I got everyone all excited, and now I had to let them all down. I had admitted to myself just how important it was to me, had let myself be vulnerable to it, only to be let down by it. When I confided these feelings to those closest to me, they made me feel stupid for feeling stupid. But I did. I believed my body, and it had lied to me. I wanted to be pregnant, but I had failed.

My body healed from the D&C, I waited a few months, and then tried again. As it turns out, we’re a pretty fertile couple and it happened on the first try. I tried not to get excited, tried to be nonchalant, but within hours of seeing two pink lines I already had my due date worked out and my hopes up. I was surprised by how intense my excitement was, even though I wanted to have my guard up. A few days later, Wednesday, was my husband Chip’s 30th birthday—I used the designated driver excuse to explain why I wasn’t drinking. The next day at work the bleeding started during lunch. Different than the last time—heavy like a period, with the same type of cramping. I don’t know how I drove home—it started to really hurt, and I couldn’t stop crying. Somehow I made it and got Chip to come home too. I couldn’t believe how upset I was. I just missed my period last week! If I hadn’t been trying, I might have just thought I was having a late period. But no, I was looking for this, and I knew exactly what was happening. I thought to myself that at least no one knew, so I was spared the humiliation of explaining this again. I went to the doctor on Friday and that night I made up for the birthday sobriety. I didn’t tell anyone until Sunday, when I called my mom. I called my best friend, Tiffany, on Monday and asked her to tell the rest of our friends. For some reason I was too ashamed to explain it all again. Like last time, no one could understand why I was embarrassed by this. I couldn’t explain it either. I just felt like I had failed. Knowing it happened to lots of other women didn’t help me any. Why didn’t anyone ever talk about it if it wasn’t something to be ashamed of?

The feeling of failure subsided, but it took longer this time. I waited a few months, and started trying again. In September I started a new job, and decided we should back off until I got settled in there. Too late! Two weeks after my job started, I missed my period. I scheduled my first doctor’s appointment at what we thought was six weeks. She did an ultrasound, and it wasn’t big enough for six weeks or to see the heart beating. Great. I was already pessimistic, so this didn’t shock me, but I was again amazed by how upset I was. Don’t panic, the doctor said. Come back in a week and we’ll see— the dates could just be off. That was a pretty long week. The day of the next appointment I was so nervous that I made myself sick. I cried all day (my new coworkers thought I was nuts), anticipating the worst. I couldn’t bring myself to look at the screen during the ultrasound. But they insisted I look, so I could see the heartbeat for myself. I didn’t know if I felt relief or more anxiety. Every month I cried and threw up all day on doctor appointment day. Every time I held my breath waiting for them to find the heartbeat. I really let my past experiences influence this pregnancy. For the first 20 weeks I didn’t enjoy being pregnant as much as I wanted to, mainly because I didn’t feel I could trust it. My body had let me down before. But the ultrasound at 21 weeks finally gave me some relief. I know plenty of people who don’t want to know the sex of the baby, but for me it was really important. It somehow made it all real to know that it was a boy, to call him “Connor” rather than “it.” I left the doctor’s office and called everyone I knew to announce the good news. For me it was like finally admitting I was pregnant—I didn’t get excited for the first announcement, but I let spreading the news that it was a squirming, healthy boy make up for it. After that I let my guard down and embraced pregnancy. Connor Stephen Chockley was born on June 24 at 9:06 p.m.

Can Meat Eaters Raise a Vegetarian Baby?

Can Meat Eaters Raise a Vegetarian Baby?
Stacey Greenberg



My husband and I were both raised in meat and potatoes families and we live in the BBQ capital of the United States, yet when faced with raising a child, we opted to raise him as a vegetarian. I believe our early rationale for this was that meat wasn’t healthy and we wanted our child to be as healthy as possible. We planned to phase meat out of our daily routine and raise our child according to the Super Baby Food plan. We were sure that before long we would be the poster family for “Vegetarian Baby” magazine. Or something.

Satchel began eating solids at 4 months of age, although he continued supplementing his diet with record amounts of breastmilk. His first foods included bananas, avocadoes, sweet potatoes, and rice cereal. As Satchel grew and expanded his tastes, we prided ourselves on never buying jarred baby food, even the organic kind. Our daycare provider and other curious onlookers were often baffled by the contents of Satchel’s lunchbox, but baffled in a “Is he really eating tofu?” kind of way that we enjoyed. My mother and other family members seemed to think that by letting Satchel snack on seaweed, we were somehow mistreating him, or at the very least, depriving him of the joys of “real” food, whatever that is.

Once Satchel turned one and became much more mobile and verbal, the road to vegetarianism became a bit bumpy. At a Memorial Day celebration at a friend’s house, we found him camped out on the kitchen floor eating a pork filled eggroll. I have no idea how he got it, but the image of him happily devouring it was endearing. We opted to take a photo rather than take it away. Besides, it was just a little meat.

