Birth Story of My Sixth Son

On July 31st I informed my husband matter-of-factly that our son was to be born that Thursday. He eyed  me doubtfully, in his way of dealing with his nutty wife. (How can one explain that deep internalized intuition of a pregnant woman who is fully in-tune with her unborn babe?) It was Tuesday. 48 hours later, at 8 a.m. on Thursday (ahem...) I awoke to a gush of fluid between my legs in the recliner I'd taken to sleeping in for the past month. I wasn't sure if it was my water breaking or me peeing since A)My water had never broken in any of my previous pregnancies until I began pushing and B) anyone who has had more than one child knows how easy loss of bladder control can happen. (ah, pregnancy, oh-so-sexy) But throughout the morning I continued to have a steady, albeit light, trickle of leaking fluid. I kept pads on and waited excitedly for labor to begin.
Not a twinge, not a cramp, nada......I was practically crawling the walls in giddy glee that my son would be in my arms SOON...and yet....nothing was happening. Sigh. I walked circles in my yard, cleaned my house, set up the pool outside that we had gotten the day before.....nothing. So, on with my day I went, praying and waitingwaitingwaiting.....
At 5:30 we left the house and went to church. I ate a hearty meal, listened to some worship songs, enjoyed the peace-filled oasis of fellowship, and leaked straight through my pad. Opps! So, my brothers and sisters gathered around to lift our family up in prayer and we scooted out the door and back home. The moment we pulled into our driveway the first contraction hit. Whew! No braxton hicks preperation contractions.....this one caused me to pause and breathe through before getting out of the van. From then on, they came in waves, every ten minutes or so. I stood in the hot shower, singing, the warmth easing the pain in my lower back as I thought back to the week before when our family had taken a two day vacation to Charleston, South Carolina to a beach there. I had waddled out across teh broad expanse of hot white sand and on into the cool saltwater of the ocean. Out deep until the waves were over my head. I would dive straight into them, twistturn under the water, burst forth and up as the wave broke on the other side of me. Other times I'd float under the waves, allowing the pressure and weight of the waves to drag me further out, then push me back towards the shore. Not in an out-of-control drowning sort of way...but in an ebb and flow type of way. I likened the experience to how my baby would be born, the waves much like contractions. To fight something so much bigger would be to exhaust oneself uselessly. So, during labor, I let the contractions wash over and through me. I welcomed the steady increase of power. I burst forth and up out of each one, breathing deep through the lulls in peace.
At 11 p.m. the strength intensified. Majorly. In fact, when people asked me how the labor went afterwards I replied "Fast and Intense." Contractions were about 2.5 minutes apart at that point, lasting a little over a minute and were all I was aware of. I would feel it coming and drop down to a squat, breathe in deepdeepdeep until my lungs were full, and then release it in a ROAR, a groanmoangrowlroar. Whatever noises my soul wanted to make was what came out. I was in my livingroom, the lights were dim, the tv was muted, the children slept through the noise somehow. I was safe and loved. My husband was by my side, reminding me of my power, my strength, my faith. I clung to his hand at times, looked deep in his eyes. Other contractions I prayed, thanked God for His presence, felt the peace of Him all around and was grateful for it.
By 1:00 I was exhausted. Everything had gone otherwordly, sharp in color in some places, muted and softened in others. Contractions were about 1.5 minutes apart and lasted about the same length. I had been in a squat, clinging to my recliner, towels under me on the floor for about an hour. I knew nothing but the journey and the destination. If the house had been on fire I would have remained there, incapable of comprehending anything but the pressure. I checked my dilation and discovered his head was only about 2 inches up. His hot little orb of a skull was so close.....
Pushing was a release. I felt zero discomfort when pushing. my focus was transferred to my goal. The voices around me told me to push, counted loud in annoying cheerleader voices to ten...I ignored them, kept pushingpushingpushing......until I felt his head brimming, stretching, opening me. I could have sworn I was ripping. I cried out in a huge gust of a roar, then dove back in under the wave and this time pushed through the pain, instead of riding the wave. It was surreal, I felt his little head push out into theworld, and at the same time, I felt his limbs, his arms and legs twistturnrollwriggle inside of me. For that brief moment he was in both worlds, then in a gush of heat and release he slipped all the way out.
Daddy cut the cord. He was wrapped in a white towel, his mouth and nose sucked clean with the bulb aspirator, then laid on my bare chest like a trophy of glory, grace and love. Dave cried. I kissed my son and told him how much I loved him.
Blaze Marley-Honor was weighed and measured. 7 pounds, 3 ounces. 19.5 inches long. For some odd reason, these are the stats everyone requests after a child is born. They don't mean much to me. Here are the things I find to be most crucial in the recollection.
Blaze looks almost exactly like his father. But when I look in his bright eyes I see my own soul there. I am fascinated by our connection. From the ability to request to my unborn child when his birth date would occur, to the fact I can tell him before bed what time his next feeding will be and he awakes right on the dot every time. We are attuned to eachother in this lovely dance of interwoven peace. I wonder why we as parents lose that bond over the years?
My sons have zero jealousy. They are secure enough to know they are loved. They argue over whose turn it is to hold him, change him, rock him, sing to him, etc...i will often walk into my room and find one of them snuggled next to him on my bed whispering softly, sharing the wisdom of the world with him. My heart overflows and my cup runneth over. As a mother I am most richly blessed.
This is the first time I have not dealt with PostPartum Depression. Doing the laboring, albeit intensely, at home, leant me a sense of strength and faith in myself, in the woman God made me to be, in the perfect design of my body and the intuition of my spirit. He is a zen-filled baby. Most content in my arms, sleeps best on my chest, his tiny ear pressed to my bare breast, lulled to sleep by my heartbeat. His universe is my breasts, my milk, Daddys voice, Daddys shoulder....This tiny perfect being is wholly ours. This is the closest a person can come to understanding the manner of God.
Welcome home Blaze Marley-Honor. xoxo