In June at a family reunion in North Dakota, Satchel’s 7 year old cousin asked me why he didn’t eat meat. I found myself at a loss for words. Clearly Warren and I were still eating meat. I couldn’t really think of an intelligent response so I merely said, “Ask Uncle Warren.”

On a trip to a wedding in Minneapolis, I sat next to the now 16 month old Satchel in the back of our rental car eating a ham sandwich. Satchel eyed the sandwich greedily and said, “bite?” I figured one bite wouldn’t hurt and that he’d probably think it was gross anyway, but he silently ate nearly the whole thing while I kept Warren distracted and blocked his gaze in the rearview mirror. The next day at breakfast, Satchel managed to wrangle two sausage links off of Warren’s plate. We kind of laughed it off since we were at a table with people we didn’t know very well. Our main concern was that Satchel would have a bellyache on the ride back to the city. Fortunately, he was fine.

Upon returning home, I innocently asked my husband why were raising Satchel vegetarian if we weren’t doing anything to cut meat out of our diets. I told him it was just a matter of time before Satchel was ordering his own BBQ sandwich, no longer content to eat a Vegan Burger brought from home. Warren’s new, “improved” reason was because meat contained a lot of nasty hormones that our systems were equipped to deal with, but that should be kept out of Satchel’s body at all costs. Okay. But why not just buy organic meat or something? No response.

Warren does all of the cooking in our house and most of our meals are worthy of a fine dining menu. Despite usually having meat on the menu, we also have vegetables and unusual treasures from various ethnic markets in town. We live across the street from a natural foods store, and do most of Satchel’s shopping there. However, Satchel is smart. He sees what mommy and daddy are eating and he is curious. In addition to occasional meat products, Satchel is learning to love processed foods. Since mommy is pregnant, her food choices aren’t always those that have been pre-approved by Ruth Yaron (author of the Super Baby Food book). So far, Satchel’s favorite foods include broccoli, asparagus, homemade yogurt, tofu, seaweed, lentil soup…and um, pizza, popcorn, ice cream, and cookies. At parties and in the backs of cars, he can be seen pocketing pigs in a blanket and shoving double cheeseburgers in his mouth. On Thanksgiving he ate so much turkey that the next day he was completely out of commission.

We are trying to find a way to raise a healthy boy in a sometimes unhealthy world. We do our best to fill his plate with nutritious foods and introduce to him to a variety of flavors and textures, but we realize that we will not always be able to control every piece of food that enters his mouth. However, we still fight the good fight when we can. His teachers at his new Montessori school know he is a vegetarian and that we prefer that he drink organic milk sent from home or water rather than juice, but they also know that sometimes he just doesn’t feel like eating his spinach and that if he sits next to someone eating Cheetos, they better share.

A Letter to My Little Unintentional Radical

A Letter to My Little Unintentional Radical
Bridgette Burge


Dear Little Mister,

You’ve turned two. On your birthday we had cake, presents, balloons, and we took care of some last minute details of our plans to crash Senator John Edwards’ presidential fundraiser party. You were most cooperative that day. Just like you knew what was brewing.

Since you were baking in my womb, you’ve been a little peace activist. Your first in-utero action was when you’d existed for about fifteen weeks. We were trying to get President Bush to sign on to the Comprehensive Test Ban Treaty, banning the development and testing of new nukes. He didn’t. He must be too busy keeping us safe and all.

Wonder what you think of your conscription into the peace and justice movement. Wonder what you’ll think of it when you’re sixteen, and thirty-six. Already I worry about making you do something you don’t believe in and haven’t decided for yourself. But that’s a bit ridiculous, right? You’re tiny, and it’s my responsibility to make decisions for you, until you can make them for yourself. So, guess that makes our peace and justice work my prerogative.

When I was pregnant with you, your daddy and I shared our fears about how you’d turn out. His surfer-Topsail Island-North-Carolina-born-self’s biggest fear was that you’d be afraid of the water. No joke. That was his biggest fear. Mine was that you’d turn out to be some racist, sexist, militarist, homophobic, capitalist Republican.
If that doesn’t sum up why your daddy and I didn’t last past your eighth month on this side of belly, I don’t know what would.

A few weeks ago, the local NPR station aired a grossly edited, totally de-politicized three minutes out of a two and a half hour interview with you and me. Someone please explain to me how it’s possible to nearly de-politicize an interview about war and peace!

The reporter found it “compelling” that your paternal step-grandpa is now serving in the military somewhere in the Gulf, and here’s your wacky momma demonstrating against the war on some corner in Raleigh. You pulled your weight, too, during that rowdy, little demo. I love that photo of your candlelit, rosy-cheeked self, grasping onto a “Support My Grandpa, Bring Him Home” poster. What a little media magnet you are, Jake!

Ok all you two-year olds, here’s Jacob’s favorite rally chant. It goes like this:

When I say, “George Bush,” you say “Ew!”

“George Bush.”

”Ew!”

“George Bush.”

“Ew!”

Nicely done, little futures of this world.

Raising children is probably the most important work in the world. I think being a full time activist is a distant second, though it probably doesn’t seem like that to you when I’m working all those long, long hours. But, doing anything else just wouldn’t feel right.

In fact, Jake, as long as you can say the same thing about what you choose to do with your life, then I’ll be proud as pie. That’s right, even if you do end up a racist, sexist, homophobic, capitalist, Republican. I’ll love you, I’ll be proud of who you are and not what you believe, and I’ll be on your damned front lawn with a picket sign.

Your mama,
Bridgette

Have Placenta, Will Travel

Have Placenta, Will Travel
Avena North


Here's a riddle:
From my body flows the ocean of life
My blood pulses through the generations
I am born. I give life. My rhythm is the song of the future.
My deathbed is the garden of hope.

What am I?
A PLACENTA!

This is a story of strength, sex, burial, and birth. This is a story of a placenta; two actually. Well maybe more like four. Anyway...

I have three boys. I lived with their dad for eight years. Their dad
(Henceforth referred to as “bad baby daddy,” or BBD for short) started to get weird. No, bad baby daddy got violent, abusive, out of control. One early Friday morning I left my home with my three children. Bye-bye, bad baby daddy.

Later that night, while BBD was at work, a flock of minivans, filled with home-schooling moms and a couple of dads descended on our family home. Plastic totes in arms, we grabbed all things of importance. Favorite toys, a sewing machine, undies; with precision and speed my life was whisked away to various closets and garages for indefinite storage. Only the bare minimum stayed with us—some clothes, a few toys, and a frozen placenta. First at a friend's home, for only a couple of hours, the placenta lay in waiting. Then it was off to the freezer of an abandoned apartment, the placenta its sole occupant. Weeks passed. I longed for my gardens, my couch, anything old and familiar. My sweet boys were confused, bored, sad, confused. We spent more nights at more places, each time with the placenta in tow.

All in all it was a crazy time. As if I hadn't had enough change in my life, the universe sent me a sexy, strong, musically ingenious, sensitive (did I say sexy?), man. My hero, he toted us from place to place. After a couple of moves, he finally questioned why a bag of frozen strawberries followed us everywhere we went. Although he took the placenta revelation quite well, he did get a bit miffed at the "melted strawberry juice" stains on the back seat. Getting more into the placenta-on-the-run scenario, he kept up the strawberry charade with his roommates while the placenta hid out in his freezer for a couple of days.

A month after we left, we returned. The locks were changed, walls repainted, winter gardens still at rest, my boys, the placenta and I were home.

Spring, summer, then fall came to our peaceful home. The patient placenta finally was put in its permanent home, buried beneath a birch tree in the back yard. You know what they say, out with the old, in with the new.

About two months after that placenta ceremony, we got a new placenta. I told you he was sexy!! The new placenta came with a sweet, smart, goddess-incarnate daughter. Now that one is in the freezer. The placenta, not the daughter. I think this placenta will have a much less eventful journey. Well, that's two placentas, P3 and P4 for those keeping track.

My second born placenta, P2, had the saddest story. It just disappeared. I had a very typical, very disempowering hospital birth. They took the placenta. I never saw it. I hate very typical, very disempowering hospital births.

My first placenta had a cool adventure! It traveled over two hundred miles!! And that's not even counting all the traveling it did while inside me. Me and BBD lived in Eugene, OR when I was a first time prego. I went into labor at 32 weeks. At the hospital I started to bleed. Bright red blood streaming out of your yoni is a bad thing in pregnancy. The placenta was detaching with the baby still inside. This can be deadly but thank goodness it was just a small separation in our case. Coincidently, it was a busy day for sick babies in our hometown. The Neonatal Intensive Care Unit was full. They couldn't care for my 32-week baby. 200 miles of torturously bumpy highway later, I gave birth to a very sweet, very little man. It just so happened my incredibly awesome midwife followed us up to Portland for the birth. It just so happened my midwife ran the Oregon School of Midwifery. Placental abruption (what I had) isn't something you see every day. So the placenta went to school. I got to go too.

About seven months after the birth, awesome midwife invited me to a day of classes. Placentas were defrosted. Oh it was so cool. There were calcified placentas, tiny placentas, placentas with wonky cords and of course, my placenta. After some poking, prodding, gloved flipping, ahhing and icking, I tenderly wrapped that placenta, carried it to a garden and planted a brussel sprout atop it.

I always say every child is different. So is every placenta and every placenta story. I love my placentas, half me, half baby, all miracle. Bless the placentas and the mommies and babies they connect.