Where Is Our Village?

As user of FB, my mommy-friends group has expanded to bursting proportions over the past couple of years. Many are like-minded hippie mums like myself, but some are quite differing in thier parenting style. Which is fine with me. As long as you are not harming nor neglecting your child in any way, I keep my mouth shut. If you ask me for advice, I will share my opinion without judgment or demand that you accept it. Because the fact is, we are all human, and we are all simply figuring this out as we go along. I never could understand the mothers who get up all stoic and biased on thier soap boxes and point fingers. WHY do we waste such time tearing eachother down???? There are cultures in other areas of this world whom embarce the "It Takes A Village" mentality. But here in America, it seems we praise highest the women who do it alone and carry the heavy burden in solitude. Now, dont get me wrong, I give huge respect to single mamas. I once was one. But WHY are these women doing it alone. Setting aside the fact we seem to be raising boys who become men who find it okay to leave...what about we as women? Where are our support systems? Where do we feel safe to turn for advice, help, encouragment? Who can we depend on? Because so often, when we brave stepping out and asking or help, we instead meet ridicule.
I recently read a book by a woman whose 5 year old daughter died quite suddenly and unexpectedly. In her book she mentions that she never forced her daughter to wean off the bottle and as a result, her kindergartner still relished a bottle of warm milk in the car on the ride home from school. I can imagine to judgement passed to this mother for that choice. But, at the end of the day, her daughter is gone and she has that memory of seeing her child content with that bottle in the rear view mirror. n the grand scheme of things, who really cares about others opinions? I think of that story often when my children want to follow ther own instinct and do their own thing. I encourage them to listen to their heartsong and dance to its beat. And I have learned to ignore the naysayers and sorround myself with mamas who will encourage me down this road.
Find your own village. Seek out community. Other mothers who can relate to you and you with them. the ones you can be REAL with. The ones whom you can cry to when your preschooler has developed an attitude that makes you feel you are living with a midget anti-christ. The ones you can pour out your doubts to when your infant is struggling to figure out the whole latching-on-nursing gig, or when your 3 month old has colic and NOTHING seems to help. Find a mom who understands when you whisper that you sometimes miss the freedom of your pre-parent days, the one who can relate when you are fumbling your way through potty training, discipline, pre-teen angst, etcetcetc..... The key is to follow your own gut/heart/instinct, and leave the rest by the wayside.
And in turn, we must all learn to be a better village, to applaud and cheer the triumphs of new mamas. To encourage the young ones who have yet to travel this pathway. To offer a helping hand/listening ear/fresh baked dinner/hot cup of coffee/soft place to fall/shoulder to cry on/words of gentle advice/arms for hugging.......whatever the need is. For  the transition from woman to mother is a huge giant leap across a chasm of choices and fears, joys and doubts, stumbles and miracles...but when the chasm is bridged in love and friendship, when we find a village to call our own.....then the way is not so very scary. When women have that love and support and sens eof community, it is far easier to find our footing and raise children who know peace and love and security. For we will have found those things ourselves. Namaste.