A Midwife Appointment

A Midwife Appointment
Stacey Greenberg



I recently had a conversation about midwives, well one of many, with my brother (by bond, not blood) who is a med student. This conversation made me realize that a lot of people have no idea what an appointment at a midwife’s office is like, although almost everyone knows what a visit to the doctor’s office entails. So for those of you who have never been, this is what it is like. (I’m speaking from direct experience with the Home Birth Midwifery Service of Memphis.)

The following is an excerpt from HBMS’s Informed Choice Agreement:

Pregnancy, childbirth & breastfeeding are normal, natural states of mind and body for the healthy mother. The midwife offers assistance and guidance throughout the childbearing years as a counselor, birth attendant, and friend. She is a skilled specialist in attending normal births, giving care and advice to the mother in pregnancy, labor, and childbirth, and care for the mother and newborn following delivery. She should be able to detect abnormalities in mother or child and refer to or obtain medical aid. She maintains respect for the integrity of the birthing family and the naturally bestowed ability of a woman to give birth. Out of respect for the birthing process, the midwife believes that unnecessary interference is an unwise interruption of the body’s function. She carefully watches and guides, assisting the family in the way that is of their choosing, respecting the sacredness of the family and its rites of passage.

The Home Birth Midwifery Service of Memphis (HBMS) is located in the heart of Midtown in the First Congregational Church. First Congo is a pretty hip church, well, as hip as a church can be I suppose. (First Congo houses a free trade gift shop, a cooperative living space, a digital film-makers forum, and an AIDS activist center among other things.) HBMS’s office consists of a really large room with sofas, chairs, and a desk; a small examining room; a clothes closet; and a waiting/reading/tv/play area. The office is decorated with lots and lots of photos of past clients and babies, fertility goddesses, and toys. The furniture isn’t fancy, but it is comfortable. The feeling is of being in more of a living room than an office. The exam room is especially cool because it has a big, colorful vagina on the ceiling to look at while having your belly measured and a sign next to the scale that says, “Gaining weight is good.”

Midwife appointments usually last an hour, sometimes more. The midwives see patients on Tuesday and Thursday afternoons. Usually, there are two midwives present and an apprentice. Occasionally one has the good fortune of seeing all four midwives and both apprentices. (I believe they alternate days and then have one week per month when they are all in the office.) The appointment is usually kicked off with warm greetings, hugs, and the handing over of the “pee basket.” The pee basket contains urine test strips to measure glucose, protein, and other levels in the urine. The mother takes the basket to the bathroom and compares her pee strip to the colors on the container. If all looks good, she throws the strip away and reports her results to the midwives. In the event that the colors don’t correspond exactly, the pee strip can be paraded into the office for an expert eye.)

The next order of business is to talk about how the woman is feeling, both physically and mentally. The midwives are very attentive and offer advice on a range of subjects. (i.e. how to handle the stress of a former miscarriage, an impending visit from in-laws, work, sex, you name it.) Pregnant women are also asked to keep a record of what they are eating so the midwives can see if all nutritional needs are being met. I have had them recommend herbal teas, high iron foods, and good quality prenatal vitamins. The midwives also take the woman’s blood pressure and ask about symptoms such as swelling, nausea, heartburn, etc. Once this is complete, the mother is asked to lie on the exam table so her uterus can be measured. The midwives use their hands to feel for the top of the pubic bone and the top of the uterus. (The distance between the two should roughly correspond to the number of weeks the mother has been pregnant.) They also use their hands to feel if the baby is growing from visit to visit. If the woman is more than 12 weeks along the midwives can also use a Doppler or a fetascope to listen for the baby’s heartbeat. If the mother is nearing the end of her pregnancy, the midwives can often tell the position of the baby by feeling the woman’s belly with their hands. Finally, the woman is weighed.

Once all the numbers have been recorded, there’s another period of hanging out and talking. The mother or her husband/partner may have questions or just want to chit chat. Future appointments and payments are also made at this time. The mother will see the midwives every four weeks until 30 weeks, then every two weeks until 36, then once a week until delivery. At 36 weeks the midwives will conduct the appointment in the woman’s home. This is also usually the first time that they do a vaginal exam. (Patients are required to see a backup doctor for an initial visitation. The backup doctor will do an ultrasound if the mother so desires. Lab work can either be done by the doctor or the midwives.) The current fee for a homebirth is $2400. Some insurance covers the cost of homebirth, some doesn’t. My insurance covers it as an out of network provider, paying 70% after a $300 deductible. The midwives also do sliding scale for people lacking the financial means to cover the full cost. The $2400 includes all prenatal care, including three childbirth classes, delivery (and clean up!), and post partum care.

I believe that midwives offer exceptional prenatal care. I have been more than pleased with the service I have received and would highly recommend a homebirth to anyone willing and able. Of course, if you live outside of Memphis, you can also get midwifery care in a birth center environment if homebirth is not for you. In addition, many lay midwives offer doula services and childbirth education to women choosing to birth in the hospital.

The Lima Interview

The Lima Interview
Ashley Harper


So first I’d like to thank you for agreeing to do this interview. I know you must be busy, and hey… that must be your son there – Ouch! Um, he’s cute, isn’t he. Ehhem, so why did you move to Peru?
Well, my husband got a job teaching at a private school in Lima.

So, you just said, “Ok, honey, whatever you want”?
No, I mean when Dan. . .

Dan is your husband.
Right. When Dan went to graduate school, it became clear that getting a job as an English professor was not going to drop into his lap, so he, or we thought that getting another degree in English as a Second Language would give us the opportunity to live outside the country for a while.

Why did you want to live outside the U.S.? You some kind a’ commie or something?
Well, no, but I thought it would be a good experience for the family. You know, help us learn to rely on each other, on ourselves. Learn another language and so forth.

And do you feel that you’ve achieved these …um… goals?
Yes. No. The kids are fluent in Spanish now. I can deal with insurance companies over the phone, so I’m doing pretty well. Dan can sit in a lecture and understand everything.

And the relying on each other stuff?
Well, I don’t know if we needed another country to show us how selfish we both are. I mean, we’re both only children, so sharing personal space and time is a pretty foreign concept. But that’s marriage, right?

I guess. I’m a swinging single myself.
But when there are no grandparents around or close friends to bitch to, the only child syndrome is pretty exaggerated.

I see. Well, what about for your kids? How did they handle the change from North to South America?
Remarkably well, as you’d expect from children. Flannery was five and Gus had just turned one when we moved to Lima. If they had any major difficulties, I can’t remember them.

So then, what have been some of the difficulties?
Well, there’s the obvious, being a foreigner and always being viewed as a foreigner. Any time we go to the grocery people touch my son’s hair. He’s a toe head.

A what?
A toe head. He’s very blond, and we all have blue eyes more or less which draws some attention. We either get taken advantage of or treated as if we’re better. It makes you pretty self- conscious to go out in the street, even though there are plenty of Peruvians with blond hair.

Do you ever feel threatened?
Recently there have been a number of kidnappings. Not like Columbia or anything, but close enough to make you worry. I do feel nervous, sometimes, to be so visible. I’m always on my toes, which of course you have to be anyway in a city this big.

How big is it exactly?
Between 8 and 12 million people.

Dear God! Are you using like metrics in that estimate?
No, I can speak Spanish, but spare me the kilograms.

So, what do you do there?
Actually, I let myself be talked into being a teacher at the school where Dan works, and also where our daughter goes. That’s a big plus, getting to see her everyday.

Talked into? What, you don’t like it?
No, not really. I’m glad I have the experience, and I’ve proved to myself I can do one of the hardest jobs in the entire world, but, no, I don’t particularly look forward to each class.

What do you teach?
Well, English. I’m now teaching eighth grade and second grade.

Wow, that’s a bit of a stretch, isn’t it?
Yeah. Sometimes I sing Itsy Bitsy Spider to the teenagers and play Wilco for the eight-year-olds. It’s a big shift. I don’t like it.

What are some of the perks?
The convenience. Across the street I can get the laundry dry-cleaned, buy fresh cheese or cilantro, film, string, school supplies, beer, make copies, you name it.

Cement nails?
No problem.

Sanitary napkins?
Easy.

Penicillin?
Well, I’d have to walk down the block.

What about transportation?
Well, we have a car, which incidentally is for sale if you’re interested.

Thank you, no.
I love driving here, but it’s easy to get a couple of buses down to the ocean for less than $2, or take a taxi across town for less than $5.

What else will you miss?
Traveling cheap, the beautiful towns in the mountains, the beach, exotic fruit, buses with sheep on top.

So, tell me more about the kids. I’m getting off track from my assignment here.
Hmm. In general, they fight in Spanish and watch too many videos. They go to a lot of birthday parties that are usually in McDonalds or Kentucky Fried Chicken and have shows, loud music and so forth. There’s a new ice skating rink which is all the rage. Flannery is in 2nd grade and a model student – go figure, genetics taken into account. She’s taken a number of workshops after school, including swimming, gymnastics and Peruvian percussion. Gus is in a nido, aka day care or preschool. He generally loves it. There’s an alpaca, big tortoises, parakeets and rabbits. There are psychologists on staff and a special workshop for art. Of course, Gus only brings home balls of hardened clay and painted pieces of wood, but I’m no stage mom. They both have many friends, especially Flannery. The biggest shock for her will be a big school. In Trener, everyone knows who she is because both her parents work there and it’s a small school. Not like the public school where she’ll know almost no one. She’d like to stay. Gus doesn’t seem to really care one way or the other.

What would you say the children have gained, other than the language?
Well, we sometimes carry around old clothes or toys in the car to give to the children who beg at the car windows. I’d like to say they value their security more, but that’s a stretch. I think just absorbing all the poverty, entire towns of hovels, juxtaposed with the equally visible chauffeurs, nannies, and butlers has to make some sort of impact, even if it isn’t realized for some time.
Of course there are aspects of the U.S. that I’m sure they’ll appreciate a lot more when we return.

Such as?
Well, the presence of our extended family first of all. PBS, libraries, public playgrounds, sidewalks, trees, neighbors who aren’t on the other side of electric fences and cement walls.

Well, Ashley, it will be good to have you home. Bring presents.
Ok. Chau.

Naming Number Two

Naming Number Two
Rebecca Ryan Hunter


Like many pregnant women, I spend a large amount of my time thinking about names for my baby. What seemed like an easy task when I was seven has become incredibly complex, guided by our own rules, multi-ethnic naming patterns, and cultural expectations. The difficulty level of this trick has increased significantly because this is our second child and we have once again elected to unwrap our present at the birth. We have a list of no less than twenty rules.

From the Irish side of our families, there is a precedent of naming after a family member. First-born sons should be named after the paternal grandfather. There are complex Irish rules about second-born sons and daughters that end up with a situation wherein a family can have parents named Patrick and Mary who have 7 kids named Patrick, Padraig, Mary, Paddy, Marie, Pat, and Mairaed but since we’re only having two, I can ignore the entire process.

My mother is Jewish and her mother named her children after deceased loved ones, as is the custom. I feel personally close to this tradition for one reason or another and favor the idea of naming only after someone who has passed away. However, like many (quasi) Jews, I am incredibly flexible with the notion of what it means to name someone after someone else.

My husband’s father is African-American and while his family had no specific naming traditions, my husband is very conscious of names that seem to be unused infrequently by African-Americans. He dislikes names that are too specific to ethnic groups.

Add to this existing (and conflicting) ethnic structure, we have a daughter already. She was named after her paternal grandfather Marvinus Joseph. Her name is Margaret Josephine. It’s Irish but not exclusively Irish, it’s honoring a deceased loved one, it’s kind of in line with the Irish rule about grandparents. It worked as well as it could have, given that two ethnic traditions diametrically oppose one another.

So now we have a Maggie. And when we pair it with any number of names, it becomes “too something.” Too Irish, too bland, too yuppie, too British (the horror!), or too cutesy. Everything gets tested together now.

“Love, Maggie and Ed” (Too bland – who are these people? Retirees?)
“This is Maggie and this is Molly.” (Too cutesy.)
“Margaret and Charles” (What are we? The royal family?)
“MAGGIE AND COLE STOP PLAYING WITH THE STARBUCKS MUGS” (Too yuppie, and why are we in Starbucks anyway?)
“I’m taking Maggie and Tadhg to see the Saw Doctors today.” (Okay, so this one doesn’t bother me at all since I happen to not mind the over-Irishness but my husband seems to have some problem with sounding too Irish.)


I obsess. When we take long car trips and run out of things to talk about, we bring up names. “How about Noroton?” “Honeyspot Hunter?” “How about Saybrook?” Outside of Route 95, they don’t seem appropriate. We watch film credits, flip through our favorite books, make lists of dead relatives. I worry about how their name will look on their resume, if they will be taunted in school, if they will hate me for it…my neuroses are endless.

And yet, in the end, after all my careful analysis, careful thinking about how the child might potentially answer his or her office phone in twenty years, respect to our families, and so forth, I come back to the idea that the child will let me know it’s name when it gets here. Make a list of a few potential names, like them enough to shout them from your stoop, and let it come to you after the birth. In that moment after birth when there are only three people existing in the world, in that moment where time stands still and the earth stops moving, if you listen very carefully, the child will let you know.

This won’t stop my obsessing. I love the game, I love toying with name as identity concepts, I love thinking about my ancestors, I love the process. But in the end, the child will tell me. And for all my strict rules and regulations, sometimes the best process is no process at all but a bit of mysticism.

Music Review: “Gwendolyn and the Good Time Gang”

Music Review: “Gwendolyn and the Good Time Gang”
Stacey Greenberg


I immediately loved this CD because someone actually sent it to me free and asked me to review it. (Obviously this person does not know that I am musically challenged and alternate between old Joni Mitchell CDs and cheesy pop music icons like the Counting Crows and Matchbox Twenty. However, I must say that in the past 19 months I have become quite a connoisseur of Children’s music.) Ok on to the review…

When the lyrics to the first track “Farm Animal Friends” hit my ears, I was a bit worried (“I like roosters, I like cows…”), but by the end of the song I was charmed. Charmed in “A Mighty Wind” sort of way. The music seemed like it could be on the soundtrack to a children’s mockumentary by Christopher Guest. However, once I heard “Freedom of the Heart (Ooodily Ooodily),” I was sucked in completely. It took me about ten seconds to realize that I had first heard this song in the movie “Chuck and Buck.” (That was one bizarre movie, but I loved it.) I immediately “got” what this whole album was about—FUN!

I’ve been playing the CD nonstop in the car and have every song memorized (it isn’t hard). Each track is catchy in its own way, and the tunes and voices vary widely. My current personal favorite is “I Don’t Think I Like It” which sounds like it is sung by an East Asian four year old. (“When I have to pee and there is no potty to be found, I don’t think I like it, I don’t think I like it, I don’t think I like it very much.”) The fact that I have played it repeatedly and not grown sick of it says a lot. I have found that the more I play it, the more I like it actually.

So does my son like the CD you ask? He is a bit young to sing along and since I play it in the car he isn’t free to dance or move about, but I believe that he enjoys it. Not as much as Nemo, but yes. So it may be too late to buy it as a stocking stuffer, but order it the next time you have a craving for new music. You won’t be disappointed.

Zine Recommendations

Zine Recommendations
Stacey Greenberg


Caryatid Rises #4 (Hope) by Gaynor Taylor is the best zine I have read in a long time. “Caryatid Rises” is usually filled with good information and eye opening statistics, but this issue is a dialogue between Gaynor and Marilou Awiakta (author of Selu: Seeking the Corn Mother’s Wisdom) that will not only fill you with hope, but make you smile bigger than you have in awhile and maybe even cry. I want everyone I know to read this zine! In addition to the dialogue there are exceprts of Awiakta’s poems, a beautiful hand stamp, and a wonderful intro by Gaynor. Send $3 to: Caryatid Rises, P.O. Box 380431, Cambridge, MA 02238.

Hathor the Cowgoddess by Heather Cushman-Dowdee is a radical breastfeeding zine filled with hilarious drawings and wit. Hathor is suddenly everywhere you look—in Mothering, on the Internet, and even in “Fertile Ground”! You can get Hathor free in your inbox by emailing hathor@radicalmom.net or have the full zine delivered to your house by subscribing for $14/year at www.hathorthecowgoddess.com. You can even get a Hathor t-shirt!

Mamalicious by Catherine Levy and Candace Walsh arrived on my doorstep today and blew me away. I don’t know if it can be called a zine, it is so fancy pants and professional. It looks like a “real” magazine but is way better. It is chock full of interesting essays, reviews, interviews, poems, cartoons, pictures, and more. I highly recommend getting a subscription so that these awesome mamas can put this zine out for years to come (and eventually put me on their staff). Get a sneak peak at www.mamalicious.com and get the real deal by sending $18 for 4 issues to: 1211A Agua Fria St., Sante Fe, NM 87501.

Motherevolution by Jen Bryant is a new zine that I really loved. Jen’s goal is to break the silence around motherhood and talk about conflicted feelings, domestic abuse, miscarriage, etc. This zine is a collection of essays and photos by ten different mamas, all with their own unique voice. The essay “Ending a Nightmare: Surviving Domestic Violence” by Leanne Stepp was especially poignant. To get your copy contact Jen at fuzzy_logic77@hotmail.com.
Still Life with Pear by Larissa is full of new experiences, old experiences, thoughts, ideas, rantings, artwork, and anything else that flows through her mind. Larissa hopes to appeal to parents and non-parents alike. I really enjoyed the fact that this zine started off with an old story of her and her friends getting drunk and attempting to do a beer enema. Interested? Email larissa_lp@yahoo.com.

To Cut or Not to Cut…There is No Question

To Cut or Not to Cut…There is No Question
Andria Brown

When my baby was born, no one even mentioned circumcision. No one looked at that perfect little being and said "So, do you want to cut?" Nobody even considered removing a third of the skin from one of the most sensitive organs of the body, leaving the site exposed to diaper waste and other irritants until it became permanently numb. It never occurred to our doctor to hinder future sexual function by performing cosmetic surgery on a newborn.

None of these issues were raised because I gave birth to a girl, and in this country, the routine mutilation of infant genitalia is a custom inflicted only on our sons.

As a recent convert to the "intactivist" movement, I thought I was shamefully behind the times, but I was stunned and depressed when I discovered that all of the other parents in our childbirth education class were planning to circumcise their sons. If the people who were making a conscious effort to have non-violent, baby-friendly, natural births didn't see a conflict between their parenting goals and circumcision, who would? It's a hard thing to talk about, especially with other mothers, because at this point in time, we all know someone who has chosen to circumcise. The bounty of misinformation in the media, in our society, and even in our doctors' offices has made it really difficult for parents to make an informed decision on this issue. I trust that parents who circumcise do so for what they believe are good reasons, but unfortunately, many of those reasons are myths, exaggerations or downright lies. Like so …

"It's healthier to be circumcised."

This is probably the most common reason for circumcising, yet there isn't a single major medical organization that recommends routine infant circumcision. Not a one. There are, on the contrary, a number of organizations that have spoken out against this practice. The medical "benefits" of circumcision are somewhere on the spectrum between overstated and made up. Studies showing an increased risk of cancer and STDs among the uncut have been widely debunked. The American Cancer Society even told pro-circ groups to stop claiming that circumcision decreased cancer risk, because it just ain't so. Even if it were true, more babies die from circumcision complications each year than adult men die of penile cancer (I ripped this statistic off from Paul Fleiss's book What Your Doctor May Not Tell You About Circumcision, an excellent read for anyone deliberating circumcision). And the STD thing? How to explain the U.S.'s significantly higher STD rate, in comparison to European countries that don't routinely circumcise?

It makes me really sad when I hear people quoting their doctors about the health benefits of circumcision, because these people have been gravely misinformed, and their babies are suffering for it. The rest of the world has figured this out, and the U.S. is now the only country on the planet that regularly performs non-religious circumcision. More and more American doctors are actually refusing to perform the surgery (check out www.DoctorsOpposingCircumcision.org), either out of ethical objections or because they fear legal recourse when these boys grow up and realize the harm that's been done to them without their consent.

The reasons why circumcision was introduced into Western medical practice have everything to do with morality and nothing to do with sound medicine. Victorians thought it would cure masturbation, and therefore cure all the other illnesses, from asthma to arthritis, that they thought were related to masturbation. And why would it do that? Because it made sex less fun. They knew that. That was the point. (These and other facts about the history of circumcision can be found at www.nocirc.org.)

"But he'll feel … different."

The whole "so he'll look like Dad" thing makes me more than a little ill. On top of the studies showing no psychological harm to boys whose fathers had different circumcision status, this is just a dumb, dumb reason to perform surgery on an infant. Kids don't look like adults to begin with, especially in their genital regions. They manage to wrap their heads around that pretty easily. And the whole locker room argument doesn't make sense anymore (if it ever did). Circumcision in the U.S. is on the decline, with the current rate at about 60%. So if this sort of teasing really does go on, the cut are just as likely to be mocked as the uncut. If it ends up really and truly bothering your son, he can have the surgery when he's older and, more importantly, when he can make the decision himself.

"It doesn't hurt."

If you have not seen how hospitals perform circumcision, watch a video, or even take a look at some diagrams. It's horrific. I don't have the space to go into details, so I'll just say this: the foreskin is attached to the penis with connective tissue, like fingernails are attached to the fingers. In order to remove it, that connection must first be broken, and the tissues must be separated. I don't know a single person who would consider pulling a newborn's fingernail from the nail bed, yet the procedure of circumcision is so very much more invasive. (Video footage and still photos of medical circumcision are available at www.intact.ca.) There is also research indicating that the extreme trauma of circumcision actually causes changes to the brain, resulting in a permanent lowering of the pain threshold—studies show that circumcised males are more responsive to pain than women or uncut males. Post-circumcision suffering also complicates the bonding between baby and parents. Who feels happy and receptive when their most sensitive area is in agony?

"Uncut boys are so hard to take keep clean."

Huh? I just don't get this. I've never heard anyone say this about girls, at least not as a reason to cut off pieces of genitalia. Besides, taking home a newborn is scary enough without having to worry about tending to a surgical site, especially one that is bound to be soaked in waste products most of the time.

"I don't have a penis, so his dad should make the decision."

Both sexes are born with foreskin over their most delicate bits. It's not just skin; it's part of those organs. It keeps bacteria out and protects them from the environment. It also plays a role in sexual function, providing lubrication and preserving sensitivity. If Dad is circumcised, he doesn't really know what he's missing, does he? Intact women, and mothers in particular, are in the best position to make this call. Can you imagine losing the function provided by your own foreskin? A few years ago, I saw a Dateline NBC episode about a class action lawsuit filed by women who had been circumcised by their gynecologist without their permission. They complained that their sexual responsiveness had at first been heightened exponentially, to the point of being painful, and then sensation basically disappeared as their clitorises lost feeling from constant contact with clothing, etc. This is what happens to every baby boy that goes under the knife; they just can't complain about it

I could not have found a doctor willing to perform circumcision on my newborn daughter, no matter how many arguments I made about improving her health, hygiene or cosmetic appearance. The very idea seems ridiculous, and we condemn other countries that perform similar rites. Yet many well-meaning, loving parents don't see the harmful double standard when it comes to boys. The decrease in U.S. circumcision rates leads me to believe that we are on the cusp of a major change in the social opinion of circumcision, but until that change is complete—until physicians refuse to perform unnecessary surgery on non-consenting patients, until parents defend the integrity of their sons' healthy bodies—I feel personally obligated to share the truth about this practice. I hope you will, too.